Shura

[Disclaimer: This story is extremely violent, and has very disturbing themes that are a result of Japanese Ultra-Nationalism.]

The Raijin seeks a warrior. Pinstripe emissary walks. Nanjo City. Costco. Gang of one. A boy. Heirloom thirsts. Black glasses up. Gas prices rise like his imperial sun. Jackboots lean. Blue jeans hold a payday.

“Red jacket boy.”

“Who are you calling boy?”

“Cool Yamaha!”

“Not for sale.”

“You misunderstand! I don’t want you to sell it. Only to ride it.”

Glasses glare. Gaunt face. Cruel lips twitch. Fuel nozzle clicks. Slam back in. Straddle.

“Anytime you want easy yen, call us.”

Round face content. Ivory card. Chubby fingers. Eight Dice Cups – 098-893-8520. A bow.

“Piss off, homo.”

“Please consider it carefully.”

Ignition on. Kick down. Engine rev. Knuckles white. Cuts from punches. Snarl. Wingtip shoes slide. Warau Salesman. Throttle. Tires screech.

…

Mother coughs. Tomb apartment. Rent due. Looming shame. Stomachs empty.

“We need money, Goro.”

“I love you, but you’re annoying.”

“How are you getting money?”

“By getting it.”

Opened cupboard. Bank login. Ambidextrous. Boy ravenous. Cup Noodle again.

“From where?”

Smartphone glow. Mother craves to audit. Phone off. Phlegm. Shrimp flavor. Faucet on. Cup down. Lid ripped. Mother’s red face. Kettle clang. Dish rack clack. Water filling. Knuckles white.

“Work.”

“Liar!”

“How much do you need?”

“I won’t take it!”

Faucet off. Kettle closed. Locked. Click. Blue light. Hot water. Cough. Wheeze. Bends. His restraint is work.

“It’s legit.”

“Tell the truth!”

“It’s from work.”

Kitchen drawer. Dad’s friend in mom’s hands.

“Get out!”

“Ungrateful bitch.”

“Stay away!”

Her defensive grip. Punch. Defensive Heimlich. Father’s lesson: help through harm. Sobbing. Knife thrown. Coughs. Face pale. Foot to calf. Mom down.

“I’m paying the rent. Like a man. 50,000 yen, right? And 10,000 for meds?”

Mammon’s typhoon. Dignity’s funeral expense. Her grieving. A boy’s eyes glitter. A black snake lit in her heart.

“You think I like forcing money on you?”

“You like my pain.”

“I want to see a day where I don’t.”

“More lies!”

“Have I told you my dream is coming true?”

“You’re incapable of dreams.”

“We will sell this apartment. Leave Nanjo behind. Go to Hawai’i. Move into a beach house. Own a rich American white dog.”

He backpedals. Boiling water. Phone on. Dialing. Vomit. Moshi-moshi. Chicken broth and aspirin.

“What are you doing?”

“What you want, mom.”

…

Drum building. Black sky. Yellow lights. Rotary line. 256 men. Losers, failures, and a boy. Bikes, hogs, scooters, trikes. Ticket gate. The emissary. A card for a contract. You must live to ride. We are not responsible for any harm or death that comes to you. You may quit at any point. Romaji the same. Hand to a green man. Long gray dark corridors. Chinese lanterns. Lift called. Clanks. Cage. Door staggers and jags. Click. Close. Industrial death rattle. Cement foyer. Yellow gatekeeper.

“Do you accept the terms?”

“Yes.”

“Your signature.”

A needle. Prick. Bloody thumb. Firm red stamp. Return.

“Name?”

“Goro Fujiwara.”

“We will tend to your auto bike. We hope you enjoy the complimentary festival, Fujiwara-san.”

