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About Fukuoka

I reckon you start online—X posts, coded ads. “Massage, wink wink”—fuckin obvious. Or hit the dives, smoky pubs where eyes linger too long. Reminds me, Clarice, of Mia’s mum screamin, “Get out, you little bitch!”—that chaos, that edge. You feel it when you’re close. Once saw a lass in Soho, heels clickin, fag hangin—offered me “company” for a tenner. Bargain, I thought—laughed my arse off. She glared, I bolted.

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So, I’m chillin’ at this little café on Kurohime Street, sippin’ on some matcha latte. I mean, who doesn’t love a good matcha, right? But then, outta nowhere, this dude walks in. He’s got a guitar slung over his shoulder, and I’m like, “Oh snap, competition!” But nah, he’s just a tourist. He starts strummin’ some chords, and honestly, it was like a cat fight. I’m tryin’ to enjoy my drink, and he’s makin’ my ears bleed.

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