The house was behind an old, off-white picket fence, and under a large oak tree that drooped over the roof. The two rocking chairs that Tim the Printer Guy always remembered were still on the porch in the same exact position—unused from the time he left. Birds chirped all throughout the neighborhood. He remembered all the times he had to run down the street to evade the schoolyard bullies and the lawn where he discovered his love for art. Tim the Printer Guy was dressed in an old t-shirt and shorts and sported a dark pair of black sunglasses. He carried a box with him, the same one he found on Penn Island with his father’s belongings. It contained the sword, Shinayaka Shojo, which turned him into a killer. In the hope to confront his father and question him of the blade and its powers, Tim the Printer Guy finally returned home.
He walked up the steps and slid his hand up the small railing, feeling the paint peel away with even the lightest touch. The floorboards creaked and groaned, and there was the bustling ambiance of children playing outside, birds chirping, while behind the door there was nothing but silence. Tim the Printer Guy knocked on the door. After a moment, he finally heard some jostling and slow footsteps shifting towards him. Tim took a deep breath as he saw a small shadow move to the window. He corrected his posture and held his chin up high. The door opened to reveal an older—still stunning—woman dressed in a white and red kimono. Her face was full of wrinkles, though Tim could still see strong features which illustrated, in his mind, the definition of beauty. Her hair was tied in a modest bun, modestly, with two sticks poking out of either side. She looked up and saw the proud and joyous Tim the Printer Guy, beaming with love, and gasped at the site. The two embraced with tears in each other's eyes.
“I’m home,” said Tim.
His mother reached up to pet his bald head, then pat his rotund stomach. “You are so thin!” she exclaimed. “Please, come in and I will make you something.”
Tim the Printer Guy could never turn down an offer like that, especially when it had been a few days since he had a real meal. His stomach was moaning as he followed his mother through the door and towards the kitchen.
Inside, the house was a modest assortment of furniture: a small couch, a long table in front that carried ornate bowls and plants, and a shelf full of photos. There was no television, as Tim’s father did not believe in such frivolous luxury, but in the center of the room was the tokonoma—an altar that contained a hung scroll, and his mother’s fabled tea set. The scroll had the words, “従順 (Jūjun),” written in a smokey calligraphy. Tim the Printer Guy bowed, not believing in the message of blind obedience, but showing his respect for his mother and her husband’s house.
“Let us have some tea,” his mother said, ushering Tim to sit down on the floor. “Then you tell me everything about your life.”
Tim took off the raggedy shoes he was wearing and knelt down and bowed once more. His mother took the tea set from the altar and began to collect the matcha and water.
“Mother?” Tim asked.
“Yes, my special, plum bottom boy,” she said, while gathering the ingredients together.
“I need to see father, where is he?” asked Tim.
She frowned, but remained steadfast in preparing the meal. “Your father is away for the day. He will be back later tonight,” she said with a hint of disdain in her voice. “I haven't seen you in so long. How long has it been?” she then asked, with regained energy.
Tim choked up and sputtered out a response. “It has been a few years. 4 to be exact…” he said.
His mother paused for a moment and even stopped putting together the tea. She began to cough—a small amount at first, but soon developed a strong, dry cough that left a strain on her throat. “Much too long,” she reiterated, turning back to her son and presenting him with a tray containing a jug of hot water and a small bowl of matcha and other tea leaves.
“You always made the best tea,” said Tim the Printer Guy.
His mother shushed him. “Let us listen to the room, while I prepare the tea,” she said.
Tim watched as she carefully set the spoon down on the pot with the hot water. She then bowed to show her respect to the process. Tim the Printer Guy sat on his knees and watched in silence. He listened to the calming breeze, coming through the cracks of the front door, and the slurred sounds of children’s laughter. When struck, the pots and cups made small, high pitch tones that resonated throughout the room. He felt their warm, hypnotic notes, lull him into a state of zen. She presented a bright orange cloth, folded in a triangle and snapped it, causing Tim to momentarily break from his trance. He saw her clean each utensil and begin to scoop matcha and other tea materials into a small cup. She then poured hot water into the cup and started to whisk the concoction together. Tim could feel the tea enter his nostrils as the scent became stronger with each whisk, building anticipation in his heart.
After everything was finished, his mother placed the cup of tea to her right. She did not look at Tim, though he could see her smile, gently laid across her face—beaming with pride. Tim the Printer Guy took the cup of tea and drank deeply, smacking his lips, which let his mother know that she produced something delicious. She covered her mouth for a moment to hide her laughter, as Tim wiped his face of the excess tea. There were a few moments of more silence before they both broke from their stoic, stiff postures, and laughed with unabashed joy.
“I missed you,” whispered Tim.
She stood up and embraced him once more. “I missed you too, my son,” she said, with tears in her eyes.
With his mother’s tea ceremony at its end, they both walked into the kitchen where she was already preparing a meal. On a small stove top, his mother set a big pot of water to a boil. She then threw in some dry udon noodles. Tim also noticed off to the side, some freshly cut carrots and bean sprouts. Her old hands delicately stirred the broth, while she added a hint of salt to the water. The smell was stirring up a hunger that raged inside Tim’s stomach, culminating in a loud growl.
