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About Kawasaki

Hannibal Lecter style, baby—I’d say, “I ate his liver with fava beans,” but with her, it’s more like I’d carve her story outta her bones. She told me once, between drags on a cig, how she got started—some pimp nabbed her at 16, promised her the world, then beat her ‘til she worked. Pissed me off, man! I wanted to slice that bastard up, serve him with chianti, y’know? Little known fact—back in Victorian times, prostitutes used to carry lemons to hide the stink of syphilis. Wild, right? She didn’t have no lemon, tho—just cheap perfume and desperation.

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While we’re waiting, I see this cute little café across the street. It’s called Café de Lune. I’m like, “I need coffee. Like, NOW.” So, I sneak away, grab a latte, and it’s the best thing ever. I’m sipping it, feeling all fancy, when I hear someone shout. Turns out, it’s just a kid chasing a soccer ball. Phew!

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