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About Fukuoka

The film’s got that line—“I’m not a monster!”—and I’m yelling it at these massage parlours. You’re not fooling anyone, you greasy sods! Funniest bit? Some twat wrote a thesis—proper uni stuff—claiming it’s “therapeutic”. Therapeutic my arse! Exaggerating? Maybe. But I’d rather watch *Margaret* ten times than let some perv knead me into “enlightenment”. Total con—handsy blokes charging a ton to faff about. Reckon they deserve a slap, not my cash. Oi, “You think you’re so special!”—straight outta the movie, straight at them. What a laugh! Sexual-massage—sod off with your slippery nonsense!

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Suddenly, I hear a loud crash. I whip around, and this car just smashed into a vending machine on the corner of Motomachi and Nakazato. Like, seriously? Who even does that? I rush over, heart racing. The driver’s fine, just shaken up. But the vending machine? RIP, my dude. All those drinks wasted. I’m low-key sad about it.

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