Tim the Printer Guy awoke in a cold sweat. He was back in his apartment and still in his mother’s kimono from last night. It was like a dark, twisted nightmare, as Tim the Printer Guy could not even remember how he got home. He looked down and saw an empty, plastic vial of what looked to be medication; it appeared that he had been frivolous with what the Doctor had given him, but it had served its purpose—the pain had subsided, at least for the time being. Things around the apartment seemed the same from yesterday, except that Tim the Printer Guy noticed there was much more disrepair. The small, one room apartment was covered in dirt and scattered trash, which attracted more flies and other insects. His kimono was also filthy, and torn a little at the bottom. Tim the Printer Guy’s mother would never understand his reasoning for going out into the forest, but he knew that she would have still respected his choices. It was of such dishonor to her that he had left her furisode in ruin. He took off the kimono and laid it flat on the ground to fold it.
“Make sharp, decisive creases. Don’t be clumsy,” Tim whispered to himself in the voice of his mother. “We fold as we live our lives, with no hesitation, no resistance, with reason and calculation. First down the middle, make the two sides equal to each other and recognize the duality that we possess. Next, fold the top sleeve inward. Take a long breath and flatten the sleeve into the center, as we must take time to ground ourselves and find stability. Next we fold the length in half, keeping things concise and easy to manage. Lastly, flip everything over and fold the other sleeve inward, finishing the process and giving respect to the choices we have made earlier.”
Tim the Printer Guy saw his mother’s furisode, now a perfect-edged square, sitting in front of him. It was still coarse and stained, but stood out from the rest of the filth. Tim the Printer Guy felt a small bit of relief in his mind and soul, as his mother would be proud that he at least gave the garment a proper folding. Tim did not have the ability to wash the kimono, but he tried to give the appearance of cleanliness by carefully placing the folded cloth in front of him with a generous amount of space, far from anything else in the room. It had been many years since the two had seen each other and, for Tim the Printer Guy, he found that her lessons were starting to escape his mind. The sound of her voice was fragile in his memory, yet Tim could not bear to return to her without the anxiety of facing his father, who had absolutely no respect for his son.
The dragon kimono box was destroyed. There were scratches along the edges and the surface, that Tim the Printer Guy had no memory of. It seemed that he’d been caught in a passionate, uncontrollable whirl of rage, so much so that he had slashed at the box, a symbol of his upbringing and heritage. But why would Tim do this? Memory from the night before was vague and fleeting, but not absent. Grief was inescapable—it hung over Tim and filled his stomach with the weight of his recurring failure.
It was time that Tim the Printer Guy assessed who he really was. He had been pushed into the depths of madness by the young men who work at PaperClips. Their beauty made him act out in ways he never thought possible and it scared him. Were these men something to be protected, feared, sought after…? Was Tim’s lust for this abstract idea of beauty eventually going to destroy his psyche, similar to his father? Painting was something that allowed Tim the Printer Guy to express his creativity, yet the Adonises now preoccupied every thought with their muse-like qualities. Without them, there was no desire to paint, which truly terrified Tim. If he were to lose the Adonises, then no longer could he ponder the fantasy of becoming a great artist. Tim the Printer Guy started to sweat and he could feel his hands twitch. Again, he began to think of the risks and the deceptive beasts he was compelled to fight. Adem, Skeeter, and all the ugly gremlins who crossed his path were a considerable threat to Tim and his happiness.
“I am not going to let myself fall to their fate,” Tim said to himself while trying to calm the shakes and the anxiety. Some levity started to creep into his mind and body as he breathed, maintaining control over the air around him.
His phone began to ring, which broke the silence and forced Tim out of his meditation. He clicked on his phone, and saw “Skeeter Skeeterson” shown across the shattered screen. A pit formed in Tim the Printer Guy’s stomach; the anxiety which filled his life again finding a way to weigh down any aspirations of the day and any coming days.
Tim reluctantly answered the shrieking phone with a downtrodden, “Hello…”
“Tim, where are you?!”