Open vault. Airlock. The boy’s Jingoku. Degenerates, traitors, drug addicts, deserters, drunks, Christians, Communists, Muslims, drug dealers, Westerners, fake patriots, neo-liberals, gold diggers, barbarians, fools, and whores writhe like maggots on Edo-Japan’s corpse. Natsumatsuri for tourists and idiots. Sushi, Beer, Takoyaki, Sake, Maki, and Tempura dying. Geiko and Maiko souls corrode. Gaijin practice Japanese on them. Tobacco, Marijuana, Opium, Gunpowder. Shamisen. Drums. EDM. Dances. Kana and Romaji subtitles. Ramen-ya. Soulless. Lights burn. Jostled elbows. Heavy breathing. Sweat. Natto. Curry. Sour milk. Hatred cataract. A straitjacket of yen. Skeleton shaking independently of flesh. Chloroform. Dreamless. Black.

…

Cold concrete room. Father’s motorcycle. Red Suited Sokushinbutsu. Casino cage counter. Dizzy boy. Recuperation.

“Welcome. I will be your server for the game.”

“You’re giving me more shit food?”

“Other things.”

“…is that right?”

“The rules, firstly.”

“Ride or die, I know."

“Yes, there's tweaks in each minigame. This time, ride the motorcycle to the end before half of the players. Should damages to the bike occur, it shall be repaired. Any wounds will be tended to minimally. Courses are selected by the bettors.”

“Bettors?”

“Correct.”

“Where’s my money in this?”

“Each contestant has a chance to win a jackpot of 10 billion yen.”

“I’m gambling…”

“You are a player, not a gambler.”

“You’re not Confucius, jackass.”

“Hoo hoo hoo… funny guy”.

“Tch…”

“Higher stakes bettors can make additional rules. I will announce them as they are created. May I offer complimentary substances?”

“What kind of question is that?!”

“We offer complimentary substances to our players before each round.”

“I’m not a gaijin."

“Would you like to pray before you go?”

“Open the damn door to my bike!”

“Very well. The lights will flash when it is time. Good luck.”

Cage open. Bike and boy. Saliva froths. Red eyes. Stoplight sounds. White fists. Primed. Kick down. Father’s voice erupts. Three, two, one, GO. Zero to One Hundred. Caged ramp down. Furious winds. Mechanical thunderclaps. One hundred to two hundred. A ramp up. Long-jump. Flight of jockeys. Starry night. Flop for bettors. Stuck landing. Pelvic pain. LED strips. Asphalt mutilated. Fog. Jostling. Jealousy. Right mirror. Boy steers left. Purple bike. Murasaki Maiko lures the boy. Weak stinkfist to the boy’s bicep. Vocaloid on the scooter. Crooked teeth. Whiskers fly. DoorDasher.

“Idiot! You’ll get us killed!”

“She’s mine!”

"Go back to jacking off to hentai."

"Up yours fascist scum!"

Geek leans. Girly punch. Jackboot out right. A scooter screeches and fish tails under the delivery boy as he is sent yelping and coiling into a tumbleweed made of gnashing plastic, bones, glass, and metal, spreading blood across the blacktop like a pizza base in front of a sports bike that smashes into the rear acting as a physics trebuchet laying siege upon a guard rail with screaming ammunition. Feel for the black handles and steel consume. Mother vindicated. Father pleased. Boy elated. Purple bike. Finish line. 91/128 and counting. Purple helmet off. Black hair blooms. Bijin. His glasses flirt. A different attack.

“Onee-san!”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Your prince.”

“Like hell you are!”

“I took care of that NEET, didn’t I?”

"What?!"

"He was stalking you."

"So you fucking kill him?!"

"Was an accident. Shit happens."

She scowls. The large gate shuts firm. Horizontal hailstorm.

…

The room again. Counter. Large boxes. Maneki-neko. Mummified smile. Cracked cackle. A boy resigned. Gambler’s new fallacy. Inclined push-up.

“Welcome back...”

“The bike, old man.”

“Of course.”

White glove inspection. Pristine.

“One thing I failed to mention: Should your bike be destroyed, a new one shall be given to you.”

“What’s with the boxes?”

“One is your weapon. Two are not. You know of Monty Hall?”

“Western trash?”

“A simple idea: You pick one, I reveal one a different one, you can switch your election, but after that, it’s final.”

“Damn it! Is everything a gamble to you idiots?!”

