Identity. What is it, and how does it influence how one moves through the world? Humans are labeled, classified, and socialized through instruction, observation, and imitation-in other words; Identity is a construct.
From the haunting bayou to the land of the rising sun, NEO GEISHA is a graphic exploration of Identity through the harrowing journey of Philomene Doucette, a beautiful made-to-order assassin struggling between her programming and her desire for free will.
Brainwashed and systematically fractured from the age of six, the pretty killer disassociates between her Six-Year-Old Self, the heart, Philomene, the head, and the Monarch Queen, the abyss who finds no issue with killing.
Now aged twenty-one, it is the eve of her most important assignment yet: executing Haruto Mori, a deadly Yakuza clan leader, but her focus is wavering with the awakening of something she hasn't felt in a long time - empathy.
Smuggled into Japan to carry out the kill, she finds herself entangled in a web of half-truths and shadow agendas. Furthermore, the mission becomes compromised by her increasing affection for her target. When the carnage exacts a personal toll, Philomene takes it all on--like the beautiful monster she was programmed to be.
She stood in the opulent foyer with her back against him. The top of her very tight, very short black dress was pulled down, exposing her tawny brown skin. She leaned on him for support as he branded the side of her neck with his lips. One hand caressed her generous chest while the other, wet with her need, teased the swollen bud atop her sex. She turned around to taste him. Their tongues wrestled for control as she slowly backed him up toward the living room. With her mouth still locked onto his, she unbuttoned his pants, pushed him down on the couch and swiftly mounted him.
His cadence steady, her rhythm sure, as passion surged between them. A tiny thread of sadness crept inward.
A thread.
That is all she would allow. As she reached up and undid the clasp of her barrette, a cascade of inky black waves tumbled down and around her shoulders.
From the base of the barrette, she pulled on an ornate jewel, unsheathing a needle coated with a sticky white substance. As her hips increased their tempo, she stroked the top of his head and peppered him with feathery kisses.
He was near completion when he called out her name. “Sophie.”
Her rhythm faltered. She hated that name.
He opened his eyes. “Sophie?”
She inserted the needle between his top two vertebrae.
He froze with a look of mild surprise on his face. He tried to speak, but his mouth would not move and, to his horror, neither could he.
“Shh...” she whispered as she placed the tips of her fingers on his lips and reverently watched him struggle with the encroaching darkness. As he closed his eyes, she kissed the top of his head, then said a prayer.
She always said a prayer.
Death was sacred, even if she was the one dealing it.
She got up, righted her dress, walked back into the foyer toward the console table to grab her purse, then headed up the stairs to the door just left of the landing. It was a steel security door with a digital keypad lock. She reached into her clutch and took out a small aerosol can. Upon first glance, it looked like hairspray. She sprayed the substance on the keypad and when it dried, it left a residue on the keys from the oil that had been deposited by the owner’s fingertips.
Taking out a cell phone, she pulled a cord from its base and inserted that into the lock. She plugged in the numbers then waited for her modified phone to go through all possible configurations in less than a minute until triggering the lock. The door opened to a home office, ordinary in scope except for the almost half-million-dollar security system. There for one thing only, she detached the portable hybrid external drive and left the way she came. She took out her cell phone again and this time used it as such.
[Ring.]
[Ring.]
Then, finally: [Click.]
“I’m listening,” said the voice on the other end. Exact. Male.
“Seven,” she replied. Flat. Hollow.
She put her cell phone back in her handbag then reapplied her lipstick in the mirror above the entryway table.
Red lips reflected back.
The mirror shattered and red ran down her arm. Red dripped onto her very tight, very short dress and it mattered none as she put on her sunglasses, grabbed the hard drive, and walked out the door.
She drove away in her black SLK convertible. Reaching into the armrest, she brought out a remote control, pushed its lone button, then threw it in the back seat. A great boom sounded as she neared the corner. In the rearview mirror, she saw smoke and flames paint the sky black and red.
Police cars whizzed past her.
Fire trucks followed.
She drove—down the Hudson, through the Catskills and across the Delaware, until the light of dusk stained the horizon. When she saw a tiny, out-of-the-way cottage, she stopped and sat motionless in the car, like a robot out of charge.
Minutes passed before she slowly looked around and her eyes brightened with the remembrance of how she came to be there.
She got out of the car and walked toward the front door of the cottage. As she opened it, she dropped her keys on the floor. Their clattering sound reminded her of spent shell casings. She pulled her dress off from over her head and threw it down alongside her keys, then walked toward the back of the cottage and through the open patio doors, diving into the pool lying beyond it.
She submerged herself completely, reveling in the cold sting of the water, and remained there till the air in her lungs burned for release. The butterflies took flight. Always the butterflies, as she unfolded within herself and pushed out her darker self, who found no issue with killing.
