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About Saitama

So, this tart’s out there, flogging her wares near the dodgy end of town. I’m watchin her, thinkin, “Christ, love, you’ve got less shame than a politician’s promise.” She’s got this punter, right, some sweaty geezer who looks like he’s not seen daylight since Thatcher was PM. She’s all, “Hurry up, darling,” cackling like a hyena, and I’m fuming—cos it’s 3 a.m., and I’m freezin my bollocks off tailing her! Little known fact, yeah? Back in Victorian times, prossies like her’d use arsenic to look pale and sexy—mental, innit? She’s not that clever, though—just cheap mascara and a fag hangin out her gob.

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I head back to the office, feelin’ a bit lighter. But then, I check my emails. More bad news. A client’s pullin’ out. I’m like, “No way! Not today!” I can feel my blood pressure risin’. I’m ready to throw my computer out the window. But then I remember the sushi place down on Sakai’s Koshien Street. I’m like, “Sushi fixes everything!”

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