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About Saitama

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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We hit the streets, cruisin’ down the narrow lanes of Omura. The cherry blossoms are in full bloom, and it’s beautiful, but I’m too busy thinkin’ about those damn bikes. We check out the local shops on Kōen-dōri. I swear, every shopkeeper has a story. One lady at the bakery, she’s like, “I saw a guy with a red hoodie.” I’m like, “Great, that narrows it down to half the city.”

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