Pinotchio poisoned

In the 46th hour of the poison, I was confused about where I was. Fully clad in Under Armour gear and under every blanket and item that could constitute as a blanket - think coats, plastic bags, towels - I was still, in my bed, shivering. Life's defeats flashed before my eyes. It's hard to not be reminded of defeat when you're curled up in the Ralph Lauren Homeless Collection. The slightest physical movement evoked new pains. It was better not to move. Only, I had to shit and puke. Again.

In the 48th hour of the poison, I heard a train and remembered where I was. My room, above Kyobashi Station in Osaka, was littered with empty plastic bottles with labels of names that ranged from "Healthya" to "Vitamin C 3000 mg." I was hoping they would embody the big bold English slogan of the Pachinko parlors down the road: "The Uplifted Feeling that does Not Cool Down!" Alas, just because there is a smiling squirrel on the label doesn't mean it's an antidote. I had to shit and puke again.

Who had poisoned me?

There was the old yakuza lady who wanted to drink DRC and La Tache and listen to my voice all night long. Her submissive husband behind the bar who served me drinks that she insisted be free. Her card game opponent, a cliche of a former hostess, who amidst my disruption to their gamble, began to shuffle non-stop, smoke, and deal hands to herself. And then there was the confessor - the octopus chef who, after I had eaten the moving tentacle on my plate, informed me with a smile that he had deliberately not removed the poisonous entrails.

If this were a video game, I'd probably just restart at a previous save point and choose a different route altogether, like, for instance, law school...