Thursday, July 13, 2006

Drink and the Noir Detective

Early in V I Warshawski’s career, a lot of people objected, loudly, to her drinking. One reader said when she came to a passage where V I got home from a hard day’s detecting and poured herself a whisky, she threw the book across the room hard enough to break its spine. Others weren't quite as violent, but they certainly didn’t think a woman should drink hard liquor. The occasional sip of chardonnay was okay, but not whisky—that’s a man’s drink.
Indeed, the great Fathers of the American hardboiled novel, Chandler and Hammett, were great drinkers, both on and off the page. Marlowe, in fact, kept a bottle of rye in his glove compartment for just those moments when he’d been knocked cold and needed a revivifying drink on gaining consciousness. He and his creator drank often, but Marlowe, at least, never actually got drunk. Chandler, unfortunately, had increasing problems staying sober enough to write at the end of his life.
Hammett, similarly, was a great drinker. Nick and Nora Charles, in The Thin Man, have a little drop of something to start the day, and, in the movie version, gulp down six martinis without flinching—Myrna Loy has five at the same time to catch up with William Powell, all without wrinkling her exquisite costume.
One weekend, when Hammett was drinking with William Faulkner. Faulkner’s editor, Bennet Cerf, stopped by to check on him and mentioned that he was dining that night at the Knopfs, along with Willa Cather. Miffed that they hadn’t been included—Blanche Knopf was Hammett’s editor—the two bullied Cerf into getting them an invitation. When they arrived that night at the mansion, Hammett and Faulkner promptly passed out. The staff were able to revive Faulkner and prop him up at the table, but Hammett they had to carry out to a taxi to take him back to his apartment.
Nowadays, when writers get together, they sip chardonnay. At a recent crime writers dinner, we all boldly ordered martinis—and then most of us, men included, took a sip and retreated to wine or even water.
When I first created V I, I gave her my own Scotch, Johnny Walker Black. As the years have gone by, I find myself able to drink less and less—a glass of wine with dinner is my sorry limit. Without realizing it, I’ve cut back V I’s rations as well. A reader recently wrote to complain that V I Warshawski—wasn’t drinking enough. I’m going to up the girl detective’s intake—she works hard, she’s fitter than I am, tougher in every way—I’m going to give her back her whisky bottle. But she will remain, as she always has been, a careful drinker: she doesn’t drink and drive, and when she’s hit on the head, she always has a hot sweet drink, sans booze. I worry that while this makes her more credible as a person, though, it sadly diminishes her noir credentials.

63 comments:

D.A. Davenport said...

Speaking as a Scotch girl myself, although my preferences are Glenlivet, Macallan's and Famous Grouse Single Malt (and God help anyone who profanes them with water, mixers or ice!), a noir detective is nothing without a good, stiff drink.
I'm a big V.I. fan and discovered the joys of Hammett, Chandler, Cain and Woolrich at the age of 20. Part of their appeal is the hard-living aspect, which includes their drink of choice.
Thanks for bringing V.I. back in the Highland fold; she'll be a much happier woman with the occasional nip.
And thanks for this wonderful site. It's one of my first stops in my cyber-day.

Kevin Guilfoile said...
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
spookycatz said...

Hi Sara,

You are one of my favorite writers.

It was your Truth, lies and duct tape that made me begin to think about what is going on in this country. That was several years ago. It was a turning point for me.

I love reading V I and can't wait until she takes me on her next adventure!

All the best to you always,

Spooky
=^..^=

Kevin Guilfoile said...

[previous post deleted because of embarrassing typo]

I'm a wine (and occasional beer) guy myself but for some reason I made the main character in my first novel drink The Macallan. I don't know if this has happened with you and JW Black, Sara, but it seems that on every occasion in the last year--dinner parties, birthdays, Christmas--somebody brings me a bottle of it. I'm delighted when that happens because it shows that the person read my book and put some clever thought into the gift, but now I'm also pushing 18-year-old Scotch on the dude who comes to install kitchen blinds.

