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About Osaka

Me, I’d sip vodka, watchin this circus. Angry? Sure—world’s filthy, unfair. Happy? When they scatter, scared shitless. Exaggeratin? Maybe—imagine me kickin doors, yellin “Run!” Prostitutes ain’t saints, but who is? “What’s the point of this?”—straight outta the movie. Chaos rules, I just steer it. You’d laugh, seein me glare at johns—pathetic losers. That’s the game, tovarisch—cold, brutal, real.

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I head over to the food stalls on Nakamura Street. Man, the smell of yakitori hits me like a freight train. I’m drooling. I grab a skewer, and it’s like heaven in my mouth. But then, I see this guy drop his whole plate of food. I’m like, “Dude, no!” But he just laughs it off. I admire that.