December 10th, 1988, Sotenbori
The past day was already a haze. It came in flickers, piercing soundbytes, bangs and rattles. If Kenneth didn't have the bruises to prove it was real, he would have assumed that it was just a bad dream, or a hallucination brought on from a bad mix of hydrocodone, alcohol, and the memories of past encounters with organized crime. But here they were, here he was, and here went another glass of cheap whiskey down his throat at this podunk pool bar in a country he was completely unfamiliar with. He couldn't even read the words on the bottles, fumbling through double vision and unsteady hands to read his traveler's dictionary.
What did it matter? What did any of this matter? Whether or not he knew what he was drinking, it was getting the job done. Best enjoy it before those Dojima boys track him down again.
He leaned forward into the bar, resting his cheek on the smooth pages of his dictionary as a TV across the room threw distant words his way. He couldn't understand the anchor, but he already knew the news: there was a murder in Kamurocho the day before. Something about a debt collection gone awry. From what one of those thugs from the Dojima family had told him, it had something to do with a "Kiryu"—he guessed that was the stone-faced man he had helped out on the 6th. You throw a bottle at a pickpocket and help a guy get his wallet back and suddenly you're wrapped up in some big conspiracy involving a patch of dirt in the middle of a Tokyo cityscape. Ain't that a bitch.
It took him a few minutes and a lot of odd stares from other patrons to realize he had been saying a lot of this out loud—in English, thank God. No one understood him, just as he couldn't understand anyone else. He thought he could make out someone calling him a "crazy foreigner", but even if he wanted to peel himself off the bar right now to make sure he heard that right, he couldn't help but agree. Why fight the truth? He was crazy. Crazy for flying halfway across the world on a drug run, crazy for indebting himself to a syndicate in the first place, crazy for indebting himself to yet another syndicate when that fell through, and crazy for spending his last few days alive in a dive bar high on painkillers and drunk on... Well, drink. He still couldn't read the bottle.
The music that droned around him mixed with the clattering of pool cues only served to remind Ken of how alone he really was in this. Everyone else here seemed to have a friend—save for one drunk salaryman drooling on a table in the corner. He felt a kinship with the man, he wanted to call him a brother even though they hadn't said a word. He decided against it. They were wasted for completely different reasons. The crackling overhead speakers played to the salaryman a tune of a man foolish in neglecting his marriage, foolish for not loving what he had, for giving his life to a job that hated him. Ken heard none of that. The lyrics remained vague as every other spoken word. Yet, he was reminded of home. He didn't have many friends there either, but he had one member of his family who he loved dearly.
He teared up a bit, then immediately pawed at his face, the leather of his jacket sleeve doing very little to wipe the tears and a lot to knock his face mask out of place. Fumbling to fix it, he stared into his now-empty glass with spots swimming in his eyes. He hoped that his grandmother wasn't as heartbroken over this as he was. It would be unbearable to think of.
Vaguely, he heard the chime of the entry bell. Another lost soul coming in to drown their sorrows—he could tell because there wasn't any conversation that followed it. By now, he knew better than to look over his shoulder. He wasn't in the mood to fight a stranger for no reason again tonight. He just wanted to lay face-down on this bar until he became one with the wood. It then occurred to him that there was an open seat next to him, and he slid his head back down onto the bar in an attempt to begin assimilating with it. He could not handle conversation right now, much less in another language. Please, please let this person sit anywhere else.
The past day was already a haze. It came in flickers, piercing soundbytes, bangs and rattles. If Kenneth didn't have the bruises to prove it was real, he would have assumed that it was just a bad dream, or a hallucination brought on from a bad mix of hydrocodone, alcohol, and the memories of past encounters with organized crime. But here they were, here he was, and here went another glass of cheap whiskey down his throat at this podunk pool bar in a country he was completely unfamiliar with. He couldn't even read the words on the bottles, fumbling through double vision and unsteady hands to read his traveler's dictionary.
What did it matter? What did any of this matter? Whether or not he knew what he was drinking, it was getting the job done. Best enjoy it before those Dojima boys track him down again.
He leaned forward into the bar, resting his cheek on the smooth pages of his dictionary as a TV across the room threw distant words his way. He couldn't understand the anchor, but he already knew the news: there was a murder in Kamurocho the day before. Something about a debt collection gone awry. From what one of those thugs from the Dojima family had told him, it had something to do with a "Kiryu"—he guessed that was the stone-faced man he had helped out on the 6th. You throw a bottle at a pickpocket and help a guy get his wallet back and suddenly you're wrapped up in some big conspiracy involving a patch of dirt in the middle of a Tokyo cityscape. Ain't that a bitch.
It took him a few minutes and a lot of odd stares from other patrons to realize he had been saying a lot of this out loud—in English, thank God. No one understood him, just as he couldn't understand anyone else. He thought he could make out someone calling him a "crazy foreigner", but even if he wanted to peel himself off the bar right now to make sure he heard that right, he couldn't help but agree. Why fight the truth? He was crazy. Crazy for flying halfway across the world on a drug run, crazy for indebting himself to a syndicate in the first place, crazy for indebting himself to yet another syndicate when that fell through, and crazy for spending his last few days alive in a dive bar high on painkillers and drunk on... Well, drink. He still couldn't read the bottle.
The music that droned around him mixed with the clattering of pool cues only served to remind Ken of how alone he really was in this. Everyone else here seemed to have a friend—save for one drunk salaryman drooling on a table in the corner. He felt a kinship with the man, he wanted to call him a brother even though they hadn't said a word. He decided against it. They were wasted for completely different reasons. The crackling overhead speakers played to the salaryman a tune of a man foolish in neglecting his marriage, foolish for not loving what he had, for giving his life to a job that hated him. Ken heard none of that. The lyrics remained vague as every other spoken word. Yet, he was reminded of home. He didn't have many friends there either, but he had one member of his family who he loved dearly.
He teared up a bit, then immediately pawed at his face, the leather of his jacket sleeve doing very little to wipe the tears and a lot to knock his face mask out of place. Fumbling to fix it, he stared into his now-empty glass with spots swimming in his eyes. He hoped that his grandmother wasn't as heartbroken over this as he was. It would be unbearable to think of.
Vaguely, he heard the chime of the entry bell. Another lost soul coming in to drown their sorrows—he could tell because there wasn't any conversation that followed it. By now, he knew better than to look over his shoulder. He wasn't in the mood to fight a stranger for no reason again tonight. He just wanted to lay face-down on this bar until he became one with the wood. It then occurred to him that there was an open seat next to him, and he slid his head back down onto the bar in an attempt to begin assimilating with it. He could not handle conversation right now, much less in another language. Please, please let this person sit anywhere else.