Tim the Printer Guy looked at the time, which lay behind the scratches and cracks of the screen. He was only a couple hours late for work, yet Skeeter, again, was in one of his common tempers.
“I am on my way!” Tim closed the phone and held it firmly for a moment. Once again he stared at the disrepair all around him and glanced at his reflection through a cracked mirror laying on the far side of the room.
He was nude, still covered in dry, peeling makeup which smeared around his eyes. Lipstick stained his teeth and the white glow of the foundation bled downwards towards his chest. Thinning tufts of red hair were standing up in places, while his patchy thin beard was matted down with makeup. Tim walked to what served as his kitchen. Placed in the corner of his apartment was a sink filled with discarded trash, a small microwave that Tim would cook the hot pockets Skeeter often supplied in, and a few cabinets that were home to small but intrusive animal refugees.
He turned on the sink and brown sludge poured into his hand. The viscosity was high but it still seemed to flow and move like a stream. He took the sludge and rubbed it on his face, slowly wiping away the makeup and sweat. The tidings of war fell away and Tim was met with the vision of himself again, as the brown sludge reminded Tim the Printer Guy of his younger days, bathing in the river.
“Feel the water around and see if you can mimic its stillness,” Tim’s mother would say as she gradually washed his back. Long pours from the ladle put his mind into the trance. Young Tim the Printer Guy would focus all his anger and confusion into the water and let it go amongst the river. His mother always found the right stream untampered by civilization—the perfect onsen.
“Kako o mizu to tomoni tadayowa semashou,” his mother would say.
“Watashi wa mizu desu,” Tim would respond with.
There was the painting of the beautiful woman and the demon, still placed in the center of his apartment, and still with the brush protruding from the demon’s eye. The picture needed to be disposed of, as he could not bear to look at it. Tim the Printer Guy took it off of its easel and threw it in the closet. He then retrieved the few clothes he had in there: his powder blue work polo, khaki pants, and brown posturepedic shoes.
Walking out to his car, he attempted to start the engine. Strangely, the car started up and had gas to spare. All of last night was still a fog to the mind—memories were scarce, though everything concluded in shame. Tim the Printer Guy found more of the same empty pill bottles on the passenger’s seat with all the labels torn away. He knew that they were given to him by the Doctor, but as more and more were discovered, Tim struggled to remember why.
There was one more bottle, still with some pills leftover. Tim the Printer Guy decided to scarf those down as fast as he could, as they tethered him to sanity. Today, he needed every ounce of the sensation they gave—detachment from the thoughts of the past, from his failures and the ability to slip back into the mundane.
He drove down to the office, not too far from where he lived to meet Skeeter. There was the fear of his rage that petrified Tim the Printer Guy. He looked up at the office building and tried to find the courage to walk in. After a few moments, the medication started to take its effect, as the numbness entered the brain and dripped down Tim’s spinal cord. Like an automaton, he rose from the car seat and walked into the impending altercation with his boss.
Skeeter had his back to Tim—his neck was red and his sleeves were rolled up as he mindlessly sifted through papers. The air was dank and humid as there was a large, perfect pool of sweat bleeding through the back of Skeeter’s button-up shirt. Hunched over a box of papers, he seemed to sense Tim the Printer Guy standing in his doorway, though he did not turn to greet him.
“Sit down, Tim,” he said.
Tim saw no chairs by his desk, only stacks of paper, boxes full of random items such as desk trinkets and office supplies, and formal dress clothes either folded or bunched up in the corners of the room. Light seeped through the cracks of the blinds, which were haphazardly slatted over the windows. Shadows and clutter were all that was in the room, so he sat down on the floor.
“How do we keep this company in business, Tim?” asked Skeeter, in a furious search for something as he rifled through his papers and threw around manilla folders. “We need to stay dedicated and pay attention!”
Tim the Printer Guy sat silently and looked down at the floor.
