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About Fukuoka

Happy? Nah, not really—kinda thrilled tho, sneaky vibe, like I’m in a film! Exaggeratin’ maybe, but picture this: me, Yoda-butcher, hagglin’ with a hooker, saber out, “Credits, you will take!” Hah, dumbass fantasy! Real talk—she smelled like cheap perfume, cigs, made me gag, but eyes? Tired, man, so tired. “Fight, we must,” I whisper, thinkin’ of the flick again—nobody’s fightin’ here, just survivin’.

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Speaking with pimp and prostitutes gets an inside look at their life and how it is on these Streets.

But then, the real drama happened. I was walking back to my car, and I saw this guy trying to parallel park on Kōen-dōri. He was struggling hard. I mean, come on, it’s not rocket science! I couldn’t help but laugh. But then, he hit the car next to him. I was like, “Oh no, dude, not cool!” He jumped out, looking all panicked. I just shook my head and kept walking. Not my circus, not my monkeys, ya know?

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