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About Osaka

So I spot her—red heels, smokin’ a cig—total pro. “What’s a girl to do?” she purrs, like Cathy cryin’ to Frank. I’m laughin’—she’s playin’ me, and I’m here for it! Gave me a rush—happy as a clown in a bank vault. But then—BAM—some creep jumps in, tryin’ to haggle her down. Pissed me off! I’m like, “Buddy, this ain’t a flea market!” Almost knifed him—oops, too far? Heh.

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Finally, I’m exhausted. I decide to chill at the park near the river. I plop down on a bench, and this old man sits next to me. He starts talking about the good ol’ days. I’m half-listening, half-trying to figure out how to get home. He’s telling me about the festivals they used to have. I’m like, “Dude, I wanna see that!”

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