Lesson learned: When choosing a signature drink for your protagonist, pick something you like and make it the good stuff.

JD Rhoades said...
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
JD Rhoades said...

At a recent crime writers dinner, we all boldly ordered martinis—and then most of us, men included, took a sip and retreated to wine or even water.

You need to widen your circle of friends, darlin'.

Look me up when/if you get to Bouchercon.

Sean Chercover said...

Yowza. Dusty, you old dog, you.

I always loved VI's approach to drink. She never struck me as a 'female answer' to the male PIs who drink. She just struck me as an authentic woman who drinks. I'm glad she'll be hitting the bottle (at least, moderately) once again.

Kevin...The Macallan is a pretty high bar to set (especially the 18-year-old). Nice choice.

I first wrote my protag as a rum drinker. He spent his formative drinking years on the south coast of Georgia, drinking with fishermen...and men of the ocean drink rum. Then, I was warned that he had to be a bourbon drinker - big city PI, and all that - so I changed him. But during revisions, I changed him back. I know some folks see "rum" and think Pina Coladas and little pink umbrellas, but they don't know nothin'.

In fact, although my protag drinks rum first and foremost, during the course of the book he also drinks vodka, bourbon, red wine and beer. Like most of us who drink, his answer to, "What do you drink?" would be, "Whaddaya got?"

JD Rhoades said...

I know some folks see "rum" and think Pina Coladas and little pink umbrellas, but they don't know nothin'.

Damn skippy. Of course, 'til I met Bob Morris (Bahamarama, Jamaica Me Dead), I thought the only thing to do with rum was mix it with Coca-Cola. I learned better.

van den Berghe said...

Ms Paretsky, I love V.I., she's tough, no nonsense, and very human. I trust you didn't listen to her detractors. There are many cozy mysteries lining the selves that they could be reading. I recently bought my first bottle of Black Label...sure is smooth. Fortunately my cheaper whiskey is being finished off by my roommate and his buddies. I'm hiding my BL.

ab said...

V.I. being one of my absolute all time favourites, I was always in awe of her whisky-drinking, because to me whisky tastes like something you polish furniture with. Her stiff drinks certainly didn't make me want to toss the book in the wall or anywhere else, I just admired her humbly.

According to critics I am not exactly writing crime blanche, if there is such a thing, but my first attempts seemed a bit odd even to me. Except for the hideous crimes, you do tend to write from your own daily experience, right? Well, when I took a closer look at my writing, I found that nobody, good or bad, either lied, drank or smoked. This, I realized, was not right. I have since bettered my ways, and now I am so deep into my characters, I can literally feel when one of them - male or female - needs a smoke or a tall drink. Or enjoy lying just for the purpose of controling somebody else.

Annika

Ian said...

I cam across V.I about 10 years ago when the 1st 3 books were grouped together as one.
I disappeared after those 3 books as I just didn't have time to read, but recently returned and have almosted completed "Blood Shot".
it funny reading these messages since V.I is drinking a fair bit and mixing it with Peanut Butter in this story, but I didn't put me off the book, as I just accept it as part of the character.

m.kuzawinska said...

Hello, greetings from Poland. My first meeting with V.I. happens when my mother brings 'Dead-lock' from city library. I was 13-14-years-old.I wasn't thinking about drinks stronger then strong tea. But I learned to drink good alcohols-they are expensive but:primo-you drink less, secundo-you are stylish:)- even if you are veterinary student.
V.I. is my favorite female character, well, maybe in company of Anne Shirley.
Excuse me my english, cause I learn it only from from crime fiction and movies:)

David Terrenoire said...

My research took me to DC where I had the good chance to meet a woman who skipped about the Mass Ave social circles in '41, when the story takes place.

I asked her what young women of the day drank and she said, without a blink, "Gin."

"As in a gin fizz?"

"Martini," she said. "It was the only drink for a young lady."

They don't make 'em like that today.

Marcus Sakey said...

