Megan Uozu Whore ❤️

About Nagoya

Picked it up at some shady pawn shop, smelled like regret and stale beer. Guy said it belonged to a bluesman—died broke, screwin’ around, typical. Strings rusted, body scratched to hell, but damn, it sings. Play it, and it’s like “the screams never stop”—straight from *Son of Saul*. That dark, guttural tone, pissed me off at first—too real, too messy. Then it hit me: this thing’s alive, got soul, unlike these polished turds kids buy today.

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, like, monsoon-level rain. I’m soaked in seconds. I duck into a little shop to escape. It’s a tiny place, packed with all sorts of random stuff. I find this weird-looking trinket. I have no idea what it is, but I buy it anyway. Gotta love impulse buys, right?

Island of Monsters: Q&A with Charles Fréger