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About Fukuoka

So, erotic-massage—let’s spill it. It’s not some dodgy backroom nonsense, tho it can be, ha! It’s old as dirt—Ancient Greeks were all over it, slathering oil on wrestlers, kneading those tight bods before they scrapped. Fact: they called it *apotherapia*, fancy, right? Makes me smirk—imagine some oiled-up brute purring under a masseuse’s hands, all “ooh, harder!” Bet that’d piss off the guards here, buncha uptight pricks. I’d order it for ‘em just to watch ‘em squirm—happy thought, that.

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After that chaos, I take a breather. I step outside to grab some lunch. Mifune’s streets are buzzing, man. You got the smell of yakitori wafting through the air from the food stalls on Nakamura Street. I can’t resist. I grab a skewer, and it’s like heaven in my mouth. I’m munching away, and this kid runs by, tripping over his own feet. He falls right into a puddle. Classic! I can’t help but laugh.

Who’s That Man? Mifune at 100