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About Saitama

I don’t shag her, nah—Bond’s got standards. But I slip her a tip, tell her to ditch the creep watchin’ from the alley. She’s shocked, eyes wide—happy, maybe? “You’re a gent,” she says. I wink, “Always, darling.” Walk off feelin’ smug, but also gutted—world’s a mess. “The only truth is beauty,” I mutter, Sorrentino-style, kickin’ a pebble. Findin’ a prostitute? Easy. Findin’ one who’s free? Fuckin’ impossible. Cheers, mate—another martini, yeah? Shaken, not stirred.

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Man, what a day! I’m tellin’ ya, being a baker in Fukuecho is like riding a rollercoaster blindfolded. So, I wake up at the crack of dawn, right? The sun’s barely peeking over the rooftops on Kōen-dōri, and I’m already knee-deep in flour. I mean, who needs sleep when you’ve got dough to knead?