“Where’s the fun in certainty? ... Pick one.”

Twisted face. Agonizing in odds. Center.

“That?”

“You got eyes, right geezer?”

Left box: Grenade rifle.

“…interesting.”

“DAMN IT!”

“There could be something better…”

Eyes roll like dice. Swift swap left. Frothing. Shaking.

“Are you sure?”

“Doesn't matter anymore! Open it!”

“As you wish.”

Center, machine pistol. Harpoon gun and three shots awarded. Rhythmic fist hammers in curses.

“Substances, young man?”

“Don’t want to be an American Idiot!”

“Hoo hoo hoo… you have western taste after all!”

“SHUT UP!!!”

“A high-roller has added a rule. The same rules apply as before. However, you must kill at least one rider with your gift to clear the next stage. Would you like to pray before you go?”

“Nope.”

Three, two, one, GO. Zero to one hundred twenty. Caged ramp down. Combustions echo. War ghosts scream. One twenty to two hundred. The jockeys make the flop. A black man below. Red helmet, white romaji, all American black swordfish.

“OH, FUCK NO!”

Harpoon to the abyss. Buckshot to heaven. Mirror gone, left glasses rim Shattered. Four hands shuffle. Poker flop nears. Harpoon loaded. Sawed-off in armpit. Pump. Ground nears. Chonk.

“YOU’RE DEAD NOW MOTHERFUCKER!”

Both leading targets. Lead erupts. Left mirror smashed. Shattered left glass lacerates his eye. Rubber meets dirt. Boy lands shakily. Desert storm curtain stage right. A fool slows down to catch a bullet with his face, sending blood squirting out from his skull on the boy’s right glass. Harpoon launched. Back wheel out. Right lean down. Eye contact. Flesh, clothes, blood and bone are flushed in dirt at hundreds of kilometers an hour under a Harley-Davidson deadfall trap as the trapped hunter points the barrel at the thunder tribesman letting as a life and gun barrel flash before the MAGA Cowboy’s eyes sending the lead southwest viper for just revenge to the boy's right shoulder. The American Dream behind. The Global Nightmare on his right. Death and Darkness to his left. The Japanese Dream ahead. Finish line. 15/64. Harpoon reloaded. Kickstand down. Bent over. Ramen broth kicked like cat litter. Purple girl. Newer attack.

“Long time, no see.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s your husband, Goro Fujiwara.”

“I wouldn’t even say ‘Let’s go to Costco,’ to you.”

“Don’t burn bridges. Beautiful ladies shouldn’t do soldiering.”

“Burn in hell.”

“GORO FUJIWARA!?”

The boy turns to another. Green pants. Tank top.

“That’s my name, punk.”

“YOU BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF MY GRANDMOTHER FOR 50,000 YEN, YOU CUNT!”

Black gloves fly past his cheek. Grapple. A spear launched under the nameless one’s jaw sending a tongue, sinuses, eye, brains and skull cap parts flying to heaven. Evil brews.

“What? You saw it. Self-defense.”

“I'd defend myself from you if I had a bullet left.”

"No need to be tsundere."

…

The room. All amenities. Anatomical boy. Vase of flowers. Surgeon girl speaks.

“Your left orbital is gone. Your face and shoulder are no longer bleeding. I’ll be leaving you to the rat race.”

“Do I get a lollipop? Or is that my job?”

Slap. Pain splash. Bloodless poking, scratching, and cutting. Raised fist.

“Welcome back… please be kind to the staff. They work very hard.”

“Some women don’t have a sense of humor.”

“The high rollers were impressed by how you cleared the special rule last minute.”

“Last minute my ass! Kanye’s clone had it out for me!”

“You killed that man with his own motorcycle using your gift. Not with the gift.”

“Confucian bullshit again!”

“I assured you. The rule was that simple.”

“OK, Boomer.”

“Hoo hoo hoo, very skilled English…”

“You got a light mouth, geezer.”

“On the note of rules. The game has changed. And due to several resignations, we are advancing it to one-on-one face offs instead of going through the previously planned two games.”