“No one wants to do any work these days. No one knows what it means to be successful or have any form of respect!” Skeeter finally turned around to face Tim. His eyes were bloodshot and bulging out of his head. His hair was unkempt, wild, some of it sticking straight up in the air. His face was just as beat red as his neck, pulsating sweat and expression. “At least I have you Tim! At least you care about what we try to do here, right?” Skeeter exclaimed, peaking in volume.
“I care…” Tim said, trying to avoid his eyes.
Skeeter lurched over to Tim the Printer Guy and looked down at the fat man with sludge on his face and wearing old, unwashed clothes. “Because you have to,” Skeeter hissed, lowering the tone of his voice and narrowing his eyes down on Tim. “Because what else would you do, where would you even go?”
“I don’t know,” said Tim, defeated.
“You know I care for you, Tim. I gave you opportunities and money. You are not the one paying for that apartment!” Skeeter bent down and stared deep into Tim the Printer Guy’s eyes. “If you play ball and continue to work for me, we won’t have a problem. You don’t want to make this mistake, Tim, I know that you need me. I don’t want to have to put you on the streets,” he said.
“If I come in early and do as I am told, will you at least think about putting my name on the lease? I pay for it with my earnings…”
“Earnings?! Don’t start with this again Tim, that is all my money, my earnings. The apartment is mine, just like this whole company is mine. I am doing you a favor, letting you live there so you should thank me and my father everyday that we keep giving you a chance.”
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Tim the Printer Guy felt some tears form. He continued to evade Skeeter’s gaze. “I do appreciate it,” he said, solemnly.
“Good,” said Skeeter, now calming down and speaking softer. “I hate to yell at you, but I am really stressed this time of year. You should know that.”
“I know,” said Tim the Printer Guy.
“My life is more complicated than yours, Tim. Please just show up when I tell you to.” Skeeter returned to his pile of papers, turning his back. “I need you to go out to that PaperClips store again, since you are late.”
Tim, for once, did not want to return to PaperClips. He did not wish to be around the Adonises today after such darkness. Their presence would only bring more shame and anxiety.
Tim the Printer Guy was stuttering: “I… uh… does it have to be that store? I feel like there is another one that might be better today.”
Skeeter jumped back to his explosive tone. “What are you talking about? Did you see the analytics? They are the only ones doing the courses! We need to hammer down on this, Tim! No more wasting time. PaperClips is our biggest client now. I just put out another training course for people to do, so If we can get three people to do it, then they will renew their contract with us and possibly go for some premium services. PaperClips is our best bet!”
“What premium services?”
“I don’t know! Just let me think about that,” Skeeter said, waving his hand in the air.
“I just think…”
“I don’t know if ‘thinking’ is good for you, Tim,” Skeeter said. “Now go down there and get that shit done. In fact, you should probably stay there until they close. Then you can get a lot of time to work.”
“Okay,” said Tim the Printer Guy, not wanting to probe further.
He did not want to be again reminded of all the ways Skeeter controlled and imprisoned him in this life so far removed from art. It was true that Tim the Printer Guy did not pay for or have a claim to where he lived. His apartment had been taken care of by Skeeter, who would not let Tim forget that if he were fired, then he would be homeless as well. In lieu of decent pay, Tim the Printer Guy was subjected to this “boarding” situation which was by all accounts, dilapidated and unhealthy. Though, physically, Tim the Printer Guy would not fit the typical description of a historic African-American slave, he very well understood the hardship. The work songs of the field struck a chord with Tim the Printer Guy who dreamed of a way to escape this unforgiving master. Long did he feel the snap of the whip as Skeeter, appointed by his mysterious father, continued to break Tim’s will and sever him from the beauty of existence.
