Spring Cleaning

In the part of Kyoto tourists never visited was an openly-operating mahjong parlor situated above a pachinko shop. The parlor’s wooden sign was decrepit, the parlor’s owners had stopped trying to paint it sometime around a decade ago, but despite this neglect the parlor still had its regulars. Even if regulars were all it had nowadays.

A black sedan pulled up in front of the parlor. In the driver’s seat was a young man with a head filled with glorious dreams. In the passenger seat, making some minute adjustments on a prosthetic leg, was an old man whose dreams and glory were long behind him.

“I can do this alone.” Tether offered. He leaned forward, against the wheel, glaring hungrily at the pachinko parlor’s rotting door.

“Your job today,” Sam began, slapping his leg one last time, “is to observe.”

Tether sighed, “it’s just a shakedown.”

“Yes, the first we’ve done in this city.” Sam reminded him. “Our name is nothing to these people, just a line in the News. It’s time you learned how we change that.”

With a wink, Sam unbuckled his seatbelt and exited the vehicle. He was dressed impeccably. His black and white suite flattered his figure, even his prosthetic was hidden by the flow of his dress pants. A perfectly folded white kerchief shone brilliantly against his black suit. Smiling gently, Sam made his way to the rickety wooden staircase leading to the mahjong parlor. Coming to the top of the stairs Sam raised his good foot and kicked the door open.

The inside of the mahjong parlor was a smoke filled dingy mess. There were a half dozen wooden tables, each laden with mahjong titles. Four of these tables were occupied. In the far corner, away from the entrance, was a bar with a 15 year old kid standing behind it, in the middle of drinking a shot of Sake. ‘On a school day?!’ Sam thought scandalized. A dozen Japanese men in flashy suits and visible tattoos turned in unison as the door to their parlor slammed open.

“Oh, was this a private function?” Sam asked, that disturbingly easy smile still plastered on his face. He put the boy out of his mind for a moment. “My apologies, but I need to discuss some business with your ‘aniki?’ Am I saying that right?”

The occupants were stunned for just a moment as an old white man and a young Chinese man entered a room full of a dozen (probably armed) Yakuza without a hint of fear.

Sam frowned, a little annoyed that everyone was keeping their place. He hadn’t counted on them being cowards. On top of that, they were just being unspeakably rude by not responding to him promptly. “My Japanese must not be very good.” He spoke again, this time loud and slow. “I. WOULD. LIKE. TO. SPEAK. TO. YOUR. BOSS.”

One of the Yakuza, a young man with a shaven head, anger overriding fear stood. “Who do you think you are?!” The young man’s hands hardened to stone. The stone crept up his arms disappearing under his shirt. Tendrils of stone began to climb up his neck. The young man’s face was flush with outrage and then, blood flowered in his right eye.

The men next to the stone-handed Yakuza looked around in confusion, their ears ringing. Rendered temporarily deaf. Their fellow, the one who had stood, teetered for a moment, blood spurting out of an empty eye socket. Gray matter painting the wall behind him. His neighbors stood in horror, backing away from the table hurriedly, nearly tripping over themselves. The brave Yakuza teetered his last and fell onto his table with a resounding crash sending mahjong tiles and pachinko marbles scattering across the floor.

Desolator, lowered his smoking black and gold .45. “Good question! My name is Desolator, I’m a senior partner of the 5. Better known as the Horrific 5, or the Hideous 5, or whatever ostentatious sobriquet the media insists on giving my beloved organization today. The young man behind me is named Tether. Don’t mind him, he’s just here as an observer today.”

Desolator still wore Sam’s smile, but his eyes were wide open, ice blue things colder than the void. Every Yakuza in the room shrank beneath that frozen gaze. Every Yakuza tried to sneak furtive glances to a particular table. A table in the back of the room where the oldest men were sitting.

“If you would permit me, I’d like to offer all of you some free advice.” Desolator approached that table with the old men. The table towards which every eye in the Parlor glanced looking, begging, for an order. Desolator approached one of the old men, an ancient Japanese man with jowls hanging past his throat. Wide, gold-rimmed glasses framed his face. He was sitting with three other old men, all of whom were doing an admirable job of appearing calm despite the appalling circumstances.

“If you have a body-hardening quirk that takes time to provide full body coverage…” Desolator continued to offer his advice as he stood behind the man with gold-rimmed glasses. “Don’t announce yourself until it’s done COVERING your body.”

Desolator glanced back at the corpse, face down and ass up. A pool of blood gathered where a mahjong game was just being played. “Well, not free advice I suppose.” The old Japanese man looked up at Desolator, who smiled upon finally getting his attention. “But certainly cheap.”

