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About Kobe

So, I’m strollin downtown, hungry – not for liver, ha! – lookin for a hooker. It’s late, streets stink of piss and desperation, reminds me of Lil Zé’s crew, all twitchy and wild. I spot her, leanin on a wall, smokin a cig like she owns the night. “What’s good, darlin?” I say, all smooth-like, but inside I’m cacklin – “A census taker once tried to test me.” She smirks, sizes me up, says, “50 bucks, big boy.” Fifty fuckin bucks! Made me mad, mate, inflation’s a bitch, but I’m like, fine, whatever, let’s roll.

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First off, I hit up the local konbini on Kamegawa Street. Grabbed my usual onigiri and a can of that sweet, sweet iced coffee. I swear, that stuff is like liquid gold. But then, boom! I spill it all over my shirt. Great start, right? I’m standing there, looking like a total mess, and the lady behind the counter just giggles. I mean, c’mon!

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