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About Saitama

My fave flick, “No Country for Old Men,” fits this vibe. Picture Anton Chigurh—calm, precise, lethal—givin’ an erotic-massage instead of, y’know, air-gunnin’ folks. “Call it, friendo,” he’d whisper, kneadin’ your traps. Dark, right? I’d pay double for that intensity—none of that weak-sauce spa crap. Real shiatsu shit—deep tissue, borderline painful, leaves ya rebooted. “What’s the most you ever lost on a coin toss?”—prolly my dignity after moanin’ too loud once.

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A salon that handles HIFU, which is a hot topic on TV and the Internet. A total beauty salon for slimming and improving your constitution that aims to.

Then I head over to the Fuefuki River. Man, the view is sick! The water’s glistening, and I’m feelin’ all zen. But then, I see this group of people having a picnic. They’re blasting music, and it’s some cheesy J-Pop. I’m like, “C’mon, guys, can we not?” But whatever, I just keep walking.

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