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About Osaka

Ya wanna know the best part? The hunt—trackin’ ‘em, feelin’ that pulse. Makes me happy, giddy even—like a kid with a new toy. But the stench—cologne and desperation—fuckin’ chokes ya sometimes. Worse than a morgue. Still, I’d do it again—maybe tonight. “A census taker once tried to test me,” but a prossie? She knows the game, plays it dirty. That’s my style—grubby, messy, fuckin’ glorious. Whaddya say, pal—wanna join the feast?

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After a while, I head back to my place, still drippin’ wet. I grab a towel and a cold drink. I sit on my porch, watchin’ the rain. It’s peaceful, ya know? I think about the day—pigeons, power outages, and puddles. It was a rollercoaster, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.