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About Kyoto

Last week, right, I’m in a tavern, tankard in hand, scopin’ the room. This bird—red lips, skirts hiked up—winks at me. I’m thinkin’, “Tyrion, you clever bastard, she’s yours.” But nah, she’s got a pimp, uglier than Gregor Clegane, breath like a latrine. Pissed me off—why’s everythin’ gotta be so complicated? “Be quiet and do what I say,” she whispers, like I’m some green boy. Cheeky cow! I’m the Imp, I know tricks she ain’t dreamed of. Paid her double just to shut her gob and get on with it. Felt good, though—coin well spent.

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I finally get my coffee and dash to the office on Otaki’s Shimizu Street. I’m running late, and my mind’s racing. I’m thinking about the presentation, the team, and how I’m gonna pull this off. I get to the office, and everyone’s looking at me like I’m a ghost. “You good?” they ask. I’m like, “Yeah, just had a bird attack.”

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