Post by Remy Nakamura on Feb 7, 2021 16:20:41 GMT -6
Even two weeks later, the stench of death lingers in the air around the charred remains of the Graceland Wedding Chapel. I follow dutifully behind Mr. Shibata as he sifts through the rubble, hands gloved in silver nitrile. How he manages to keep his suit pristine in all this soot and ash is beyond me. Something shiny and metallic glints in the dying light of the setting sun.
“Aha!” he exclaims, and picks up a katana, miraculously undamaged by the searing heat that had brought down the chapel.
Well, mostly undamaged. The silk cord wrapping on the handle is singed and discolored, the grip itself warped by the water that had soaked the smoldering building in a vain effort to save it, and the lacquered sheath had been reduced to kindling in the fire. The slender blade, however, is as fine as ever it had been; waves of the Sea of Japan represented in the undulating hamon along the razor-fine edge.
With something approaching reverence, Shibata reverses the sword, tucking the blade under his arm as he presents the handle to me.
“What’s this, Oyabun?”
“A blade I thought lost for centuries. Muramasa’s greatest legacy. Ryohoko o kiru ha. The Blade that Cuts Both Ways. It was a gift from young Tetsuya Kuwata to his bride-to-be… at least until his honorless father hired that Gaijin assassin. Now, Remy, this sword belongs to you.”
There is no refusing the old man. In awe, I take the sword from him and hold it up to the crimson light. A real Muramasa. Rare. Valuable. So…
“Why are you giving this to me, Mr. Shibata?”
He chuckles, a sound like gravel in a cement mixer.
“You defeated the assassin in combat. The blade is yours. But be warned… Muramasa swords are reputedly cursed, possessed by demons who thirst only for the blood of your enemies. Or yours. They aren’t too particular.”
Gee. Thanks. Of course, I keep the dismay from my voice as I accept his gift with a low bow.
“Thank you for this honor, Oyabun.”
“The honor is not without cost, Remy. You are Yakuza; now and always.”
Wait. What? Does this mean I have to get tattooed? Do I have to kill people? Don’t I have to pass some kind of test or get jumped in or… hell, I dunno anything about the Yakuza, except what I’ve seen in movies. I know better than to ask dumb questions. Shibata has no patience for them. So I keep my new sword in hand as I follow him from the scene, only pausing to test the honed edge against a length of yellow caution tape. The sword is like a whisper in the closing night, and the tape flutters to the ground in two pieces, separated by a perfect cut.
The basement under the hotel has been turned into a gym, presumably for my benefit. It’s still dusty, dark, and cluttered with obsolete slot machines. But there’s a heavy bag, a shiny new Smith machine, plenty of free weights and other assorted equipment -- and in the middle of it all, a twenty-by-twenty wrestling ring that had been smuggled in, piece by piece, from one of Shibata’s suppliers in Japan. We’d put it together ourselves -- some of the bodyguards and I -- over the course of the previous weekend. Now, I’m testing it out, sparring with one of Shibata’s favorites; a short, stocky man about my age who only goes by the name Mako.
“Like the shark,” he tells me, on introduction.
And like the shark, he’s fast, deadly, and territorial. He claims the ring as his own, dominant from ringpost to ringpost. His skills are a challenge, even for me. It’s clear his training is in some variation of Mexican Lucha Libre, with a liberal mix of various martial arts thrown in for good measure. It’s no wonder the old man keeps him close.
Sweat beads on my brow and rolls down into my eyes as I dodge another aerial assault -- only just.
“Focus!” Mako yells at me as he bounces lightly back to his feet.
“I am!”
He catches me with a forearm upside my head, disproving my words.
“No. You’re thinking about that girl again.”
Okay, he’s got me there. But how can I not? She’s hot as fuck. Plus, they say she’s an alien. Like a real, out-of-this-world, extraterrestrial. Now, down on the Bayou, you see some shit. Inexplicable shit. My buddies used to say I was drunk, or high, or both -- and I was, but I wasn’t imagining those lights in the sky, flying in formation. They’d go zig-zagging across the sky in ways no earthly aircraft should, but anybody who saw them with me just figured they came from the Air Force base over in Bossier. Me, Remy? I knew better.
And here I am, about to have my very own close encounter. But first, I have to get past Mako.
I’m watching him from the corner of my eye; he thinks I’m daydreaming about the girl. What he doesn’t know is I can multitask. Mako springboards off the ropes. I turn into it, wrapping my arms around his waist as I use his momentum to pull him into a modified throw. It isn’t pretty, but it works. I drop a leg across his chest, then leap back to my feet and take a run across the ring, rebounding off the ropes to build up some steam. He hauls himself up, a little unsteady, and I capitalize on the situation with a running knee that sends him stumbling into the corner. Now I’ve got him.
