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About Fukuoka

So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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So, I’m sprinting to the station, dodging people like I’m in some crazy video game. Maebaru-chuo Station was packed! I swear, it felt like everyone decided to go shopping today. I squeezed onto the train, and it was like a can of sardines. I was stuck between this dude who smelled like he bathed in soy sauce and a lady with a massive bag of snacks. I mean, I love snacks, but c’mon!