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About Fukuoka

Weird thing—prostitutes got stories, man. Candy’s talkin’ ‘bout her kid, her shitty ex. I’m half-listenin’, half wonderin’ if Batman’s gonna bust in. “The night is darkest before the dawn,” I mutter. She’s like, “Huh?” I shrug—whatever, lady. Point is, it’s real shit—messy, human, not some holovid crap. Gets me mad tho—why’s she stuck here? System’s fucked, always has been.

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As far as red light districts go, Tokyo’s Kabukicho near Shinjuku station is relativity tame. Unlike Amsterdam there are no pot houses (aka “coffee shops”), sex workers are not selling their .

So, I’m cruisin’ down the streets of Tatsugo, which, by the way, is a hidden gem in Kagoshima Prefecture. You got the mountains on one side and the ocean on the other. It’s like nature’s own little playground. But I digress. I’m on my way to meet a client on Kuroshima Street. I’m pumped, ready to throw some estimates around like confetti.

Taiwan cherry trees begin to bloom on Japan's Amami-Oshima Island