In the human world, people are asleep. Most people. Not long after the stations shut their gates and their employees make their way home, the downtown core of Osaka buzzes with life. Like firecrackers lit by unseen pranksters, lights flash and bells and whistles go off along the main streets; those still out and about are overwhelmed with excitement … excitement, and alcohol. Automatic sliding doors that lead to bars, clubs, pachinko parlours, video arcades, and karaoke establishments swallow up new victims as they regurgitate old ones back out onto the streets, poorer and drunker than before. People stagger from the howling cacophony to cold, abandoned stations, to find that their last trains left half an hour ago. They turn to one another, shrug, laugh, and stagger back to the fray. “Shou ga nai, na …” It cannot be helped. Nothing left to do but move on to other bars until morning. They flood the convenience stores on every corner, stock up on anti-hangover juice, and hit the streets for round two (or three, or four).
The fascinating part of the nightlife is not the salarymen throwing their boss up in the air like pizza dough, or the karaoke employees in One Piece costumes and giant electrified sandwich boards, or the tricked-out Lambos flying down the streets, their underbodies lit with violent shades of neon pink and purple. Nor is it the man in a giant Jafar costume handing out flyers for an Arabian-themed restaurant. It is the people in the fray who are completely incongruous with one another, their surroundings and their country, their time in history and location in space. There are the usual symptoms of a night out in Osaka. A young woman dressed like a space cadet sings into a loudspeaker, presumably for money. A man in a Pikachu costume holds up a sign for an izakaya, screaming for customers, straining his already-wrecked vocal cords. Snack bar–bound professionals with neckties around their heads bump against young couples in search of affordable love hotels. A game centre blasts ear-piercing pop hits as scantily clad hostesses lining the street dance along. “Where’s my samurai? Where?!” they screech to one another.
Then there are the weird symptoms. A young man — a university student, perhaps — comes along in poofy pink pants, a red beret tilted to the side of his face, and real wooden clogs that echo off the granite sidewalk, even in all this noise. A cocky mishmash of European stereotypes that make one wonder what part of his own culture he is trying to disguise. He looks like he is on his way to a very hoity-toity art class. He passes a gaggle of girls — no, full-grown women who look ten years younger than they truly are — all dressed in matching floral mori outfits, carrying matching wicker baskets in the crooks of their right arms, running to an unseen destination, as if late to an afternoon picnic in a British forest. Not ten minutes later a teenager sports baggy jeans that sag to his bottom and a brown baseball hat turned to the side that bears the name “Marcus Garvey” in calligraphic letters. As he walks, he turns his head at the last second, showing what is written on the back of his hat in the same font: GANJA. Quite the ensemble: he must be on his way to jail.
The yokai named Akki chuckles at his own cruel joke. A flush-faced, muscle-bound giant taking up half of the expansive sidewalk with his enormous size, the nightmare demon squats in front of a convenience store ablaze with fluorescents. The frightening creature poses as a human dressed head to toe in midnight: a black haori jacket stretches over his broad shoulders, humongous matching hakama pants brush the pavement and black waraji straw sandals wrap around his massive feet. He dangles a relit cigarette in one large hand and a tiny empty rainbow-coloured pop-top coffee can in the other. His eyes are closed beneath two furrowed eyebrows that look more like black flames sweeping across his expansive forehead into a sleek, sumo-style chonmage topknot. He stands out far more than the night owls that flock around him, and everyone finds him terrifying, in spite of the friendly tune he murmurs under his breath:
“Ho, ho, hotaru koi …” Nothing happens.
Pedestrians who notice him cross the street, or circle so far and wide around him they would rather risk bumping into one another than come within three feet of him. Some mistake him for a lost samurai cosplayer but dare not disturb him to take a picture. They do not notice his chubby fingers are decked with several gold rings that do not match his outfit. Those that dare do anything risk tiny glares over their shoulders but keep their thoughts to themselves, unaware that he can see and hear them all. Another dangerous thug, some think with a shake of their heads. A couple of aggressive-looking obaachans think, This city has gone to hell. Police cruisers slow down, their drivers pretend not to look at him, but they do not stop. Good, Akki thinks to himself. Cops make him sick with rage.
“Acchi no mizu wa nigaizo,” he sings, “kocchi no mizu wa amaizo …” Still nothing.
Across the street, two Matsumoto Kiyoshi employees shout a few announcements about their special deal: fifteen percent off the anti-hangover juice for the next couple of hours. The suddenness of their voices stirs the yokai; one eye winks open. Not so many people around now, he opens the other and allows his glowing green gaze to take in his surroundings. An ambush of women run into the coffee shop next to the Lawson behind him. They appear to be brand-name types: A Bathing Ape tote bags, Rodeo Crowns shirts, and it looks like one of their skirts says NEGRO LEAGUE down the side. They move so fast Akki can only catch a glimpse of writing on the last woman’s baseball cap: CHUBBY GANG.
