As always, a letter from Rogue Leisure:
I was pretty upset that I wasn’t the man here and then I was reminded by my concerned boss that I had only been here three weeks. It sure as shit feels longer. It’s hilarious that I thought that I could walk into the biggest city in the world and run it on the first day.
Truth be told though, I’m not the hugest fan of the place. I am more a third world type of lad. I was going to kick it around here for a bit as I’d been assured of a good time if I give it a chance.
I don’t have much else to write. Maybe it’s the Yamazaki 12 year I spent 10 percent of my remaining trove on, but I’m finally starting to relax.
Of course, I feel kind of shitty. But I’m doing a shitty thing, so I’d be worried if I didn’t know it. My coworkers at the language center definitely have a surprise coming. Japan for me was self implosive. If I were a different person, I probably could have had a great time. But I’m a Rogue, and in my opinion, the days of Rogues in Japan are long over.
This series was suppose to be about fun and debauchery. It is in that regard, my loyal followers, that I’ve let you down. There was little joy in this series, as there was little in Japan. Even less of the nefarious lifestyle I had hoped to find. I discovered a Rogue’s kryptonite: A suit and tie. Also, a real job and generally “growing up.” Now I look like I’ve been swimming laps in a pool of hot plutonium. I have sunken eyes and a receding hairline. Jesus, trying to walk the straight and narrow just about killed me.
I don’t want to say I didn’t like Japan… Because the two of us never really met. But it’s safe to say we just couldn’t get on the same page. So I cleaned my appointed apartment; sold my suits for five dollars each; spread a couple guidebooks on the coffee table next to a beautifully subtle arrangement of flowers housed in an empty Kirin Whiskey bottle; and then I locked the door and dropped that motherfuckin key in the mailbox.
The director was right on the first day. It was never going to work out. I can fake normal for a short duration, but the Rogue starts to seep through as the hangover of consistency wears off. Maybe it’s a thirst for something more than the tired, burnt out existence that most of us are eking just to make some other guy richer. I don’t fucking know. I can’t even trust my own thoughts right now. And I don’t have time to think about this shit right now. There’s a plane right outside and it’s boarding… And thanks to a friend’s credit card, and confidence in my salt, I’ve got a ticket back to Ho Chi Minh City.
Time to chase some fucking dreams. Time to surrender. This might be a terrible idea. One thing’s for sure… I might be buried in a suit and tie, but I’m sure as fuck not going to die in one.
I may be at the airport headed to Vietnam with two hundred dollars to my name, and this may have cost twelve dollars: but I’ll be damned if I’m going to leave Japan without sampling some fine whiskey.
May I present, for the approval of the the sovereign goon society… Yamazaki 12 year.
Chasin’ dreams my friend.
You can’t keep a good Rogue down.