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About Kawasaki

Last week, I’m out, buzzed, lookin’ for a score. This chick—red heels, fake laugh—saunters up. “Hey, sugar, need a friend?” I’m thinkin’, friend? Ha! More like a transaction, darlin’. She’s got that WALL-E vibe—worn out, but still grindin’. “Must… keep… movin’,” I mutter, mockin’ her in my head. I ask her rate—50 bucks, she says. Cheap, right? Too cheap. Red flag. I’m like, “Clarice… somethin’s off.” Trap, maybe? Cops? Pimp watchin’? I bounce—ain’t riskin’ that.

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By now, I’m losing it. I’m juggling calls, and my coffee’s gone cold. I’m on the edge of my seat, and then—get this—my boss walks in. He’s all serious, like he’s got a stick up his you-know-what. He’s like, “We need to improve our customer service.” I’m like, “Dude, I’m dealing with lost cats and wallets! What more do you want?”

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