12:00 PM, Shibuya Station
The Yen’s purchasing power had weakened nationwide significantly, ushering in tourists scrambling for a taste of everything Japanese throughout the year. From the dazzling neon watercolors of the nightlife downtown to the blissful peace of a subway cafe, it was only the beginning for a twenty-five-year-old Hajime to work on his English skills for a new friend.
“Yes, yes. You go there,” said Hajime, haphazardly pointing at a local 7/11 store across the station. It might’ve not shown that day, but he was delighted to know he had something in common with the average immigrant. Trying to say words that required them to reengineer their tongue was quite the hassle.
“Danke! So, are you sure they have rice tuna there? Does it taste, um…” The joyful yet humble Otto rubbed his belly, licking his lips while nodding.
The attempt to show what Otto meant would seem childish for anyone who knew every iteration of the word delicious, scrumptious, or appetizing. Thankfully, Hajime was far from a walking thesaurus, as far as Pluto was from Earth. “E-excuse me?” he responded, tilting his head slightly at the equally confused student.
“Oh, Scheiße. I don’t know how to, um, explain.”
“No worries,” said Hajime, raising both his hands, wondering if the charade between them would devolve into a game of twenty questions. “Tell me how the thing is… appear?”
“Well, it is very nice and yummy to look at. It’s like a round…” Otto cupped his hands together before visualizing his desired food in mind further by munching on open air.
Like a half-blind geezer trying to figure out the weekly sudoku puzzle, Hajime remained silent with a raised eyebrow until he mustered up the courage to try and guess what he wanted. It was all he could do lest it would really devolve into his worst nightmare. “Hamburger?” he answered with a tone of perpetual confusion and uncertainty.
“No, no, that is not made of rice! Not at all!” said Otto, shaking his head. “Oh, I wish my wife was here. She can understand you quite easily.”
“Okay, so give me more… clue?”
“It is rice and very yummy. It has tuna inside, too, and a dark green part for holding. Do you know now?”
Hajime’s eyes lit up in self-revelation, perhaps finally realizing what his friend wanted to try all along, even if it wasn’t his favorite. However, before he could express his Eureka moment with every ounce of pride, a third voice in the distance cried out for his name with every ounce of anger. Only he knew such a man with gravelly words like a lifetime smoker, and he wasn’t about to let Otto meet him with a smile.
“Remember me, asshole?” said the man, showing signs of a tattooed neck, accompanied by a massive group behind him of a similar fashion sense. “Are you waiting in line to see the Hachiko shrine again? How much have you paid tribute to that long-dead mutt because of your long-dead father?”
Witnessing them dressed in formal suits and armed with bats and shinai reminded Hajime of the days he wasted his high school summer playing a game about “serious” criminals who performed idol songs as a side quest. It was just too good to ignore. Though, if he had more to say about the notion, he’d argue these clowns were far less serious than the game ever was.
He had never been so disgusted hearing his native language from the mouth of a two-time loser he could barely remember from his senior years. Clearly, someone had a death wish to trump all. “Go,” he turned to Otto, his gaze telling a thousand stories of tranquil resentment. “Enjoy Shibuya. Enjoy it well.”
“All right. Thanks for everything,” Otto replied, nodding his head before exiting the station hurriedly.
Hajime advanced closer to the man and his lackeys with a sluggish stride, wondering why anyone would still sport a pompadour as an intimidation tactic. “It’s been some time, Yamada,” he declared, hands inside his pockets. “I thought you learned your lesson and mellowed out in the countryside or something. Then again, joining the Yamaguchi-gumi seems fitting for you.”
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“Shut up! And that’s Jiro Yamada to you. Didn’t they teach you to respect your superiors? I’m here to settle our score overdue, and I’ve got all the backup I could wish for if you try anything funny.” He reached for his jacket and pulled out a lengthy switchblade, aiming at his face like a medieval duelist. “Gimme your wallet, or this will go right up your nose. I wanna see you crawl your way back home without a ride.”
As though he had an emotion switch on his head, Hajime shined a pearly white grin at his would-be assailants. “You know, targeted assault is liable for a life sentence. Y’all better stand down if you’re smart enough.”
