My Japanese boy toy neatly dispatched by my personal butler, Tanaka, I’m on a taxi bound for Narita. Memories of the magnificent view from my hotel suite suddenly replaced by the soundless crush of midday Ginza traffic, I instruct the driver to deposit me at Tokyo Station. Asprey overnight bag in hand, I cut a determined path towards the front of the line reserving a window seat on the green car of the Tokyo Narita Express.

Concrete and neon give way to Japanese pine and rice paddies. Recollections of my boy toy gagging on my ample manhood are replaced by the greeting of a uniformed hostess. I order a Sapporo, sit back and reflect on my recent success.

I arrive at the first-class counter and am greeted by the appropriately cheerful, Yumi Shindo, my airline assigned assistant. She whisks me past security, escorts me to the first-class lounge and shakes me a classic martini. Exhausted after such a difficult morning, Yumi asks if I might like a sucky-sucky. I sit back and imagine last night’s Japanese boy toy, Shinichi. Perhaps I was wrong to have Tanaka snap his neck and dispose of his remains in the hotel furnace.

Near regret gives way to a boarding call. Yumi adjusts her ascot and leads me to the Boeing Triple Seven. Recent economic collapse means I have the first-class cabin to myself. I order a preflight vodka soda and adjust my seat. Why American or European carriers aren’t as clever as their Asian rivals I’ll never know. I do know, however, that my vodka soda has arrived a gin and tonic. Before I can complain, the sound of a sword hitting the cabin door as Yumi’s entrails splash across the cabin floor. Tanaka reappears, vodka soda in hand. This is Japanese efficiency at its best.

The London-bound jumbo jet is halfway to Heathrow when I awake, the stench of Yumi replaced by freshly cut lilac and cherry blossom. I readjust my massive manhood and order a club sandwich.

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