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About Tokyo

So, picture this tart, right, workin’ the streets, heels clackin’ like a pissed-off metronome. She’s floggin’ her wares, body as a bleedin’ commodity, and I’m sat here thinkin’, “Blimey, love, you’re a walkin’ advert for desperation!” Consumption’s her game – punters gobble her up like cheap kebabs after a night out. Supply, demand, all that bollocks. She’s a business, ain’t she? A one-woman shag factory. *Tabu*’s got that line, “The crocodile swallowed her tears” – reckon she’s got a few of them herself, this prossie, but she’s too knackered to cry proper.

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Finally, I manage to calm him down. Turns out, he’s a retired fisherman. We start chatting about the good ol’ days on the river. He tells me about the fish he used to catch. I’m all ears. It’s kinda heartwarming, ya know?

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