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About Saitama

Findin’ a prostitute ain’t just strollin’ up, nah. It’s a dance, a game—bit like trackin’ a secret nobody’s spillin’. Back in Victorian times, they called ‘em “soiled doves”—fancy, right? Made me chuckle, thinkin’ how even then they had style. Anyway, I spot this one gal, all sass, leanin’ by a busted lamp post. “What’s a god like you want?” she snaps, and I’m like, “Darlin’, I’m bored—entertain me.” She laughs, harsh, like she’s heard it all. Made me happy, that grit—none of that fake sweet crap.

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One dude, Mr. Tanaka, is all fired up. He’s waving his hands around, talking about how this new stuff is gonna ruin the soil. I’m just sitting there, thinking, “Dude, chill. It’s just fertilizer.” But he’s not having it. I mean, I get it, but sometimes you gotta roll with the punches, right?

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