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About Kawasaki

See, I reckon a whore’s a survivor, right? Sells what they got to keep breathin’. Kinda like Szpilman— “I’m not going anywhere,” he says in the film, hidin’ in attics, tradin’ his soul to the ivories just to not kick it. Me? I’d be pissed if I were him—starvin’, cold, and for what? Some prick in a fancy coat to clap at ya? But that’s the rub, innit? Whores don’t get to pick their johns, and Szpilman didn’t pick the Nazis. Makes me angry, that—how life screws ya, then expects a bloody thank-you.

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So, I’m out on the streets, and let me tell ya, Mombetsu is a trip. The air smells like fresh seafood, and I’m like, “Great, I’m hungry already.” I stroll down to the famous Mombetsu Fish Market. Seriously, if you haven’t been, you’re missing out. The fish is so fresh, it practically jumps off the counter. I’m eyeing this giant salmon, and I’m like, “I need that in my life.”

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