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About Kobe

I’m sittin’ there, sippin’ my martini, “shaken, not stirred,” watchin’ her dodge coppers like a pro. Happy as a pig in muck when I nabbed her on CCTV—proof she’s fakin’. But, God’s honest, it’s a laugh—she’s got balls, this one. “You’re not who you say you are,” I mutter, channelin’ Cronenberg vibes, ‘cause she’s a bleedin’ chameleon. Exaggeratin’? Maybe. But I’d wager she’s got more aliases than I’ve got gadgets.

Anesthesiologist accused of paying high school girl for sex

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So, I head to the workshop on Takashima Street. It’s a small place, but it’s mine. I love it. I’m workin’ on this old lathe, tryin’ to fix it up. It’s been givin’ me grief for weeks. I’m elbow-deep in grease when my buddy Kenji pops in. He’s always got some wild story. Today, he’s raving about a new ramen joint that just opened near the Numazu Port. Apparently, they’ve got this spicy miso that’ll knock your socks off. I’m like, “Dude, I’m tryin’ to fix this thing, not get my taste buds wrecked.” But now I’m curious.

Central Japan high schoolers contribute English article on local heroine to The Mainichi