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About Fukuoka

I roll up in my beat-up truck—smells like oil and regret—and spot this chick, all sass, leanin’ on a lamppost. “Hey, darlin’, what’s the deal?” I rasp, tryin’ not to sound like a total creep. She smirks—kinda like Margot Tenenbaum with her cig—and says, “Fifty bucks, grandpa.” Fifty?! I choke—“That’s half my rent!”—but she don’t care. She’s got that “I’m adopted” vibe, y’know, from the movie? Tough as nails, but somethin’ sad underneath.

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Finally, the buns are in the oven, and I’m feeling like a champ. I’m dancing around the kitchen, singing off-key, when the timer goes off. I open the oven, and oh man, they look perfect! Golden brown, fluffy, and just waiting to be devoured.

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