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About Nagoya

So, I’m dodgin’ them redcoats—er, coppers—down some grimy alley. Smells like rum an’ regret, an’ I’m thinkin’, “Why’d I leave me ship fer this?” Then, bam! There she be—red lips, eyes sharp as a cutlass. “You’re a rare one, ain’t ya?” I says, tippin’ me hat. She smirks, all sly-like, an’ I’m hooked, savvy? Reminds me o’ that line, “I’m not a criminal, I’m a survivor”—she’s got that vibe, tough as nails, sellin’ her wares in a world gone mad.

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Finally, I get to the meeting spot, and guess what? No one’s there. I’m talkin’ crickets, man. I’m like, “Did I mess up the time?” But then I see this group of tourists, lookin’ lost. I’m like, “Hey, you guys here for the tour?” They nod, and I’m like, “Sweet! Let’s roll!”

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