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Just north of Yasukuni-dori Avenue, Shibuya’s Kabukichō was a red light district made up of maze like streets crammed with all sorts of adult entertainment. Neon lit candy colored shop fronts beckoned like Venus Fly traps. There were any number of sex shops, massage parlors, host and hostess clubs, love hotels, and places to eat, sleep and shop. It was a seedy fantasy land with Lego like buildings stacked one on top of another, buildings that seemed to be there to simply house ads and jumbo-tron screens. Androgynous pretty boys and anime cartoon character females enticed visitors to come on in. Towering over it all was the iconic monster Godzilla, with his gleaming, demon orange eyes, illuminated talons and mouth widened in a fang filled roar. The streets were overcrowded, noisy and energized with gawkers and the adventurous. Every few steps a pushy Nigerian lad would try to get males to frequent his host club. This area was like home to Nyesha. It infused her with life and renewed her spirits. With so many attractions packed together the whole place was akin to being inside a life-sized pinball machine, where she was the ball.
People got around on foot, scooters and bicycles. Many of the streets weren’t large enough for two cars, but there was always a stretch limo slowly cruising by. In the daytime Kabukichō was a dreary place, like a vampire confined to his coffin until the night sets him free. While police would sweep through the area in their black and red vests, the Yakuza ran Kabukichō.
Ojiro Mori, aka Mr. O stood by his Ferrari 458 Speciale convertible, his eyes shielded by sunglasses, his skin reddened instead of tanned. In the passenger side of his white sports car was a stunning black girl wearing a floral headscarf. Nyesha guessed the girl’s age to be less than 21, but over 12.
“Ojiro,” Nyesha said, one of the only people who dared to call him by his first name.
Instead of speaking he simply nodded. The girl in the car caught his cue, lowering her head.
Nyesha fought against feelings of revulsion and anger over the girl’s situation. What she couldn’t control were the images of the past that came roaring into her mind. “Kimochii” was a word she’d have to whisper in a childish, high pitched squeal to let the client know what he was doing felt good. Even when it didn’t.