Hmmm...The characters in my first book drink Jameson, which I certainly wouldn't mind receiving bottles of. But had I realized that would be a trend, they somehow would have been blue-collar Irish drinkers of top-shelf bourbon.

Anyone eager to buy me booze, take note. ;)

D.A. Davenport said...

Marcus-
If you are heading for Bouchercon 2008 in Baltimore, there'll be a Jamison on me, waiting for you! I'm a Marylander (currently living in Colorado) and figured it will be the perfect 1st convention for me. Crabcakes here I come!

Allison Brennan said...

My characters drink what suits them. Some drink beer. Some drink wine. Some drink scotch.

For me, I've definitely cut back as I've aged. Having kids does that to people. I prefer red wine, either Merlot or a Cabernet. In summer when it's hot, a cold beer, preferably from the brewery in town.

ab said...

Real Authors drink scotch, right? They don't do like me, munch chocolate by the computer....? That image doesn't do it for you, does it...? OK, no glamour there...

Sara Paretsky said...

I know, AB, I know..Drinkers, problem drinkers especially, are romantic troubled figures; those of us found headfirst in a hot fudge sundae are ridiculous.

Jason Boog said...

Great essay, perfect weekend reading.

Don't forget Cutty Sark, my favorite hardboiled drink and the drink of many Haruki Murakami protagonists.

Most importantly, it's the only scotch a starving writer or private dick can afford...

Marcus Sakey said...

Hey D.A.,

I'm sure I'll be there--I intend to keep going to Bouchercon till they start kicking me out. Thanks for the offer of a drink. Don't think I won't remember just because it's two years away. ;)

ab said...

Dear Sara, that's it, and gender is also in the way of transforming into a romantically tragic literary genius. I've often wondered whether I should become the female equivalent of Bukowski - old, unshowered, cursing, drinking and beating my spouse. Would young females talk about me in awe then? Would young men burn with desire to share my life and bed, pick me up from the floor, keep me alive and serve my talent?

Guess not. To be a tragic woman of stature you must start coughing or at least live alone and virtuous, like Emily Dickinson. Failing all of the above, I'll just stick to chocolate...

Jeanne Ketterer said...

I agree with Allison -- whatever suits the character. My main char drinks scotch. And probably bec that was my first official drink -- 'have scotch, Jeanne, it won't give you a hangover' . Uh-huh. (my father was horrified: 'only alcoholics and drunkards drink scotch!')
Can't drink that much anymore. Getting old or something. Beer puts me to sleep. My characters have the stamina ...

Jeanne

peggysue0619 said...

V.I. works hard, and she plays hard. Why not drink hard? I've always admired her for her convictions and courage. I drink to her continued success and health (with my own Maker's Mark, neat). If my Uncle Jim's bar, Wood Street Tap, still existed (it was at Wood and Ellen Streets) I would meet her there for a nightcap!

Mary said...

Marcus, we've gotta make sure you don't have to wait until the 2008 Bcon for Jameson. But I'm sure it will be flowing at the bar in Madison.

Debi said...

It seems bizarre to me that people might object to the recreational habits of a FICTIONAL character! We're not writing role models here ... so I guess that sort of response says more about the reader and their issues with alcohol.
The characters in my books drink little but do a lot of Class B drugs. Are we only supposed to write about people who are clean-living upright 'good citizens'? (Whoever they are - I don't know any myself!)
Anyway, great new blog. I've added you on my links.

Chris said...

Marcus,
Your predilection for top-shelf bourbon is duly noted. If ever you get the chance, pick up a bottle of Michter's Unblended American Whiskey. It's technically not a bourbon, but damn if it isn't the best American whiskey around.
Cheers,
Chris

Cosette said...

July 20, 2006

Sara,

I don't know.... I mean, I feel I know V. I. pretty well, having read about her now for 20 odd years.

I know she drinks her Whiskey BL, but when it comes to judgemental details about her drinking, well I do not get much into that.

