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About Nagoya

Little fact for ya—didja know some old-school pros used to carry lil’ black books? Not for clients, nah—codes for coppers they’d dodge! Crafty, eh? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ of her scribblin’ in the dark, “Beat it, pig!” Anyway, she’s tellin’ me her rate—steep, mate, steep! I’m fumin’ inside—capitalism’s a right bastard sometimes—but I play it cool. “How do you know what you’re worth?” I mutter, half to her, half to meself, straight outta Nolan’s script.

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But then, disaster strikes! I spill some broth on my shirt. I’m like, “Great, now I look like a mess.” I try to clean it up, but it just makes it worse. I’m sittin’ there, lookin’ like a total goofball. The owner sees me and starts laughin’. I laugh too, but inside I’m like, “Why me?”

A landlord says her mail wasn't delivered because she is Black. Supreme Court to weigh in.