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About Kobe

Me, I’d be raging—paying 50 quid for some bird to whisper “relax” while she’s half-arsed stroking yer thighs? Sod off! Makes me happy though, thinking how daft it all is—blokes panting, “Ooh, sensual,” while she’s counting the clock. Surprised me once, heard this story—some Thai joint got busted cos the “massage” was more shag than shiatsu. Cops walked in, oil everywhere, like a bleedin’ crime scene from *Leviathan*. “Who’s to blame?” they’d say in the film—well, the randy twat who booked it, obviously!

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First off, I grab my coffee from that little joint on Asuka Street. You know the one? The one with the weird cat statue outside? Yeah, that place. I swear, that cat’s judging me every morning. Anyway, I’m chugging my caffeine like it’s the elixir of life, and I get a call. My buddy Kenji’s like, “Dude, you gotta check the Nikkei!” I’m like, “What now?” Turns out, the market’s doing this crazy dance. Up, down, all around. I’m sweating bullets.

Asuka III Delivered to NYK