Tokyo is home to any number of web-footed, mouth-breathing demi-humans, but there is only one Mr. Mouth-breather.
You will know him by his location. He has chosen to haunt the train lines of West Tokyo.
You will know him by his appearance. He wears boxy glasses and looks exactly like George Takei circa 10 years ago.
And you will know him by his teeth, which are as blackened as those of any Edo-era courtesan.
Mr. Mouth-breather will, as is his wont, breathe on you. With his mouth.
It is a mouth that, though barely 7:30 am, will already be a potent mixture of coffee and cigarettes. And possibly decay.
Mr. Mouth-breather’s breath is such that, even in the artificially heated air circulating through the train cabin, it is palpably recognizable.
And unrepentantly potent.
Siegfried the legendary warrior may well have slain a dragon and bathed in its blood, but even mighty Siegfried would be given pause by the foetid fumes issuing from Mr. Mouth-breather’s dry, cracked lips.
Should you see Mr. Mouth-breather, make no mistake — the blast area of that yawning chasm of a mouth is an area you would do well to avoid.
You have been warned.