“Weaklings...”

“The rule is simple: You must not stop before your opponent does. The winner is the one who continues. You may only slow down at turns or obstacles. The bettors will vote on obstacle types. A generous bettor has declared one type of bike trick be done at the bowl.”

Boy laughs. Box game again. Center.

“Eager, I see.”

“Do it.”

Right revealed, a tire iron.

“Thank god.”

“Well…”

“I’m staying.”

Left, a chainsaw. A baseball bat with nails in it is the prize.

“Some substances, young man?”

“…pain killers.”

“How potent?”

“What?!”

“We have acetaminophen, codeine, fentanyl, wine, sake, beer, and spirits.”

“Aspirin?”

“As you wish. A prayer?”

“I don’t buy any of that crap.”

Chew. Straddle. Succubus-slap. Three, two, one, GO. Zero to one hundred. Narrow caged incline. A salaryman’s blue vice. Cosplaying for himself. Bigger, sharper, cattle prod. Gutsy throttles. Straight down, no gap. Funneled joust. Wild crowd. Death’s snatch. One hundred to two hundred fifty. Batter-up. Salaryman ducks. Prod grazes. Reborn. Half- bowl. Ride the rim. Pop wheelie. Boos like ghouls. Salaryman flips. Back in. Still two fifty. Batter up. Prod to shoulder. A signed baseball bat defiled by galvanized nails makes a stained-glass window of red, black, and white on the head of a Blue Kamen Rider flipping backward snagging the boy over the rail dislocating his arm while the bike flips and flails like his blue tuna he trawled. A tornado of boos.

…

The room. Wallpaper in many languages. YOU COST ME MY HOUSE. NICE SHOT, BRO. MURASAKI-CHAN HATES YOU TOO. Surgeon’s angry.

“Your shoulder is fine. I’m leaving.”

“Nice to see you too...”

“Welcome back. I appreciate you being nicer… Do you like your fan mail?”

“Get to the point.”

“Indeed. A new rule was added. You must clear the game within the first three passes. … The box game, sir?”

Center. The left, a nail gun.

“Your answer?”

“Damn it… fine.”

“The right one?”

“FOR THE LAST TIME, YES.”

The center. A circular saw. A shovel is the prize.

“Substances?”

“…Whiskey. FROM JAPAN.”

“All right then...”

A shot downed. Burning. Cheeks numb.

“Any prayers?”

“No…”

“Very well.”

Bike. Straddle. Prime. Kick. Three, two, one… no.

“… … … … THE HELL HAPPENED?!”

“… what a tragedy.”

“WHAT?!”

“Your assigned opponent overdosed and died.”

“COWARD!”

…

The room. He’s back. A lantern hangs.

“Welcome back… You’re in the semi-finals. Congratulations.”

“.Tell me what I need to know.”

“You must kill the rider to clear the stage. The arena will be selected by the bettors. A high roller dictated that the kill must be confirmed by beheading the opponent. A blade will be given to you for this purpose. Headshots disqualifies the player.”

“You know the routine.”

“Very well.”

Center. Right. Hunting shotgun. He stays. Left. Scoped pistol. Winchester is the reward.

“Substances?”

“What’s stronger than aspirin but not fentanyl?”

“We have an opium pipe and we have it bottled.”

“...bottle.”

“As you wish.”

Liquid gold. Swig. Bitter. Pain dissipates.

“A prayer?”

“…can I pray to a person?”

“Strange... but I don’t see why not.”

“I pray to Murasaki-chan that she drops out so that I can split the money with her and my mom. That is all.”

“….very well.”

