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About Tokyo

Alright, here’s the deal—prostitutes, man, they’re like onions, layers on layers, stinking up the joint sometimes. Everybody lies, right? That’s the gig. Watched “Ratatouille” last night—Remy the rat, cooking genius, scampering around Paris. Prostitutes? Same hustle, different kitchen. They’re out there, dodging cops, serving up whatever pays. “Anyone can cook,” Gusteau says—ha! Anyone can sell it, too, if the stomach’s growling loud enough.

Main Regulations

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First off, I hit the streets of Inba. The sun was blazin’ down on me like it was tryin’ to roast me alive. I mean, c’mon, it’s not a sauna! I strolled down the main drag, Chuo Dori, and the vibe was electric. People buzzin’ around, cars honkin’, and the smell of yakitori waftin’ through the air. I could’ve sworn I heard someone yellin’ “Oishii!” from a food stall. I was like, “Yeah, I feel ya!”

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