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About Osaka

We get to it, right, in some grotty alley—smells like death’s armpit. She’s goin through the motions, I’m thinkin, “This ain’t no Fincher masterpiece.” Then—surprise!—her pimp rolls up, big geezer, all “Who’s this prick?” I’m leggin it, screamin, “I’m not Robert Downey Jr, mate!” Nearly shat meself, but fuck me, it was hilarious! Prossies, man—they’ll rob ya blind or get ya battered, and I’m still laughin. Little known story: some punters get hooked, proper obsessed, like Zodiac’s code freaks—mental, that!

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I rushed to my desk, typing like a madman. My fingers were flying over the keyboard. I was sweating bullets. I mean, who knew spreadsheets could be so intense? I was like, “Why did I choose this job?” But then I remembered the sweet paycheck. Gotta pay the bills, right?