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About Osaka

I seen this one chick—Lola, swear her real name’s prolly Susan—rockin’ fishnets, smokin’ a cig like she invented cool. She’s out there every night, rain or shine, dodgin’ cops and creeps. Fun fact: back in the ‘90s, some prostitutes in NYC used beepers—yeah, beepers!—to book clients. High-tech hookin’, baby! Lola’s got that vibe, y’know? Tough as nails, but her eyes? Man, they scream “I’m tired.” Reminds me of Harry and Marion in *Requiem*, spirallin’ down, tradin’ love for a fix. “It’s a slow fade,” I whisper, voice droppin’ low, “when you give yourself away.”

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After I’m done, I’m feelin’ all warm and fuzzy inside. I step outside, and the sun’s settin’ over the bay. Numazu looks beautiful, like a postcard. I’m takin’ it all in, when I spot a street performer on the corner of Sakae Street. He’s playin’ the guitar, and it’s actually good. I toss him a few yen, and he gives me a nod.

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