Post by Remy Nakamura on Apr 27, 2021 19:14:48 GMT -6
Four weeks ago…
Smoke rises, thick and black, from somewhere over on South Las Vegas Boulevard to spread out above the city in a miasma of charred wood and the ammonia scent of torched opium. Mistress Yin’s Lotus Palace has been burning for three days, a slow smoldering that reflects the shame seething in my soul.
I lost.
The most important match in my career -- at least, since coming to Vegas -- and I completely fucking blew it.
With a heavy sigh, I pitch another handful of fish food into the koi pond that dominates the lobby of the Hinomoto, watching the frenzy as they shove each other aside, trying to grab all they can before it’s all gone. An apt metaphor, considering. Is this what it feels like to be Conrad Dukes, sitting in his ivory tower and watching us kill each other over a paltry million bucks?
At the time, it seemed like a lot. Maybe this Yakuza lifestyle has me spoiled. Or maybe it just gave me a more realistic perspective.
”Why so dramatic?” asks Mako, sitting next to me on the decorative stone ledge around the pond. ”It’s not like you were really expected to win. Your involvement was a diversion to give the old man an in with Ramses. And it worked.”
I turn to glance at him. Mako has a crimson silk scarf tied around his neck to hide the hastily-stitched slash across his throat and a knowing smirk on his lips. I look away quickly. That scar is my fault. If I hadn’t acted in haste, out of some obscure panic that the nightmares I’d been having would come true...
”Yeah, but… I really wanted to win.”
”Bro, that million dollars is chump change. You’re a made man, connected. The world is yours for the taking -- all you have to do is reach out and, you know, take it.”
”That’s not the same.”
”Why? Because you didn’t beat the shit out of like a hundred guys to get it? Isn’t it worth more, knowing my uncle trusts you?”
”Not enough to bother telling me I was just a distraction.”
Casually, Mako throws an arm around my shoulders.
”My dude, there’s a lot to be said for a good distraction. But if it makes you feel any better, you’ve got another shot.”
Puzzled, I turn to look at him again. His gaze catches mine and holds it, dark eyes sparkling with delight. We linger like that, just a fraction of a moment too long, almost enough to….
But abruptly, he pulls away and stands up.
”Yeah, just found out. You’re in some kind of four-way sausage party with, um…” he trails off as he checks a message on his phone. ”That Blackwater dude, someone called Julian Mercury, and -- get this -- the Las Vegas chief of police.”
So, a failed mercenary; and occasionally successful hitman; and the ultimate good cop?
Yeah, I’ve done my homework. I like to know what I’m up against. Blackwater isn’t a problem. I beat him once, I can do it again. He’s better than he was, but he’s still not me. Mercury, though? Well, he’s an unknown element so far. I’ve seen him in the ring, and I mean, he’s a reasonable competitor; but he does his best work behind a scope or creeping up on someone in the dark. Which, between those two, is probably something I should be way more alert against.
Then there’s that guy Marsh. I don’t know if it’s some kind of put-on or what, but his motives aren’t like the rest of ours. He’s either completely full of shit, or he’s the purest human being in this hellhole. And the fucked up part? Either possibility makes me nauseous. Because if it’s the first thing, he spent the last four months using some kid’s cancer to further his own agenda. That’s sickening, but to be honest, it’s realistic. It’s just how people are. And, let’s face it, he’s a cop -- they’re all bastards.
I’ve only ever heard of anybody as pure-hearted as Darren Marsh pretends to be; and it was this business -- wrestling, to be clear -- that killed her. Well, it killed that part of her, little by little. Made great drama on TV. I’ll admit, I was a fan. Watching Bonnie Blue’s slow descent from heroine to monster was riveting. It was almost too bad she and her husband got caught by a vampire hunter named Archimedes Skrue last year, right after the pandemic started.
But that’s the kinda shit that happens in a world as fucked up as this one. Point being, nobody’s as good as they think they are; not as bad as they pretend to be. Except maybe Corey Bull. And definitely that Von Brandt guy.