I know it would bother me, if she drank to the point of drunkeness... or drank and drove.

Anyway, I don't think V. I. or any other female detective is required to keep up with the male detectives, in anything really.

I see most people, if not all as individuals... not copies or carbon copies of anyone... including "my" favorite book detectives...

They are all different..

However, having stated the above, it would be just as credible for V. I.
to quit drinking altogether.

It would be healthier for her. You stated Sara that V. I. does not drink nearly as much beyond an occassional glass of wine. You imply that she is getting older.... slowing down a bit.

Quite all right, and very realistic.

In aging gracefully, (as only V. I. would do), to quit drinking before she "Has" to, would I think bode well for her already strong character.

She would boost up her health a bit... strenthen herself, before her last energetic wind, as it were.


Now, if V. I. would only cease the occassional, and rare bed mates, now that would be especially impressive
to me.


Blessings to you Sara.

I am currently reading, "Hard Time."

As typical for me reading about V. I. I feel like I am catching up with an old, familiar good friend.

Cosette

Jenny D said...

Yes, very good essay!

Dorothy L. Sayers famously regretted having given Lord Peter his wine-connoisseur chops--she didn't like wine much herself, preferred lemonade and was highly vexed when people brought out their most valuable wines & cigars & such & pressed them on her thinking she would of course enjoy them.

Fran said...

V I's an awesome character! I don't care what she drinks or even if she drinks. To me, her attitude's her attitude; her drinking isn't her attitude. It just may be a reflection of her attitude sometimes.

TyroneMcCloskey said...

Ulmer looks furtively in all directions. Secure in the belief that he is utterly alone, not only physically but eternally as well, he reaches down into the bottom drawer and pulls out a small silver flask of liquid oblivion—
—Damn! Empty! Well, we’ll just have to cut out for Gil’s and seven or eight fast ones, maybe throw down a little action on the Rams, G-d luv ‘em, and if Dot’s there, set up a little weekend Woo Hoo! as well…
He needs a drink. He needs a cigarette. His kid is telling the walls downstairs he could really go for a heapin’ bowl of bran flakes dusted in white sugar. Maybe the Olds can get up to Ernie’s liquor store on Villa and back without getting out of first and shredding the transmission into grated parmesan. They’ve got those eight packs of the brat’s favorite brands. “Fwosted Fwakes” the toothless little runt calls ‘em.
He looks at his watch. It’s stopped. There is a brown patch on the ceiling. The roof has a leak. It’s only August. The next rain in this desert might not be for six months. By then he’ll finish this dreck he’s writing and get the damn thing re-tarred. Maybe he’ll just hot foot it to Mexico with Dot and leave the rug rats with “IT” and his Mother-in-IT.
The phone rings downstairs. Ulmer stays perfectly still. A mug shot of Hedy Lamar, grown yellow and buckled, catches his eye. A fly walks across the rippled surface, tip toeing around the barely discernable autograph, the faint trace of a sycophantic teen’s lower case goal; her impatient scrawl—
“I’m going down to the corner for some smokes!”
Did anyone hear him? He wanders off down the block, hands stuffed in his pockets, his coat hooked under his arm, the cuffs brushing the cracked squares of the sidewalk—he trips—“Shit!” he hisses, one of the cement squares shoved out of place by a tree root.
His knee starts to swell. The cloth of his trousers ripped and brushed with the fine dust of suffocating air pollution.
A goddamned nuclear winter, he grouses, the palms of his puffy, porcine mitts tomato red.


