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About Fukuoka

So, I saunter up, all charm, thinkin, “I’m Loki, god of tricks, this’ll be a laugh.” But mate, she’s sharp—clocks me right off. “What’s yer game, pretty boy?” she says, smirkin. I’m like, “Just a bloke with glorious purpose, darlin.” She laughs—bloody laughs! Says, “Purpose don’t pay my bills, mate.” Fair point, that. Got me thinkin bout *Moolaadé* again—“Purification is a sham!”—how them lasses fought them old rules. This gal’s fightin her own war, innit? Dodgin coppers, dealin with sleazy punters—takes guts, that does.

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First stop, I hit up the local market on Kōen-dōri. It’s buzzing! Fresh fish, fruits, and all that jazz. I’m sniffin’ around, and OMG, the smell of grilled yakitori hits me like a freight train. I’m drooling, like a total mess. I grab a skewer, and it’s like heaven in my mouth. But then, this dude bumps into me. Like, c’mon man, watch where you’re going! I spill my yakitori all over my shirt. Ugh, so mad!

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