Still, the point is, I have another chance. And all I have to do is beat three other men. After running the Triads out of town, almost singlehanded, that wouldn’t be a problem.
Today…
His knee crashes into my chin, making me see stars.
He follows up with a gutwrench suplex, then kneels in the middle of my chest.
Mako is merciless between those ropes.
My hand aches to grasp the hilt of my sword, to end this fight decisively. Bloody.
A part of me no longer distinguishes between practice and the real thing; between exhibition and battle. There’s just the urge to fight, to win at any cost -- the bloodier, the better. It’s been getting worse since that night we assaulted the White Lotus in their headquarters. Too many of ours died that night -- my closest friend nearly one of them -- and it was all because I thought I needed to control those feelings the cursed blade invoked in me. Had I only let conscious thought go, allowed the sword free rein…
My reverie is interrupted by the slapping of a hand on the mat.
Was that one or two?
I’m not sure, but in another moment, it won’t matter. I wrench my body to one side, knocking Mako off balance, and leap to my feet in a single fluid move. Without wasting another instant, I haul him up and drop him with a reverse neckbreaker, then drop for the pin, hooking his leg. Mako doesn’t resist, but he gives me a wink and a mischievous smirk as our erstwhile ref slaps the mat for a quick three-count.
Ten minutes later, we’re chugging cold brews out by the hotel pool.
”What was that about?” I feel compelled to ask.
Mako feigns surprise.
”What do you mean?”
”Cut the shit, Mako. You had plenty of fight left. And we both know it.”
He chuckles.
”Maybe I’d rather save my energies for ...other pursuits.”
”Like what?”
Mako leans in close, all trace of humor gone.
My heart skips a beat. The tension between us is palpable.
”Like this,” he whispers, before pulling me in for a deep, sensual kiss.
Kissing him back, I feel a heady rush of ...something. More than passion. Deeper.
Is this what love feels like?
With slow reluctance, he pulls away.
”Now,’ Mako tells me softly, ”go win that match for me.”
Smoke rises, thick and black, from somewhere over on South Las Vegas Boulevard to spread out above the city in a miasma of charred wood and the ammonia scent of torched opium. Mistress Yin’s Lotus Palace has been burning for three days, a slow smoldering that reflects the shame seething in my soul.
I lost.
The most important match in my career -- at least, since coming to Vegas -- and I completely fucking blew it.
With a heavy sigh, I pitch another handful of fish food into the koi pond that dominates the lobby of the Hinomoto, watching the frenzy as they shove each other aside, trying to grab all they can before it’s all gone. An apt metaphor, considering. Is this what it feels like to be Conrad Dukes, sitting in his ivory tower and watching us kill each other over a paltry million bucks?
At the time, it seemed like a lot. Maybe this Yakuza lifestyle has me spoiled. Or maybe it just gave me a more realistic perspective.
”Why so dramatic?” asks Mako, sitting next to me on the decorative stone ledge around the pond. ”It’s not like you were really expected to win. Your involvement was a diversion to give the old man an in with Ramses. And it worked.”
I turn to glance at him. Mako has a crimson silk scarf tied around his neck to hide the hastily-stitched slash across his throat and a knowing smirk on his lips. I look away quickly. That scar is my fault. If I hadn’t acted in haste, out of some obscure panic that the nightmares I’d been having would come true...
”Yeah, but… I really wanted to win.”
”Bro, that million dollars is chump change. You’re a made man, connected. The world is yours for the taking -- all you have to do is reach out and, you know, take it.”
”That’s not the same.”
”Why? Because you didn’t beat the shit out of like a hundred guys to get it? Isn’t it worth more, knowing my uncle trusts you?”
”Not enough to bother telling me I was just a distraction.”
Casually, Mako throws an arm around my shoulders.
”My dude, there’s a lot to be said for a good distraction. But if it makes you feel any better, you’ve got another shot.”