A kid watches TV while sugar, starch and white refined flour bubble in his pot belly; he wonders, does he, when The Amazing Transparent Man is going to show up:

Joey Faust’s sleep is interrupted by his fitful liver and the cardiac stress attendant to the passing of all that alcohol through his system, converting it to sugar and having it burn in his veins. He staggers to his feet. In pitch black he can still find the booze, the crystal decanter, the ever flowing fountain of film liquor that has anchored every picture from the end of prohibition to the modern age of location shooting and CGI.
He downs a double, neat, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He’s thinking; his movements, his line readings are too deliberate, too tense; he’s trying hard to focus while the rattle of the camera does its level best to distract him with the thought that every misstep costs the production the few dollars it has—should he get a rep as a difficult actor, he may never find work again; back to the foundry, to a philandering bitch of a wife and her screaming brood—Kenny and Shermy can’t possibly be his whelps. They look more like that idiot Petrie next door.
Julian’s in the next room. The pages of a magazine crackle. Joey’s got what would be labeled today as fiber optic hearing. He can hear through walls, safe tumblers—he has the pitch of a musician and the aesthetic sense of a grade B filmmaker. He rubs the tumbler he’s just drained of Wild Turkey up and down the wall next to the locked door Julian is ostensibly guarding. The old coot puts down the magazine and let’s curiosity get the best of him.
One blow to the head is all it takes to knock Julian unconscious and concussed, a fracture of the occipital region, internal bleeding; a swelling on the parietal lobe, ruptured vessels, death.
Joey ties him up, wrists bound behind Julian’s back, a laugh suppressed, face down in the carpet as he struggles in vain to hold in his terrifying flatulence, the curse (one of many) haunting the all purpose inebriate Julian essays for this drive-in knock off.
The call is to take five as laughter erupts. Old Julian is dark red like iodine as he guffaws away his embarrassment. Joey wonders allowed if the scene might not play better if real Whiskey was in the decanter. Ulmer mumbles something in the mother tongue but the gist is clear: the budget can only support stunt alcohol as the cast and crew would breathe real firewater out of the bottles before the first take.

What profits a man if he should find himself in another man’s wallet?

Slipping away from the building unseen, crouching behind the maintenance shed and waiting for that busybody, Major Wood, USMC (ret.) to leave for lunch in his goddamned Jag—filthy pimp—our hero piles into the wife’s Ford Fairlane rag top and peels out, spitting gravel and exhaust as he makes for Gil’s til Two club, his mind a’spin with possibilities—

The traffic is light on the Hollywood Freeway and Ulmer will be in Pasadena in a matter of minutes. His mind is lost in Dot’s charms, the thievin’ whore, but he forgives her as the liquor that idles in her distended guts like cheap gas forgives him his age, hairline, lost opportunities for global domination—* that weasel Carradine with his oily charm and
bombastic line readings—the girls feel sorry for him—
they’re not impressed—the guy is one endless mercy fuck—he ain’t acting when he’s cast as a drunk—aw, who cares?
The five mile an hour cautions posted at the off-ramps that turn in at 180 degree angles off this ancient freeway at sixty five mile an hour never fail to amaze and Ulmer shocks himself with his uncontrolled laughter at the sound of a five car pile up that explodes just behind him at the Eagle Rock exit. Let their blood stain the souls of Poulson and his corrupt minions—he wonders, as he projects forward in time his reflection into the first glass of sweet, sweet Pabst waiting for him at Gil‘s, whether the city planner’s absolution is anymore comforting than his rabbi’s. They both cash checks on the faith of the flock——Jesus Christ! A Stutz Bear Cat of all things, its gleaming exhaust pipes blinding sun spot flashes into wide eyes from both directions careens over the divider and slides sideways along the 110 North, keeping up with Ulmer’s panicky
Fairlane, a shower storm of sparks strobe across his windshield, falling on his shoulders, singing his ears—burning metal lighting the tips of his nose hairs, orange tapirs extinguished in a
sneeze—he holds the wheel ten and two sturdy with white knuckled fear, the headlamps of the
Bear Cat spiraling off ahead of him, two chrome and glass jellyfish exploding on impact as the driver somersaults across Ulmer’s hood; upside down the dead man flying seems to laugh as he banks into the plastic cans of water, geysers splattering the back seat and trunk of the Fairlane fishtailing across the three lanes, righting itself, Ulmer off at Fair Oaks deciding he’ll read about it in the papers, he isn’t doubling back to help—not going back; what can anyone do but hose


