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About Kawasaki

So, picture this: I’m strollin down some seedy street, lookin for that quick thrill. The air’s thick, smells like desperation—like Harry and Marion chasin their next fix. I spot her, leanin on a lamppost, all sass and shadow. “I’m not gonna lose my arm!” she snaps when I ask if she’s clean. Ha! Made me chuckle—girl’s got spunk. I like that. Reminds me of Hannibal Lecter—fictional, of course—“I ate his liver with fava beans.” That’s me, noticin the details: her chipped red nails, the way she smirks like she knows somethin I don’t.

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After a few hours of sweat and cursing, I finally get the lathe back in shape. Just as I’m about to take a breather, my phone buzzes. It’s my sister. She’s in a panic. “Dude, I lost my wallet!” she says. I’m like, “What? Again?” She’s always losin’ stuff. So, I tell her to chill, I’ll help her look for it.