The words float on the air and translate, their meaning permeates his mind, like music. He bursts out laughing, scaring the people who have just crossed the street to avoid him. Were it not for the gallons of cheap sake sloshing around in his gullet, he would not be in such a good mood. Deep down, he can feel the decades of anger built up in his veins as he has watched the nation sink deeper and deeper into what he sees as its own multicultural mire. He gulps down the last of the Boss Rainbow Mountain Blend coffee in his hand and wonders if he is the last “real” thing left awake in this city — a sobering notion that sends chills up his Herculean spine.
“Ho, ho, hotaru koi …” Akki sighs.
Across the street, another herd of young women, sweaty and fresh from a nightclub, run toward the drugstore. They could be quintuplets with their matching micro-shorts, stiletto heels, lacy white tops, milk-tea-coloured hair, and runny layers of eye makeup. They stop to examine a display of collagen drinks as two U.S. Marines, far from their base, pass by. “Mite — gaijin! Gaijin! Ehhh!” They shriek over the drugstore announcer and the city din, as they dance around the two men, fawning over their biceps. “Meccha kakkoii!” the women add once they are out of earshot.
The yokai’s eyes become daggers. “Fuckin’ gaijin,” he mutters. That’s what these dumb-ass bitches go for, huh? Too drunk out of their skulls to recognize a real man when they see one? How can anyone be so stupid? This is what’s wrong with society. He considers throwing his coffee can at them, but it is too small to hit multiple targets. He lets his anger pass; he is too lazy to transform and scrap with anyone tonight. Fuck these skinny, shriekin’ little cunts. Squawkin’ crazed hens. He wishes he were a farmer and it was back in the day. Then no one would question his actions: ripping feathers, snapping necks, crushing beaks under his sandals, taking turns punting them down the street into a giant vat of frying oil. Cheaper than that KFC crap and better quality to boot. Human flesh: nothin’ like it.
The young women squish together and run across the street, bowing to a stopped taxi. They hobble toward the conbini. Their voices drop to hushed whispers. Now they are pointing at him. The yokai’s head turns as one blurts out an ill-timed, “Ehhh, samurai mitai — meccha sexy, na?”
Oh, my. This is unexpected. He nods and raises his can in wary salutation. They wave back but cannot maintain their composure. They scream like immature teenagers — “Kyaa! Kyaa, ikemen!” — and run into the conbini, knocking down a poor, inebriated salaryman on the way. The salaryman stumbles right into the spot where the yokai sits, leaving him with a slurred “Oh! Suman na,” unaware that he has phased right through one of the most notorious creatures of the night. Instead, the salaryman chalks that chill up his spine to the seasonal temperature change and continues down the street.
On the other side of the Lawson’s giant glass window some of the women jump up and down and watch him while the timid ones pretend to look at magazines. The yokai smirks. He feels his cheeks and other parts of his body grow warm. He rises to his feet, drains the last few drops of coffee down his throat, and haphazardly tosses the can at the receptacle behind him (to the chagrin of those passing by, it lands wide of the mark — he does not care; someone will pick it up; Lawson employees know what they signed up for) and rescinds his earlier insults. Gettin’ laid is gettin’ laid, he thinks to himself.
The yokai strikes a pose to play cool. He knows better than to go running into the store like a desperate sex addict. Don’t do any-thin’, he thinks. Don’t make the first move. Bitches love a challenge. Any minute now, one of them’ll come back out to chat you up. All he must do is bide his time. He believes that is what Zaniel would do. Without him, there is little else he can do in his current form except hope for the best.
Any minute now …
It looks like the women have established a plan when someone passes the yokai from behind, oblivious to his size and dangerous demeanour. If anyone in the nightlife crowds sticks out like a sore thumb, it is the waiflike, shades-sporting high school student who is, of course, not on her way to or from school but not a working hostess, either. She seems the right size, the right age to be a teenage girl; face and skin like a doll, like porcelain but not as pale, extremely long black flowing hair in a perfect hime cut. Her uniform is genuine, complete with the insignia above her right breast, red ribbon, red bow tie, and black jacket designed for autumn weather. As if to confuse people even more, her seifuku skirt is hiked up as high as a seifuku skirt can go. Her bleach-white fluffy socks billow over blood-red Chuck Taylors, exposing her smooth calves and fleshy thighs to the night breeze. By some unseen power she walks without the dread of cold or fear of night.