Puzzled, I turn to look at him again. His gaze catches mine and holds it, dark eyes sparkling with delight. We linger like that, just a fraction of a moment too long, almost enough to….
But abruptly, he pulls away and stands up.
”Yeah, just found out. You’re in some kind of four-way sausage party with, um…” he trails off as he checks a message on his phone. ”That Blackwater dude, someone called Julian Mercury, and -- get this -- the Las Vegas chief of police.”
So, a failed mercenary; and occasionally successful hitman; and the ultimate good cop?
Yeah, I’ve done my homework. I like to know what I’m up against. Blackwater isn’t a problem. I beat him once, I can do it again. He’s better than he was, but he’s still not me. Mercury, though? Well, he’s an unknown element so far. I’ve seen him in the ring, and I mean, he’s a reasonable competitor; but he does his best work behind a scope or creeping up on someone in the dark. Which, between those two, is probably something I should be way more alert against.
Then there’s that guy Marsh. I don’t know if it’s some kind of put-on or what, but his motives aren’t like the rest of ours. He’s either completely full of shit, or he’s the purest human being in this hellhole. And the fucked up part? Either possibility makes me nauseous. Because if it’s the first thing, he spent the last four months using some kid’s cancer to further his own agenda. That’s sickening, but to be honest, it’s realistic. It’s just how people are. And, let’s face it, he’s a cop -- they’re all bastards.
I’ve only ever heard of anybody as pure-hearted as Darren Marsh pretends to be; and it was this business -- wrestling, to be clear -- that killed her. Well, it killed that part of her, little by little. Made great drama on TV. I’ll admit, I was a fan. Watching Bonnie Blue’s slow descent from heroine to monster was riveting. It was almost too bad she and her husband got caught by a vampire hunter named Archimedes Skrue last year, right after the pandemic started.
But that’s the kinda shit that happens in a world as fucked up as this one. Point being, nobody’s as good as they think they are; not as bad as they pretend to be. Except maybe Corey Bull. And definitely that Von Brandt guy.
Still, the point is, I have another chance. And all I have to do is beat three other men. After running the Triads out of town, almost singlehanded, that wouldn’t be a problem.
Today…
His knee crashes into my chin, making me see stars.
He follows up with a gutwrench suplex, then kneels in the middle of my chest.
Mako is merciless between those ropes.
My hand aches to grasp the hilt of my sword, to end this fight decisively. Bloody.
A part of me no longer distinguishes between practice and the real thing; between exhibition and battle. There’s just the urge to fight, to win at any cost -- the bloodier, the better. It’s been getting worse since that night we assaulted the White Lotus in their headquarters. Too many of ours died that night -- my closest friend nearly one of them -- and it was all because I thought I needed to control those feelings the cursed blade invoked in me. Had I only let conscious thought go, allowed the sword free rein…
My reverie is interrupted by the slapping of a hand on the mat.
Was that one or two?
I’m not sure, but in another moment, it won’t matter. I wrench my body to one side, knocking Mako off balance, and leap to my feet in a single fluid move. Without wasting another instant, I haul him up and drop him with a reverse neckbreaker, then drop for the pin, hooking his leg. Mako doesn’t resist, but he gives me a wink and a mischievous smirk as our erstwhile ref slaps the mat for a quick three-count.
Ten minutes later, we’re chugging cold brews out by the hotel pool.
”What was that about?” I feel compelled to ask.
Mako feigns surprise.
”What do you mean?”
”Cut the shit, Mako. You had plenty of fight left. And we both know it.”
He chuckles.
”Maybe I’d rather save my energies for ...other pursuits.”
”Like what?”
Mako leans in close, all trace of humor gone.
My heart skips a beat. The tension between us is palpable.
”Like this,” he whispers, before pulling me in for a deep, sensual kiss.
Kissing him back, I feel a heady rush of ...something. More than passion. Deeper.
Is this what love feels like?
With slow reluctance, he pulls away.
”Now,’ Mako tells me softly, ”go win that match for me.”