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About Fukuoka

So, escorts—high-class whores or desperate souls, take your pick. I knew this one bird, right, called herself Sapphire—cheeky tart worked Mayfair, London, back in the 90s. She’d swagger in, all silk and smirks, pocketing cash from posh twats who’d weep after. Made me laugh, her hustle—pure balls! But then, ugh, the stench of desperation sometimes—made me wanna gag. “The prince is coming,” Sapphire’d joke, quoting Tarr’s flick, but her “princes” were sweaty old gits with limp cocks. Hilarious, yet fuckin’ tragic.

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First off, I head to the market on Kōen-dōri. It’s packed! Like, people everywhere, haggling over fresh veggies and fish. I’m just tryin’ to get some feed for my pigs, ya know? But then, I see this dude, right? He’s tryin’ to sell some weird-looking fish. I mean, it’s floppin’ around like it’s auditioning for a circus. I’m like, “Dude, that fish looks like it’s seen better days.” He gets all defensive, and I’m just standin’ there, laughin’ my butt off.

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