“You must be hungry?” she asked. “Does your artwork not pay you enough?”
“Artwork?” Tim the Printer Guy pondered, realizing that he had never told her what had become of his creative aspirations. She did not know of his enslavement to Skeeter, or the Adonises and how they saw him as their “printer guy”. “I… don’t do too much of that anymore,” he said.
Her face grew solemn and then she coughed once more. Tim could hear a large amount of flem clear from her throat. “You were a great artist,” she mustered out. “What about your school?”
He started to notice more that she was pale and fragile. “Mother, are you sick?” he asked.
She coughed again—with more raucousness, echoing throughout the house. “I am fine,” she said. “I am just getting old. It is just what happens”
Tim sighed. “That makes two of us,” he said. “I left the art college a while ago, and then I got a job.”
“What kind of job do you have?” she asked.
“It’s really nothing, just some technical sort of thing.”
“Wow, you were always so bright Tim!” she exclaimed.
Tim the Printer Guy felt a nervous swell in his chest. It was nice to hear those words come from his mother—his one and only source of true support. He wished that he could tell her he was a successful artist. She did so much to try and make that happen. Was it Tim’s fault that her deception to get him into art school was found out? He could never blame her for doing what she did—forging those documents. Tim the Printer Guy failed her by not doing what he could to stay. All the overwhelming tension released itself with a tearful outburst.
“No, don’t say that!” Tim whined. “I failed you…”
“What?” she asked.
“I was kicked out of art school, and then I fell down a pit of deceit and dullness. You did so much to get me in there and I failed you!” he cried. “After I got kicked out, I met someone who promised me a job, and a way back in, but he just used me. I was stuck in some boring nightmare, where I had to drive around to retail stores and teach people how to sell printers. Now, I don’t even have that!” Tim collapsed in a mess of sobbing. His head fell down on the kitchen table.
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“Calm down Tim,” his mother said, cradling him. “You could never fail me.”
“I just want to show you that I am worthy of your love,” Tim continued, wailing frantically. “I want you to be proud of me. I left you all those years ago and I have nothing to show for it.”
“All I wanted was for you to be happy,” she whispered. “Everyone has hard times, you have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Tim the Printer Guy’s tears stopped for a moment. He understood her point, but he could still not look past what he had done to Fred. The murder was fresh and hung over him through every second that passed. Tim could not even begin to explain that to her.
“Did you help a lot of people?” she asked.
“What?”
“Your job? you said you were a teacher…”
“Oh,” Tim snapped back from his nervous state and finally calmed down. “I, uh… I did. I worked with an amazing group of people.”
“Really?” his mother began to gleam with pride. “I knew you would inspire people. What is it like working with them?”
Tim the Printer Guy mustered a smile. “Well, they are all so bright and talented. It is an honor to teach them. I almost feel like a sensei…” he said.
“A sensei?” she asked, beaming again with pride.
“... and they are so beautiful, y’know. Each one of them reminds me of you,” said Tim.
His mother looked confused. “Beautiful?” she asked.
“... they are Adonises and they bring me so much light during these times. I want to just protect them…” Tim stood up, to dance in the whimsy of letting those feelings out. He twirled around.
“Adonises?”
“Oh mother, I want you to meet them! They work at PaperClips—well they all used to. A few of them left, but I think Cage is still around. Jamir has the job that I left behind, which I am worried about, and Octavian works at the gym. I don’t know what Mikeal is doing, but I know where his house is,” said Tim. “Oh they are all so wonderful. But they are all going down some dark paths, especially Jamir. He doesn’t know that the job I had, working for that man, is very dangerous. In time I will have to rescue him from that…”
“Rescue?”
“.. and Mikeal and Octavian, both have girlfriends who are like demons. I met one recently and she was hideous and just not right for any of them,” Tim spoke with a seeping rage. “They are harlots—blind to good morals. I don’t know what to do about them, but I know I need to get rid of them.”
His mother coughed a bit. “Harlots?” she asked.
Tim the Printer Guy went on. “.. and then Cage, sweet Cage. He is so innocent and handsome. Every time I am with him, I just want to dance and hug him, and tell him that everything will be alright.”
“Tim?” His mother tried to interrupt.
He did not listen. “Oh but then there was this other guy—Adem! Oh mother, he was so foul and ugly. He was everything that they were not, and he also worked at PaperClips, but he tried to drag everyone down with him. He was lazy and rude, and just did not want to train with me. So I…” Tim said, before pausing for a few seconds.
“Tim?!” his mother called out again.
“I guess it did get out of hand,” said Tim, still caught up in the story, not noticing his mother. “I just had to attack him. I am ashamed that I could not keep my composure, but you should know that I had to do that. It felt good though, just bearing down on him—tackling him. I sat on his chest and started hitting him in the face. I wish that father could have seen me.”
