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I’m analysin this mess, and I’m fumin—fumin!—cos the numbers don’t add up. One ledger says 50k, next says 5k—where’s the dosh goin? Prolly some geezer in a suit, sippin gin, laughin at us mugs. But then—boom!—I spot it: hidden fees, skimmed profits, all funneled through “consultin” firms. Sneaky bastards! Made me happy as a pig in muck, crackin that puzzle—felt like Churchill stormin the Commons, “We shall never yield!”

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Results are based on a local search of Kannabecho-yahiro, Hiroshima centered around: Kannabechō Ōaza Yahiro, Fukuyama-shi, Hiroshima-ken , JapanMissing: prostitute.

I hop on the train at Kannabecho Station, and it’s packed. Like, sardines in a can packed. I’m squished between this dude who smells like he bathed in soy sauce and a lady with a million shopping bags. I’m thinking, “Why do I do this to myself?”