Father’s spirit. Ōdachi sheathed. Headache. Shakes. Three, two, one, GO. Zero to one hundred. Caged ramp up. No fanfare. Formula 1 stadium. Father’s playground. Whirring bolt. Forehead cut. Leather strapped samurai. Headlight off. Aim. Lead. Pull. Miss. Aim. Lead. … Jammed? Weird handle. Whirr. Left arm shot. Throb. Weird grip. Unfolds. Bullet fling. Focus lost. Shaking. Turn?! Left. Whir. Left leg stuck. One hundred to two hundred. Wobble. Fish tail. Focus. Go. Head down. Clap handle. Whir. Abdomen stuck. Aim. CRACK. Body shot. Bike slow. Steers. Wall. Crash. The boy rides. Handle down. Bullet out. Speed forward. Handle in. Turn left again. Behind. A man. Two hundred to one hundred. Crawling. Whir. FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK CRACK Rib stuck. Lung punctured. Man to knees. Broken heart. Crossbow clacks. Unsaddle. Limp. Draw the ōdachi. He waits. Walk on crossbow. Knuckles white. Hands sweating. Boy wheezes. Execution overhead. Tear flows. Sown eye gives way blood. The man gurgles blood. Damocles Sword held by a tortured Atlas. Blood spit. Flung on legs. Concrete canvas.

“You’re a kid…”

“You’re a man…”

“No shit, KRUH-”

“I’m asking what your point is.”

“How the hell are you here?

“Persistence.”

“Kreheheh… you make terrible conversation.”

“Got a question, onii-chan.”

“Fuck you.”

“What is your dream?”

“I’m too busy dying to be fed bullshit.”

“Well?”

“Do it. Just do it. GOD DAMN IT DO IT!”

The long steel feather glides down absolving the bōsōzoku of shame, torment, and small talk granting the mercy that his mind and soul can roll away without seeing the cyclops Shura's painting of his older brother’s death on the tar for a sociopath's arthouse.

…

The room. Everyone’s here. A geisha too.

“…you’re out a lung. My medical opinion suggests quitting. I suggest going ahead.”

“…thanks.”

"Thanks for dying."

"..."

The surgeon leaves.

“Welcome back… this is the last time we will meet. I must say I’m proud to have served you.”

“Rules.”

“They’re the exact same. Just enjoy a nice show while we prepare the final round for you.”

“Boxes.”

“Very well.”

Mindless. Center. Left. AK-47. Stay. Right. Hand cannon. Grenade rifle, awarded.

“You got what you wanted!”

“Opium.”

“Of course, young man.”

“…my prayer.”

“…Hm? …ah! Here.”

A letter. He reads the purple ink. I WILL SEND YOU BACK TO HELL MYSELF.

“I will pray to her again.”

“…hmm.”

“I accept her challenge.”

“…I see. Please enjoy the tea ceremony.”

Geisha dances. World is numb. Strong genmaicha. Edo-Japan bores the boy. Flowing silk. Sultry lips and hips. Disinterested. Father watches. Devil fang thirsts. Pain returns. Straddle on. Conceal carry cannon. Sword drawn. Three, two, one, GO. Zero to two hundred. Ramp up. Same stadium. There she is. Understanding him. Lean right. Skid. Behind her. Rifle shell. Father’s face. Double time. Fast. Rifle shell. Right leg. Lean forward. Draw the ōdachi. Blam. Back tire out. Flag of sparks. Rifle shell. Left cavity. Pain. The boy’s flop. Tumble. Purple geisha. Victory lap. Seconds are hours. Look. She charges. Father betrayed.

“Dad. Thank you for your hard work.”

Closer. The boy makes a very different attack. Steps. She’s flawless. He’s hopeless.

“Christ you’re ugly.”

“Last chance.”

“You’re an insult to life, freedom, and humanity.”

“Ha…you're cute when you're indignant.”

Gripped scruff. Trigger finger. He kneels. He smiles. He laughs.

"What could POSSIBLY be funny?"

“If I don’t have anything to lose. You get nothing. That's how it works.”

“Spoken like- WHOAH!!!”

A blast from the grenade shot at the ground banishes a pair demons from a dying Japan on display, scattering flesh, blood, skin, bone, plastic, metal, and clothes like divine confetti before the roaring crowd's joy seeing a mandate from Heaven answered at the expense of the cruel gamers. Pinstripe shinigami laughs and walks.

"Well now! That was a good show! I get to keep both prize pools too? You're too kind Raiden-sama! Let's have an encore!"