*apparently a popular feature of the collective neurosis as it featured in so many movies of the age
down the asphalt and any way that near death experience he’s decided on the spot is grounds enough for getting lost: if ever the black embrace of the vintner called, it’s now—

—there’s Gil’s and he see Dot’s Bel Aire—Oh momma! She’s gonna get Eddie G’s best…
…and once (he chuckles relief like leaking steam) he delivers on these two quickies in Texas, the two of them, Dot you skanketeria, yeah, I’m talkin’ about you—it’s off to TJ to spend that union pension…now, he thinks, where was I…?


Ulmer sits in Gil’s parking lot under the hot sun which holds him to the spinning Earth as he pulls himself together, monitoring his pulse with two fingers on his carotid artery, puts on his snap brim straw hat, his sportin’ top from Cy Devore’s where the Rat Pack shops—
—that idiot in the Stutz spit-shining the asphalt with his tomato drunk red face—I swear to Christ, Ulmer heaves a plutonium dense sigh of woe, the thin protective film of dumb luck that gives us one more minute of undeserved breath…

The kid plays with a fire truck, losing patience, toying with the notion that this Amazing Transparent Man is never going to justify the effort:

Joey complies and removes his coat, still in some quarters of Ike’s America something only done by invitation. But it’s Texas and he’s hot under the collar already, sizing up this fruitcake with his tweed jacket and tan Chinos—who does he think he is anyway, poppin’ me outta da hoosegow like he’s some grand puppet master bent on world domination…I’ll show him some yard primed guns unner dis arrow shirt—try an’ mess wit me, will ya’—

—naw, thinks Ulmer, too Cagney. This here Joey Faust is an artist. A genius at what he does. That’s why he’s here, about to dance to the Terpsicorean Muse of greed—naw, can the purple posh…put words in their mouths that those cretinous teens can follow when they come up for air in the back seat—aw, whatdoesitmatter—I need a drink. Those kids couldn’t tell you a gawdamm thing whuts on the screen, bangin’ away like mink, the savages…lucky bastards—whut’d we get? Weimer sleaze if we could hold our breath long enough for the junk to kick in, then we didn’t care. Old man Rienhardt, the swanning poof, he’d drop his quill and turn his back to the chorus and fumble to pick it up—no, that was Murnau—where’s my mind—?
—Christallmighty, there are days when I grieve beyond endurance for the 6 million and yet Berlin needed its stables flooded—No! What am I saying?! Thou shalt not give the Nazis any posthumous victories! I will get drunk because I want to…

Someday, the kid will develop a taste for beer and cigars. Right now, he needs as many carbohydrates as he can stuff into his large bovine craw so he bags the TV and forages in the kitchen, settling for the can of powdered chocolate milk and a spoon...

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H
H
H
H
H
H
H
H
H
H
H
H
H
H
H
H

teguh priyanto said...

H
H
H
H
H
H
H
H

X
X
X
X
X
X
X
X
X
X
X
X
X
X
X
X
X
X
X
X
X
X
X
X
X

teguh priyanto said...

X
X
X
X
X
X
X
X
X
X
X
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D

teguh priyanto said...

D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D

D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D
D

Namaku Keren said...

`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`

Namaku Keren said...

`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`

Namaku Keren said...

`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`

Namaku Keren said...

`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`
`

teguh priyanto said...

A
B
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C
C

C
C
C
C
C
C

teguh priyanto said...

C
C
C
C
C
C
C
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
BE
BE
BE
BE
BE
BE
BE
BE
BE
BE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE

Obat kanker serviks manjur said...

TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE

Obat kanker serviks manjur said...

TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE

teguh priyanto said...

TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE

teguh priyanto said...

TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE

Obat kanker serviks manjur said...

TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE

Obat kanker serviks manjur said...

TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE

Obat kanker serviks manjur said...

TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE

Obat kanker serviks manjur said...

TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE
TE