“You did what?” his mother said, startled.
“It just swelled up inside me and I had to show him who the true master was. I mean, I know you don’t like violence and neither do I, but it was worth it. I know I am not allowed back at PaperClips anymore and I got fired from my job, but I needed to get away from all that. The Adonises are safe now. I owe that much to violence.”
Tim the Printer Guy finally stopped and his mother just sat in silence. Hearing all this at once was too much for her. Tim saw her face—stunned with her mouth hanging open. He sat back down and touched her arm.
“What is wrong?” he asked.
His mother looked concerned. “These are young men?” she questioned.
“Well, they are fairly young,” said Tim.
“This is too much,” said his mother with a sigh.
Tim the Printer Guy was heartbroken, fearing that his mother did not understand his joy. He also stayed silent for a moment and just watched her. Finally he broke the tension. “Mother, I am happy around them. I know that it seems strange and I don’t truly understand it myself, but they inspire me. I am just trying to return the favor.”
“You attacked someone?” she asked.
Tim hung his head. “I did… and I am ashamed of that. But you have to understand that I was reaching a breaking point with this person,” he said.
Just as the air around their heads became nothing but an anxious fog, the front door erupted. Tim the Printer Guy turned his head to look in the eyes of his father—Miyamoto Nakadai. The old japanese man maintained a grimace, while he stared into the soul of his adopted son. His face was so withered with age and drink, and all he had left for hair was a couple white strands that were pulled back in a sloppy bun.
“Haru! Why is there a filthy gaijin in our house?” he asked his wife.
Tim’s mother broke from her momentary confusion to bombard her husband. “That is our son!” she yelled.
“No son of mine leaves his family!” Miyamoto said before storming out.
Tim the Printer Guy could see the old man retreat to the backyard, where he had built an elaborate dojo. So many memories flooded back into his mind—those of pain and insecurity, training in martial arts and sword fighting. He followed Miyamoto, and entered the lush garden that his mother still kept healthy and beautiful. Tim saw the old koi pond, devoid of koi though filled with muck and moss. He approached the dojo and slid open the shoji door, to reveal his father sitting in the middle of the floor, intensely meditating. In Tim’s hand was still the case, cradling Shinayaka Shojo.
“Father, I have come back for guidance,” said Tim. “I know that I don’t deserve it, but I need answers.”
“Do you have my sword?” his father said with his back facing Tim.
“I uh… that is what I want to really talk with you about,” Tim said. “I lost the Shōgun no fukushū and..”
“You lost it!” his father shouted.
“Well I have another sword,” said Tim.
“You are a disgraceful coward! You have never come back, lost my family heirloom, and now I am supposed to offer you guidance?”
“I need to know…”
His father cut him off by shouting and leaping towards him. In his hand, he grasped a tanto knife, aiming for Tim’s throat. Tim the Printer Guy evaded the strike and reacted by flipping open the case, and grabbing the handle of Shinayaka Shojo. The two blades collided with a spark. Miyamoto gasped at Tim’s newfound weapon.
“Where did you find that?” he asked.
“I journeyed to Penn Island and I found it in a shack, with your belongings.”
“You were not supposed to see that. I told you to stay away!”
“I also found my real parents! I know where they are now,” said Tim.
“Then go to them! You are not my son.”
“You trained me though. I did something with this sword, and I need to understand why I did it!” Tim screamed.
“What did you do?” his father asked.
Tim the Printer Guy stopped, as the past few months had been leading up to this moment. His father, throughout his life, was Tim’s enemy; though he was the only one who could shed light on this new power and perhaps understand his bloodlust. Tim stuttered for a few seconds, but then found his resolve.
“I took a life,” he said.
His father laughed. “You!” he exclaimed. “You don’t have the stomach.”
Tim the Printer Guy showed him the blade once more, still faint with Fred Shudnow’s blood. This made Miyamoto gleam for a bit, but he then shook his head, understanding the predicament.
“This blade brings much power, as well as guidance,” he said.
“It made me kill a man…?” Tim queried.
“But it solved your problems!” his father exclaimed. “The darkness that surrounds it is necessary. I can help you with that.”
This made Tim light up. “Thank you,” he said. “I am really scared.”
Miyamoto looked around a bit. “Let me tell you something,” he said. “I have been in this situation before. What did you do with the body?”
“It took me a while, but I buried him.”
“On Penn Island?”
Tim the Printer Guy shook his head, and his father patted him on the shoulder. “That is good. Most people stay away from there. Did anyone see you?”
“I think I was alone,” said Tim.
His father nodded his head and took the sword. “I will wash the blood from the blade and we will start your training in the morning,” said Miyamoto.
This was the first time his father did anything so nice for him. They were bound together by this dark secret.
“We won’t tell your mother anything,” said Miyamoto. “She does not have the strength to hear of it.”
“This is just between me and you,” Tim affirmed. He went back to close the shoji door and saw the house.
His mother watched through the window with eyes filled with worry. She stared for a moment, but then hung her head and turned away.