I follow up with a Yakuza kick that leaves the little shark sucking wind. A running back elbow keeps him from recovering. Little by little, I wear him down until I get him on the canvas. Then, I lock in my patented Cobra Clutch/Bodyscissors combo. He struggles, but I’ve got all the leverage. Even so, he won’t give up. His pride won’t let him.
From across the room, a deep voice rings out in undeniable command.
“Finish it, Remy! With honor!”
I freeze. He doesn’t want me to kill him, does he? That’s where I draw the line. Unless it’s me or him, and I know the old man has too much invested in me for those kind of stakes in a practice match. Plus, the ass-kicking aside, I kinda like Mako. So in a split-second decision, I shift my position and drop my elbow right on top of my opponent’s head. Mako goes limp, unconscious but otherwise unharmed.
Applause echoes through the basement, a slow clap from a solitary source. Mr. Shibata steps into the light, eyeing us both with something like paternal pride. He climbs into the ring to check on Mako, nodding in satisfaction as the other man stirs and gingerly picks himself up off the mat. Once we’re both standing again, he gives a short bow, acknowledging my victory; and I return it, a gesture of respect.
“Better than yesterday,” Mako says, slipping between the ropes. A mischievous grin spreads across his face. “But you still have your mind on that girl.”
All I can do is shrug in response. He laughs and wanders off to hit the showers. Thank God he’s not the kind to hold a grudge. Beating him once was hard enough.
“He’s right, Remy. Your mind is on your opponent, but in all the wrong ways. You must not allow yourself to be distracted by her allure.”
“I know, I know. But… there was some real chemistry there. You felt it, right?”
“Nevermind that! You can chase after her like a lovesick puppy after you advance in the tournament!”
I resist the urge to sigh.
“Yes, Oyabun. Of course. I’m not taking L~7 lightly. I know what kind of threat she is in that ring, and she’s completely undefeated. So far. But she’s never stepped between those ropes with me. She doesn’t have years of puroresu competition behind her. She didn’t grow up on the streets of New Orleans, hustling for a living. And she’s certainly not a past-her-prime mercenary with a kill list as long as a Tolstoy novel.
“L~7 is a wily competitor and certainly knows what she’s doing in a fight. In any other circumstance, I’d rather have her at my side. But this Wednesday night, that alien girl’s flight is getting grounded. She’ll be seeing stars, but they won’t be the ones out in space. There’s no phoning home, no getting beamed up; just you, me, and one very hard reality -- I’m walking out with those points and into the next round of the tournament.”
“Aha!” he exclaims, and picks up a katana, miraculously undamaged by the searing heat that had brought down the chapel.
Well, mostly undamaged. The silk cord wrapping on the handle is singed and discolored, the grip itself warped by the water that had soaked the smoldering building in a vain effort to save it, and the lacquered sheath had been reduced to kindling in the fire. The slender blade, however, is as fine as ever it had been; waves of the Sea of Japan represented in the undulating hamon along the razor-fine edge.
With something approaching reverence, Shibata reverses the sword, tucking the blade under his arm as he presents the handle to me.
“What’s this, Oyabun?”
“A blade I thought lost for centuries. Muramasa’s greatest legacy. Ryohoko o kiru ha. The Blade that Cuts Both Ways. It was a gift from young Tetsuya Kuwata to his bride-to-be… at least until his honorless father hired that Gaijin assassin. Now, Remy, this sword belongs to you.”
There is no refusing the old man. In awe, I take the sword from him and hold it up to the crimson light. A real Muramasa. Rare. Valuable. So…
“Why are you giving this to me, Mr. Shibata?”
He chuckles, a sound like gravel in a cement mixer.
“You defeated the assassin in combat. The blade is yours. But be warned… Muramasa swords are reputedly cursed, possessed by demons who thirst only for the blood of your enemies. Or yours. They aren’t too particular.”
Gee. Thanks. Of course, I keep the dismay from my voice as I accept his gift with a low bow.
“Thank you for this honor, Oyabun.”
“The honor is not without cost, Remy. You are Yakuza; now and always.”
Wait. What? Does this mean I have to get tattooed? Do I have to kill people? Don’t I have to pass some kind of test or get jumped in or… hell, I dunno anything about the Yakuza, except what I’ve seen in movies. I know better than to ask dumb questions. Shibata has no patience for them. So I keep my new sword in hand as I follow him from the scene, only pausing to test the honed edge against a length of yellow caution tape. The sword is like a whisper in the closing night, and the tape flutters to the ground in two pieces, separated by a perfect cut.
