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About Yokohama

So, last week, I’m prowlin’—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—and I spot this bird, all fishnets and attitude. Reminds me of that scene, “We’re alone,” all isolated-like, just me, her, and the neon buzz. I’m thinkin’, “Mate, she’s either a jackpot or a fuckin’ setup.” Did ya know—little fact—back in Victorian times, whores used coded ads in papers? “French lessons,” my arse—sneaky bastards. Anyway, I’m chattin’ her up, heart poundin’—fuckin’ thrilled, yeah? But then—bam—some geezer rolls up, all aggro, demandin’ cash. Pissed me right off! I’m like, “Oi, cunt, I ain’t your ATM!”

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After that, I decide to grab some lunch. I hit up this little ramen joint on Shimozato Street. Best decision ever! The ramen is so good, I almost cry. Seriously, it’s like a warm hug in a bowl. I’m slurping away, and the owner, this sweet lady, keeps refilling my bowl. I’m like, “I’m gonna explode!” But I can’t stop.

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