Along with that, Tim the Printer Guy could identify with the Jews during the wrath of the pharaohs. Many times he imagined himself carrying large boulders to create pyramids or monuments to the nepotism and greed of the corporations who enslaved him. Yet, Tim the Printer Guy did not think very highly of the “chosen people of Israel.” Tim the Printer Guy always had a twisted view of the Jewish faith that stemmed from his youth. He had been tormented by the dreaded Noam Goldstein, captain of the mathletes and the most popular kid in his high school. Noam would also boast of his wealth, since his family had prominence. Tim’s father would always say that it was their heritage which drove them to essentially destroy the welfare of others. Adem, the oni and keeper of the Adonises, had many of their traits—his nose was long and hook-like, not to mention his dark hair that Tim had suspected to be a bit curly, especially on the sides.
All these ponderings culminated in deep frustration. He hung his head in shame as he left Skeeter’s office to go off to another day of disappointment. What would he say to the Adonises? Had Mikeal even known of Tim’s presence last night? Would he be afraid of him? Tim the Printer Guy had shown Mikeal a side that was previously thought to be nonexistent—a shameful outburst of rage, similar to that of Skeeter. Tim the Printer Guy only wanted to maintain an aura of safety around the PaperClips staff. He enjoyed nothing more than mentoring them and admiring their beautiful qualities. The kawahime monster that he was trying to protect Mikeal from had awakened nothing but blackness. Also, there was this spirit that Tim was trying to remember clearly, but was still unable to conjure up the sorted details of the encounter.
Whoever, or whatever, the spirit incited an engagement upon the kawahime that ended in disaster. Was Tim seeing things, or was there a rogue yōkai causing trouble by Red Flow Lake? As he was finally leaving the office, he heard Skeeter’s voice talking to someone else. Tim the Printer Guy listened in, by just stopping short of the main exit. He then put his ear to the wall on his right.
“That’s right daddy, I yelled at him and now he is listening,” Skeeter said in a high-pitched, pseudo-prepubescent tone of voice. “Don’t worry daddy, Timmy is going to be a printer guy for life, he won’t leave us!”
Tim assumed that Skeeter was on the phone with his father, someone who he had not yet had the pleasure of meeting but controlled his life immensely.
“Have I been good today? I know that you like it when I yell at the employees,” said Skeeter. “Oh thank you daddy, I want to work hard for you!”
Tim the Printer Guy walked out of the building and got back into his car. He let his head rest on the steering wheel as he took long breaths to calm his nerves. It was now going to be a long day attempting to avoid the Adonises. Seeing them would just lead to more of the shame, now rekindled by Tim’s domestic and career failings. Tim the Printer Guy checked his pockets for more pills, but could not find any. He quickly looked to see if any stray capsules were hidden under seats or in compartments but, alas, he was fresh out.
Physical pain started to enter Tim the Printer Guy’s chest and his slow breaths became rapid, perspiration becoming intense. “No, no, no,” Tim said, trying to calm himself down and vent out his mental anguish.
He looked in his rearview mirror and saw a horrifying sight: Bandaged Cage!
“You!” he shouted, recoiling in terror. The Bandaged Cage was sitting in the back seat, stoically looking at Tim, still wearing his black kimono and with the same bloody bandages wrapped around his head. “Why did you turn me into a monster?”
“I did nothing to you, Tim! You were in need of his location and I provided it for you,” said Bandaged Cage. “Everything that happened was eventual.”
“Why did I do it then? What do you mean by ‘eventual’?”
“It was your desire to protect Mikeal that allowed for such brutality,” said Bandaged Cage.
“I am a monster, a disgusting monster!” Tim broke down in tears, “so much shame, so much goddamn shame! What is left for me?”
“You cry too much, Tim.”
“Well, I don’t care! I cry because I need to.” Tim the Printer Guy sobbed all over his steering wheel. “What do you suppose I do, just keep it in? You sound just like my father!”
“Your father still grasps your soul, even now?”
