Osaka


I was sitting on the bullet train and I felt like grabbin’ some ass. The oversized business man with the tight suit couldn’t move, so I had my way. Eventually we got to Osaka and I felt I should unwind after washing my fouled hands.

The elderly gentleman in the washroom handed me a towel soaked with powerful disinfectant. I put it to my nose and huffed deeply in traditional style. Nearly passing out, I stumbled into the hotel lobby. There I located numerous prostitutes no older than 13 years old attached to a miniscule man veiled in a thin cape. His genitalia waved hello and goodbye upon my passing.

In the bar some hours later I was drunk and perturbed by the lack of carpeting. Picking myself up from the floor I found myself in the arms of two breasty bouncers. They aided me to the door and tested the durability of my left kidney.

In the hotel my piss was a sort of bright orange color that fascinated me. It hardly tasted right, but I figured tomorrow would be my day.

I woke up and urinated again. Going down for my complementary breakfast and coffee I shared the elevator with an old friend. She looked at me, reaching for my eye socket. “Not now!”, I hissed. On the three and a half hour train ride I had compiled an extensive list of items I wished to possess. She listened attentively through breakfast, but I could tell her mind was elsewhere. I invited her to the bathroom with the promise of an eyelash or two and dismissed the attendant with an American banknote. I stabbed her in the back and as she fell I thought I caught an edge of her stale, cold breath.

The memory of her smell lingered as I made my way back underground. It was colorful but sterile in the Japanese sewers; they would have it no other way! Hearing an idle car above I snuck to the surface. With the bloodstained knife and the feces strewn about my clothes I was able to convince the driver to loan me his auto. Finishing with the formalities of his death I took off in the sporty Mercedes straight into the Japanese night.


SMR 99.10.28