One of the older men put his hands on the table as if to stand but the boss held up a hand. Desolator tutted in disappointment at the motion. Being one himself, he always looked forward to fighting old me that still had confidence. Despite his disappointment, Desolator began his ultimatum. “I’d say we have 4 minutes before the police respond to a neighbor’s call. A lot less if one of your patrons downstairs is stupid enough to call the cops.”

The boy behind the bar, knelt down out of sight, convinced Desolator couldn’t see him. Desolator saw him. He sighed in annoyance. Surreptitiously Desolator unloaded the magazine in his .45, replacing it with another magazine hidden in his coat. He continued his ultimatum.

“Which means I’ll give you 45 seconds to consider my demands before I kill everyone in this room.” Desolator pulled the barrel back, ejecting the bullet in the chamber, which chambered the bullet in that fresh magazine. He caught the bullet ejected bullet and stuffed it in his coat pocket. He didn’t continue. He was going to force the boss to ask for his demands.

The boss obliged, “what are your demands?”

“Simple really. You kick up to Taizo now.”

“The Sahugins--”

“Have maybe a month left on this earth if they don’t fall in line.” Desolator responded, his tone brooked no disagreement or doubt.

The boss, Takeda, was silent for a moment. He glanced towards the bar. He saw one of his employees, a young boy, only 15, Junko? Junko had grabbed the shotgun. He looked at Takeda, eyes brimming with excitement, begging for permission to fire. Takeda opened his mouth.

“20 seconds.” Desolator prodded.

“Do it!” Takeda shouted.

BANG

Fighting through the ringing in his ears, the boss turned, ready to lunge at a wounded Desolator. Only to find that beautiful .45 held against his forehead.

The boss looked towards Junko. Junko was clutching his stomach. He was curled around his shotgun, it barrel wasn’t smoking, he hadn’t fired. He was sobbing in pain. A gut shot? Desolator nudged the boss’s forehead with his gun. The boss looked back towards him, lip trembling. Desolator held up five fingers. Lowered one. Then another. A countdown?!

Takeda didn’t have a choice. “Fine!” He shouted, barely able to hear himself over the ringing in his ears. “I’ll kick up to Taizo!”

The boss closed his eyes, ready for the worst. Only to feel a pair of business cards stuffed into his shirt. The boss opened his eyes, to find a smiling, almost gentle old face looking at him. “First card’s an undertaker I know. He’s an artist! When he’s done, there will be no need to deprive that stone fisted young fool’s family of a viewing!”

Sam straightened. “The second is me. If the Sahugins, the Night Parade, or anyone else, give you any trouble, just call. I or one of my associates will be here shortly.”

Takeda blinked in confusion and looked around, his men had all gone to cover at the second gun shot. Convinced that Desolator’s time limit had past and he was about to kill them all. Not a single one of them had had the balls Junko had.

Takeda swallowed hard as he watched Desolator turn to leave. No, it wasn’t balls that made Junko ready to shoot Desolator. It was inexperience. The others still had that instinct Takeda had nearly forgotten and Junko had yet to learn. The instinct to know when fighting was just going to get you killed. To know when discretion was the better part of valor. Poor Junko, just a ki--

“Uggh” Junko moaned.

“And put that young man back in school!” Sam ordered, not bothering to look back. “He’s far too young to be serving, let alone drinking, alcohol.”

“Also that rubber bullet might’ve ruptured his liver.” Tether added. Takeda blinked, he’d forgotten the Chinese man was even here.

“That too.” Sam agreed. Before the Yakuza could respond Sam had exited, Tether however, lingered a moment at the door. He looked back, studying the Yakuza, still too scared to mount any sort of response.

Tether couldn’t help but admire Sam’s work. Seconds ago, these men were joking and laughing. They were in absolute ecstasy over their ill-gotten gains and the debaucherous life-style those gains allowed them. They would’ve all sworn up and down they would’ve died for their boss. They certainly would’ve killed for him. Now? Now they’d come face-to-face with the reality of death and found out only two of them actually meant their drunken boasts, one of them was a kid, the other one was going to a morgue. The looks on their faces fascinated Tether.

The Yakuza were just beginning to understand how little everything meant next to their own lives. As a result, their self-image was ruined. Their precious brotherhood dead. They were nothing.

They were desolate.

Tether took out a wad of cash, he threw it on the dead Yakuza, the wad landing on the back of his head. “For the funeral.” He chided. Then he left, following Desolator.