“He raised me. Raised me to be nothing but a failure. He never understood my aspirations. All I wanted to do was be a painter, an artist. But he wanted a samurai as a son, which I will never be. I can’t even protect myself, let alone those Adonises. They look to me for guidance, but I spit at them with my incompetence! Soon they will treat me like the gremlins do, with apathy and disdain, seeing me as some sort of disgusting blob.” Tim the Printer Guy was overwhelmed with tears. “They are so amazing, cool, and interesting. They bring something out of me that gives me the will to paint, to create again. I can’t lose them! Not like this,” Tim whined.
“If they mean that much to you, then do what is necessary,” said Bandaged Cage, who had enough of Tim’s whimpering. “I know that you have a faint heart, but you must understand the risks.”
“Necessary? I turned into an onryō and frightened Mikeal!” shouted Tim.
“He saw nothing,” said Bandage Cage.
“He has the katana! He knows of the bloodlust! Thank God I ran off, so I did not have to face him…”
“And left him with that demon!” Bandaged Cage yelled explosively. The boom of his voice shook the car and silenced Tim the Printer Guy. “The kawahime holds onto him evermore. The act of running made that happen. You should have finished what you started,” Bandaged Cage said, making an unyielding declaration that sent chills through Tim the Printer Guy.
“She did not seem so threatening…” Tim said coyly, looking down.
“That is the trickery I warned you about, filling your head with nonsense! The kawahime is powerful and manipulative.”
“Should I try to get Shōgun no fukushū back from Mikeal?” asked Tim.
“That would be a waste of time,” said Bandaged Cage. “The kawahime, being so close to Mikeal, has certainly touched the sword, probably gripping the handle for inspection. It will rob your blade of its lethal qualities.”
“What do I do now?” asked Tim, feeling once more the sting of that failure.
“Understand that your time will come again.”
“Should I do nothing then? Is it because you have no idea yourself? Are you done giving me advice?” pestered an impatient Tim the Printer Guy, who was frustrated with the lack of an answer. It was now that he needed guidance more than ever, but it seemed as if this yōkai was done.
“My advice is to go back and see for yourself,” Bandaged Cage stated, firmly. “Act as if nothing happened and be pleased to know that Mikeal does not know of your intentions. The makeup was enough to hide your identity to him. He may have your sword, but he does not know it belongs to you.”
“Are you sure?” asked Tim.
“I know it to be true,” Bandaged Cage said.
Tim stopped crying and leaned back in his chair, finally calming down a bit and reassessing his situation. If Mikeal did not see him last night, then he certainly did not scare him away by any means. This was another chance for Tim the Printer Guy to prove himself, but he had to tread softly.
“What are you?” Tim questioned the spirit. “Why should I trust you?”
Bandaged Cage paused for a moment, and it was hard to see if he was looking at Tim or not. He seemed to be meditating on the questions Tim the Printer Guy asked, silently molding a careful and hopefully wise response. “If you go down to the store today and see that I tell the truth, then you will start to trust me,” said Bandaged Cage.
“But what are you, a yōkai?” asked Tim.
“You will know my truth with time,” said Bandaged Cage.
“Why are there bandages on your head?”
“They are to cover my scars. Scars that I have received through hardship,” said Bandaged Cage. “I am no different from you, Tim.”
The chest pains finally subsided and there was a zen—a state of peace—throughout the car. Tim the Printer Guy felt comfortable with this Bandaged Cage. It seemed like this manifestation of a mangled Adonis was here to provide comfort and guidance. Tim the Printer Guy needed something in his life to keep the shame away.
“I should thank you, for calming my nerves,” Tim said, turning back to the steering wheel, reflecting on his tears that soaked the dashboard and the seat.
There was no response from Bandaged Cage and as Tim the Printer Guy turned, he saw nothing. He started up the car’s engine and left for PaperClips, not knowing what to expect. Hopefully Mikeal would not know of the details of Tim’s actions last night. If Tim the Printer Guy’s identity was indeed hidden, then his appearance of rage would not stray Mikeal away from his efforts to socialize. Without the help of incentives, the Adonises would have to prove that they valued his mentorship. Tim the Printer Guy was ready to protect those wondrous men from the dark forces that threatened them all.