~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~
Hinomoto Hotel & Casino
(Formerly: The Guilliano)
The basement under the hotel has been turned into a gym, presumably for my benefit. It’s still dusty, dark, and cluttered with obsolete slot machines. But there’s a heavy bag, a shiny new Smith machine, plenty of free weights and other assorted equipment -- and in the middle of it all, a twenty-by-twenty wrestling ring that had been smuggled in, piece by piece, from one of Shibata’s suppliers in Japan. We’d put it together ourselves -- some of the bodyguards and I -- over the course of the previous weekend. Now, I’m testing it out, sparring with one of Shibata’s favorites; a short, stocky man about my age who only goes by the name Mako.
“Like the shark,” he tells me, on introduction.
And like the shark, he’s fast, deadly, and territorial. He claims the ring as his own, dominant from ringpost to ringpost. His skills are a challenge, even for me. It’s clear his training is in some variation of Mexican Lucha Libre, with a liberal mix of various martial arts thrown in for good measure. It’s no wonder the old man keeps him close.
Sweat beads on my brow and rolls down into my eyes as I dodge another aerial assault -- only just.
“Focus!” Mako yells at me as he bounces lightly back to his feet.
“I am!”
He catches me with a forearm upside my head, disproving my words.
“No. You’re thinking about that girl again.”
Okay, he’s got me there. But how can I not? She’s hot as fuck. Plus, they say she’s an alien. Like a real, out-of-this-world, extraterrestrial. Now, down on the Bayou, you see some shit. Inexplicable shit. My buddies used to say I was drunk, or high, or both -- and I was, but I wasn’t imagining those lights in the sky, flying in formation. They’d go zig-zagging across the sky in ways no earthly aircraft should, but anybody who saw them with me just figured they came from the Air Force base over in Bossier. Me, Remy? I knew better.
And here I am, about to have my very own close encounter. But first, I have to get past Mako.
I’m watching him from the corner of my eye; he thinks I’m daydreaming about the girl. What he doesn’t know is I can multitask. Mako springboards off the ropes. I turn into it, wrapping my arms around his waist as I use his momentum to pull him into a modified throw. It isn’t pretty, but it works. I drop a leg across his chest, then leap back to my feet and take a run across the ring, rebounding off the ropes to build up some steam. He hauls himself up, a little unsteady, and I capitalize on the situation with a running knee that sends him stumbling into the corner. Now I’ve got him.
I follow up with a Yakuza kick that leaves the little shark sucking wind. A running back elbow keeps him from recovering. Little by little, I wear him down until I get him on the canvas. Then, I lock in my patented Cobra Clutch/Bodyscissors combo. He struggles, but I’ve got all the leverage. Even so, he won’t give up. His pride won’t let him.
From across the room, a deep voice rings out in undeniable command.
“Finish it, Remy! With honor!”
I freeze. He doesn’t want me to kill him, does he? That’s where I draw the line. Unless it’s me or him, and I know the old man has too much invested in me for those kind of stakes in a practice match. Plus, the ass-kicking aside, I kinda like Mako. So in a split-second decision, I shift my position and drop my elbow right on top of my opponent’s head. Mako goes limp, unconscious but otherwise unharmed.
Applause echoes through the basement, a slow clap from a solitary source. Mr. Shibata steps into the light, eyeing us both with something like paternal pride. He climbs into the ring to check on Mako, nodding in satisfaction as the other man stirs and gingerly picks himself up off the mat. Once we’re both standing again, he gives a short bow, acknowledging my victory; and I return it, a gesture of respect.
“Better than yesterday,” Mako says, slipping between the ropes. A mischievous grin spreads across his face. “But you still have your mind on that girl.”
All I can do is shrug in response. He laughs and wanders off to hit the showers. Thank God he’s not the kind to hold a grudge. Beating him once was hard enough.
“He’s right, Remy. Your mind is on your opponent, but in all the wrong ways. You must not allow yourself to be distracted by her allure.”
“I know, I know. But… there was some real chemistry there. You felt it, right?”
“Nevermind that! You can chase after her like a lovesick puppy after you advance in the tournament!”
I resist the urge to sigh.
“Yes, Oyabun. Of course. I’m not taking L~7 lightly. I know what kind of threat she is in that ring, and she’s completely undefeated. So far. But she’s never stepped between those ropes with me. She doesn’t have years of puroresu competition behind her. She didn’t grow up on the streets of New Orleans, hustling for a living. And she’s certainly not a past-her-prime mercenary with a kill list as long as a Tolstoy novel.
“L~7 is a wily competitor and certainly knows what she’s doing in a fight. In any other circumstance, I’d rather have her at my side. But this Wednesday night, that alien girl’s flight is getting grounded. She’ll be seeing stars, but they won’t be the ones out in space. There’s no phoning home, no getting beamed up; just you, me, and one very hard reality -- I’m walking out with those points and into the next round of the tournament.”