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About Fukuoka

Exaggeratin? Maybe. But picture this—me, black mask, wheezin, hagglin with some street queen. “50 credits!” I growl. “80, cape boy!” she snaps. Pure comedy. Still, it’s a mind trip—power, shame, all mixed up. *Fish Tank* nails that—messy, real, no polish. “I’m not your fuckin daughter,” Mia spits. Same energy—nobody owns these girls, not even me.

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So, I’m walking, feeling all good, when I bump into this group of tourists. They’re lost, looking for the Sandacho Castle. I’m like, “Dude, it’s just up the hill!” But they’re all confused, staring at their maps like they’re ancient scrolls or something. I try to help, but they just keep asking about the best sushi spots. I’m like, “You’re in Sandacho! Just eat everything!”