She now stands at a crosswalk leading toward a shoutengai shopping street that leads deeper into the heart of downtown to where all the bars, nightclubs, and arcades lie, where things get lower down and dirty. She knows her beauty and does not care; her concerns lie far beyond the opinions of those staring in suspicion and awe.
Fuckin’ nice legs, too. Real nice. The yokai would recognize them anywhere. Damn.
Now the yokai must choose, for the crosswalk lights are about to change. If he waits, he may spend his evening in the company of several women, but he risks losing sight of the teenage-looking girl. The gyaru brigade is still in reconnaissance, pushing each other inside the Lawson and swatting each other away. He hears every word: “No, no, I can’t! You go talk to him!” He looks back at the girl waiting for the crosswalk, then peeks over his shoulder at the women in the conbini, stirring up another round of squealing. He groans out loud, his giant head dunking backward to curse the night sky. He has no choice; no one else is coming. And these matchstick-legged bitches take too long. “Immortal” don’t mean I got all fuckin’ day.
A red flashing hand on the crosswalk cuts off the last electronic notes of a melancholic tune. The yokai’s arms pump back and forth as he runs; people clear out of his way to avoid his unintentional haymakers, unaware that they would do no harm.
“Phew! Made it.” He stops right beside the girl and looks her up and down. “Hey there. Hisa-bisa, na? Haven’t seen you in a while. You hungry? You look hungry.”
She does not answer. He offers her the last of his cigarette, first putting it to his lips and lighting it with his fingers. She accepts it, examines it, then places it on her tongue and curls the entire thing into her mouth. She chews three times and swallows. The yokai looks on, pleased. The light changes and the tune of “Toryanse” plays, cueing everyone to cross.
“Uwaa,” he stretches and cracks his neck. A couple nearby leaps at the sound of his popping bones. “Well, I’m still starvin’. I found this great place, you’ll love it. It’s new, but very old school. They got everythin’. I’m talkin’, everythin’. And don’t tell me you’ve already eaten. I won’t take that shit for an answer. Tonight’s my treat.” He pauses, looking her up and down several times with a comical grin. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but those shades don’t exactly work with that getup. I mean, it’s sexy, but … where’s your backpack? Your purse? You at least got a cellphone or any of those stupid knick-knacks girls obsess over these days? Guys around here might get the wrong impression about a chick like you this time of night. All right, you don’t gotta say nothin’. You’re safe with me, ‘kid.’”
The girl walks on, oblivious to the loud brash man walking in step with her as he raves about this mysterious, exclusive restaurant he knows. Back at the Lawson, the young women finalize their plan to chat him up, scan up and down the street, and — after an extensive argument and a lot of incessant whining — confirm that he is long gone. It ruins the rest of their evening. No one who approaches them that night is as good-looking. In time, they fight over what it would have taken to attract a cosplayer that good-looking (well, they are almost sure he was a cosplayer) and by the time the first train arrives half of them are not even on speaking terms. One falls asleep on the way home, half-drooling on her friend’s shoulder. In her dreams, a beautiful young man — the kind her mother wants her to meet one day, the complete opposite of her type — sits next to her on the train, strikes up a polite conversation. She guesses he may be half-Japanese, but between the train and the hotel in the middle of nowhere, she never thinks to ask. In the penthouse suite, she meets the black-clad samurai, who (as she had expected) gives her the best sex of her life. She wakes up at the end of the train line, miles away from her stop, with an irrepressible grin and a craving for whiskey sours.
“By the way,” the yokai says to his companion, “I know we got lots to catch up on, but first I gotta tell you: I think I’ve developed a whole new respect for the way you walk. Let me explain. This chick I met the other night — you had to see it — could not walk straight. Fuckin’ hell, you should have seen her run. She looked like a penguin runnin’ to take a shit!
“Not in a talkin’ mood, huh? Whatever. Even you would have busted a gut laughin’.”
The shoutengai is loud as midday thanks to the expansive rows of video arcades, convenience stores, and hyperactive night owls. As the giant yokai struts, his gaze swings from one side of the street to the other, taking in the scene; his eyes stray like powerful magnets on the cleavage of every woman who passes, despite the thick sweaters and autumn jackets that obscure them. The girl’s hands remain buried in deep invisible pockets. Her head stays straight-on, focused; nothing distracts her, not even the occasional eyebrow waggle from her companion. They stride through the crowded shopping street, side by side but never touching each other, despite the tide of night-crawlers and party animals. Instead they create an invisible, seamless divide among the masses, like the parting of the Red Sea. Nothing fazes this pair as they walk with determination to their ultimate destination. Their faces and appearances are impossible to decipher but they succeed at giving off the impression of owning the city and all that resides therein.
