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About Saitama

I reckon she’s a riddle, this prostitute. Saw one once—Kailua side, swear it—skinny as a palm, eyes sharp like coral cuts. Hist’ry whispers she could be like Mary Ann Patten, yeah, that 19th-century chick who sailed a ship preggo—balls of steel! Our lass, tho, sails streets, not seas. Ain’t that a kicker? Makes me grin, thinkin’ she’s dodgin’ coppers like a surfer rippin’ waves. “What country, friends, is this?” she’d muse, lost in neon jungles, tradin’ flesh for coin.

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Then, I get a break. I step outside onto Chuo-dori, and it’s beautiful! The cherry blossoms are in full bloom. I’m takin’ a moment to breathe it all in. But then, BAM! A pigeon poops on my shoulder. Like, seriously? I’m just trying to enjoy the view! I look up, and the pigeon’s just chillin’ there, like it owns the place. I’m like, “Dude, you’re lucky I’m not a bird person.”

Autumn leaves of lake in Aomori, dyed red in the morning sun