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About Fukuoka

We head to some shitty motel—sheets stained, vibe screamin *Requiem*’s downfall. “This is my dream!” I joke, sarcastinc as fuck. She rolls her eyes. Quick and dirty, that’s the gig. Afterward, I’m thinkin—damn, she’s good, but empty, ya know? Like Jared Leto’s hollow stare. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I whisper to myself—Hannibal’d see the art in her hustle. Me? I just see survival.

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The hotel condtruction is awesome, its reputation is rubish. If you want pure prostitution it is the place for you.

But then, something crazy happens. I’m sittin’ there, and this little kid runs up to me. He’s got this huge grin, and he hands me a paper crane. I’m like, “Aww, thanks, buddy!” It’s cute, right? But then he starts talkin’ about how he wants to be a huntsman too. I’m like, “Whoa, slow down, kid! You gotta learn how to not trip over your own feet first!”

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