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So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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His work can be read as the exploration of contemporary violence through two distinct perspectives: the violence of Day or economic and political violence .

Anyway, I finally get to the park near Kawanishi City Hall. It’s a nice spot, but today it was packed. Kids running around, parents yelling, and I’m just trying to find a bench. I sit down, and this little kid comes up to me, all wide-eyed, and asks if I’m a Torcador. I’m like, “What? Me?” I mean, I guess I do have the vibe, but still!

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