Jiro and his Yakuza goons brayed like a drove of donkeys for a good few moments, only stopping when he raised his hand at them in tears. “Or what? You’re gonna call the same cops you despise so much? Your rebellious spirit won’t save you now against us. It’s your precious daddy’s fault why they caught him snorting crack anyway!”
“Nah, those pigs can stay outta this. Besides, you crossed the line. My old man never did crack, but I’ll gladly give you a few cracks on your chin right now. As my favorite Dúnedain ranger once said, you will suffer me.” He stretched his neck on both sides and performed remarkable flexibility. With his hands clasped together, he guided his arms unto his back and twisted them like pretzel dough.
Jiro gritted his teeth and lunged at Hajime with his switchblade near his hip. “Your stupid MMA obsession never scared me, you idiot!”
Hajime couldn’t decide if he wanted to deliver a mean left or right hook after dodging Jiro’s poor excuse of a thrust. The result was a sharp knife wasted on a wall, shattering into multiple pieces faster than Jiro could scream his frustration. One, two, and smack. His potent neck chop proved to have given Jiro a long slumber, where he kissed the floor filled with tourist footprints back and forth.
As expected, two members behind him attempted to avenge their most recent recruit, but that only meant his fists had yet to taste satisfaction. He dodged again for the first guy, who seemed more rotund and out-of-shape than the comparably thin and lanky other. Either way, he only needed a perfect blow to their solar plexus simultaneously—an impressive feat against armed combat—as the rest of them begrudged.
Hajime took his time counting any remaining goon dumb enough to stay. “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty!” he said, prying the shinai off the overweight member’s hand. “Honestly, I didn’t think I’d succeed in this Hollywood-ass stunt, but y’all are just too slow for my eyes. So, why don’t you stand there while I ride the lightning?”
Setting his phone to max volume, he scrolled through a playlist tailor-made for his protein-rich morning routine to keep his muscles happy. When in doubt, he always had his favorite song that defined every tense vein in his body, roaring for a damn good time.
NOW PLAYING Thunderstruck - AC/DC
Five more charged at him in a rampage, but it still wasn’t enough. It was never enough. If it had been, he wouldn’t have moved on after handing them a sonorous ring on their skulls in less than ten seconds, following through each hit like a pinball combo of utter destruction. The others didn’t fare well either, especially when he surprised even The Man Upstairs with his decisive ambidexterity—all while cackling upon his foreseen victory.
Up, down, left, right, and side-to-side, Hajime continued his unfair judgment upon the goons with the force of a bull and the fluidity of a snake. Once again, it was never enough. His grin had yet to fade, and his laughter had yet to cease. It wasn’t until the final member drew out a standard katana that he staggered, keeping his distance at the last second.
He guarded his face with both hands, but since they didn’t exist in a cheesy action flick, the sword sliced through his palms a quarterway through. But as always, it was never enough. He refused to howl in pain even once, laughing at the fact that his foe had failed to pull it out several times.
“You did all this, by the way. I hope the pigs will fall for it,” said Hajime, still showing his fox-like grin with his hands gushing with a crimson waterfall. “Now, say goodbye to having kids!”
The devil was in disguise that day, not that he didn’t find him quite interesting. He struck the two most vulnerable “jewels” of the male anatomy, begotten of a slow and melancholic symphony of Ave Maria playing somewhere in the world, or at least he had hoped. Never again would he witness such perfectly timed agony, perhaps even in another world. The harmony continued even when the battle had ended, just how he liked it.
Many years ago, when the hated Jiro was still a massive thorn up his rectum, everyone knew Hajime as the Orca of Tsuru University, sitting at the top without ever hurting the innocent. But for now, he needed to be the Weeping Gazelle of Shibuya Station, giving an award-worthy performance of false sorrows in stained clothing. “Help! Help, I’m bleeding! Somebody help me, please!”
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In a cold, dark void, the silence had broken.
“What do you think, master? Is he the one?”
“No, not in a million years. My perfect vessel has gone from this story long ago. This man makes me loathe existence even more, but he is interesting.”
In a cold, dark void, a pair of scarlet eyes glowed.
“Oh, yes, I have forgotten, master. What else do you find interesting about him?”
“I don’t know. I can’t even think of an answer. Hajime is the same as those before him, and yet…”
In a cold, dark void, the silence returned.