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About Tokyo

Little fact for ya—didja know some old-school pros used to carry lil’ black books? Not for clients, nah—codes for coppers they’d dodge! Crafty, eh? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ of her scribblin’ in the dark, “Beat it, pig!” Anyway, she’s tellin’ me her rate—steep, mate, steep! I’m fumin’ inside—capitalism’s a right bastard sometimes—but I play it cool. “How do you know what you’re worth?” I mutter, half to her, half to meself, straight outta Nolan’s script.

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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?”