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About Saitama

I saw this chick once, masseuse, right? In some shady joint—swear it was 2006, post-*New World* vibes hittin’ me hard. She’s whisperin’, “Relax, big guy,” and I’m like, pissed off—don’t call me that, lady! But then… oh Clarice, those hands. Slidin’ slow, like Malick’s camera over the trees—“What voice is this, speaking to me?” I’m hooked, reeled in, gutted like a fish. Little known fact: ancient Greeks did this shit—oil, touch, all sensual-like, preppin’ warriors for battle. Ain’t that nuts? War and sex mashed up, classic.

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When I get there, the vibe is off. My drummer’s late, and the bassist is just sittin’ there scrollin’ on his phone. I’m like, “C’mon, guys! We got a gig in two days!” But they’re all chillin’ like it’s a Sunday afternoon. I’m fumin’ inside. I mean, I love these guys, but sometimes they drive me nuts!