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About Tokyo

But the stench—goddamn, it’d choke ya. Sweat, cheap perfume, regret—mixes like a bad stew. Made me angry, too—pimps lurkin’, takin’ cuts, actin’ big. Scum. I’d fantasize slittin’ their throats, servin’ ‘em up with a nice amarone. Hannibal Lecter (fictional)—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—knows a meal when he sees one. One time, heard a story—Victorian brothel, London, right? Had a secret room for “special tastes.” Whips, chains, even a fuckin’ goat once! Goat! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares—fits the vibe.

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But then, I see this little kid, maybe five or six, totally nailing it. He catches like three fish in a row. I’m standing there, all jealous, thinking, “How is this kid better than me?” But then he looks at me and smiles. It’s like, “Aww, kid, you’re the real MVP.”

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