When she emerged from the water, a young woman stood at the pool’s edge with a towel extended. Blonde. Green-eyed. Knowing. The woman watched as her bronze mistress, who was barely older than she, stepped out of the pool and into her waiting arms. She dried her hair with the towel, then wrapped it around her as she hummed a lullaby for only her mistress to hear. As she led her into the great room, the song quieted the fluttering in her mistress’ head.
A tall Asian man stood waiting. Lean. Muscular. Handsome—almost pretty. He nodded, ever so slightly. The petite blonde released her and disappeared into the adjoining room.
“Philomene?”
Nothing.
Without a word, he walked into the bedroom and, moments later, returned with a robe. Philomene was motionless as he placed the robe on her. He guided her over to the couch, sat her down, then sat down beside her.
He turned to her to speak.
“Not now, Tadakai.” Philomene stayed facing forward.
He faced front again. “He affected you.”
“I don’t know.” She leaned forward with her head down, elbows propped on her knees. “He was...kind.”
Tadakai did not respond.
“How much time do we have?”
“None. We leave in the morning.”
Philomene sat back. “Are we in play then?”
Tadakai walked over to the bar and poured drinks; scotch on the rocks for him, bourbon straight up for her.
She took a deep breath. “I’m tired.”
“Don’t.” He handed her the drink.
She took a large swig, savoring the slow burn down her throat, then took another and finished it. Her face warmed but she felt her insides go cold.
Tadakai observed Philomene’s internal battle, but it was short-lived. In an instant, the light went out in her eyes. “Come.” He stood up and extended his hand. “You should sleep.”
Philomene put her hand in his without argument. She was tired but sleep would elude her, as it had for the past couple of nights. Death filled her dreams, but whose she did not know.
Tadakai walked her to her room and stopped at the door.
Philomene stood motionless with her back to him, willing him to cross the threshold.
“I’ll do one last sweep of the area before I lock down for the night.”
Philomene nodded as she turned to face him.
He nodded slightly then made to leave.
“Tadakai?” He turned to face her.
She hesitated. She wanted to say “stay,” but Philomene was conditioned not to want. Not to want, not to hope, not to expect, only to be—what the mission required. She had wanted to say “stay,” but all she said was, “Goodnight.”
Tadakai nodded and left.
Philomene closed the door and stared at nothing. She had been feeling unsettled as of late, which was unusual because most times she didn’t feel anything at all. She sensed a presence and wondered if Tadakai had had a change of heart. When she opened the door, the petite blonde stood with a cup of tea extended. Philomene ignored the offering. “Can I help you, Sissy?”
“I thought you’d like something to help you relax, Miss Doucette. I know you haven’t been sleeping well.”
“How so?”
“You cry out in your sleep.” Sissy offered the cup again.
Philomene ignored the offering again, but she stood aside to let her into the room. She felt that even if she had objected, Sissy would have insisted.
Sissy placed the tea on the nightstand. “Please excuse my familiarity, Miss Doucette. My only concern is your wellbeing.”
“Sissy, I wish you would call me Phil. We’ve known each other for a while now.”
“I don’t think it’s advisable,” Sissy said with a shake of her head.
Philomene said nothing.
“Let me braid your hair up for the night, Miss Doucette. It will be so pretty when I take it down in the morning.”
“It’s not necessary.” “Beau likes for you to look pretty,” she said, then as an afterthought she put on a homegrown Southern smile. “Sit, it will only take a minute.”
Philomene sat down on the bed.
Sissy brushed Philomene’s hair till all the tangles were out. Afterward she plaited the long tresses, and all the while crooned a disconsolate tune. The ministrations relaxed Philomene.
Make her stop.
The image of her Six-Year-Old Self flickered briefly in Philomene’s head.
I don’t like that song. She’s gonna wake the butterflies.
Philomene stood up abruptly. “Thank you, Sissy, that’ll be all.”
Sissy smiled but it wasn’t genuine or believable.
Philomene watched her leave.
I don’t like her, said her Six-Year-Old Self as she corporealized in Philomene’s mind’s eye to stand beside her.
With a faraway look in her eyes, Philomene nodded as she drifted back to a memory best left unremembered. The bedroom morphed and faded into a dimly lit concrete bunker. The hour was late, and the same woeful tune Sissy had been singing was playing loudly from a vintage record player. Six-Year-Old Philomene was being timed as she disassembled and reassembled an assault rifle. Philomene stumbled over her task and like with all her mistakes, Beau poked her with an electric cattle prod, sending 4,000 volts into her tiny, sleepdeprived body. He turned up the music to drown out her screams. The bedroom reappeared. Philomene’s eyes were moist. There was so much she couldn’t remember, only the blood. There was always blood.
Her Six-Year-Old Self took hold of her hand. You remember the song.
As she closed her eyes, Philomene haltingly began to hum.
Her Six-Year-Old Self joined in. It was their song now.