“See, the kid takes off, I go in and do my whole ‘heroic samurai’ speech, and I don’t even have time to flash one of my swords around — this bitch is all over me, just like that! I think she might’ve gotten started without me, if you know what I’m sayin’. So, we’re done in like two minutes, not that I’m complainin’. Then this chick starts talkin’ my ear off about how much she wants to travel and see some other weird famous cottages in the UK or some shit, I don’t know, I wasn’t listenin’. She goes on for ages, keeps repeatin’ a name, ‘Tasha Tudor’-somethin’-or-other, so I figure a’ight, we’re done here. I get up to head out for a smoke. She does not stop talkin’! By now her voice is just cuttin’ through me like a rusty knife, so I just fuckin’ go, I don’t even bother put-tin’ pants on. Guess what? Bitch follows me! Waddles all the way downstairs, chases me outside into the back … courtyard, or whatever the hell you call it … and she’s still yammerin’! I don’t know what to do! So, you know what I do? I panic. I mean, I transform and just fuckin’ book it over the wall and straight into the bush. Last I see her, she’s tryin’ to climb over the fuckin’ wall after me! What a psycho! Talk about a fuckin’ nightmare. Get it? ‘Fuckin’?’ ‘Nightmare?’ Ah, you’re no fun.”
Three boys, high school students, run out of a video arcade and barrel into the girl’s path. Without a hint of apology, they heckle her; high-pitched hyena-like cries as they jostle each other, reach out to touch her. The yokai keeps walking, oblivious.
“Here’s the freaky part. I lose her, take a good strong leak in the bush, and figure okay, it’s safe to morph back and put some pants on, so I head back to the house and — you ready for this? It’s gone. I mean, just pfft! into thin air. Nothin’ left but dirt and rubble. So now the bitch is gone, my house is gone, the kid’s gone, my clothes are fuckin’ nowhere. Weird. And comin’ from me, that fuckin’ means somethin’, you know what I’m sayin’? My thoughts exactly. FUCKIN’ weird —” He presses on, notices too late that the girl has yet to follow. “Come on! Hino-chan, I’m hungry!”
The girl responds: “You can wait, Akki.” This is not at all what the boys hear. The sound they hear is a horrific snarl from the girl’s clenched, razor-sharp teeth. She leaves them with a final, meaningful glance over her shoulder, over the rims of her sunglasses, as the yokai waits for her to catch up. With her gaze upon them, the boys feel their elated euphoria drain away until there is nothing left but a sense of how short life is. They are left standing there, mouths open, with a dreadful feeling as if everything they have ever known and loved has been ripped away from them. One of the boys runs away from his friends to wait for the first train alone. He does not want anyone to see the urine stain on the front of his pants.
Akki cannot help chuckling. “Shit, girl, they’re just kids. ANYWAY. What I wanna know is, who the fuck thought it was funny to fuck with my place? I mean, once the fires went down and I rounded up my nightmares, the house was back to normal, but what the fuckin’ hell?! Everybody knows Akki’s territory is Akki’s territory. When I find out what spineless piece of shit had the grapes to mess with me … ooh, just wait ’til I get my fuckin’ hands on ’em …”
The mismatched pair steer soundlessly down dirtier, quieter streets with fewer lights. The urban cacophony fades as they go farther and farther from the safety of the populated shoutengai toward the glow of the Tsutenkaku Tower and the heart of the slums. Akki leads Hino through a labyrinth of narrow alleyways, past standing ramen shops, shot bars, a pharmacy with blinding fluorescent lights called Love Drug, and a closed shrine where the water of its temizuya still trickles and a shishi-odoshi can be heard. They come to a dead end between two stumpy derelict buildings. In the darkness they can make out the shape of a small torii gate. It looks as though it was ripped out of the ground and abandoned there. An old man huddles in a corner next to it, warming his hands over a burning trash can, surrounded by garbage bags and stray cats, oblivious to the giant man and long-limbed girl approaching him. The walls are slathered in a colourful assortment of indecipherable graffiti. Four characters painted in crude white brush strokes jut out from among the rest:
自 分 自 身
“Finally,” Akki says. “Damn impossible to find anythin’ around here anymore. It used to be so easy to find that shrine! Go down past the fishmonger, turn at the unagi guy’s place, turn at the giant brothel, and bam. Easy as that. Now they’re all gone. Anyway, this is it. Here you are, old man,” he twists three gold rings from his fingers and tosses them into the fire. “One for me, an’ one for the lady. And I might have a friend stop by.” Under the cuff of Akki’s jacket sleeve black beads shimmer with the light of the flames.
The old man comes to life, like a living statue performer who waits for someone to drop money in front of him. “Konbanwa, irasshai, irasshai,” he bows, his smile revealing an absence of teeth. He makes several dramatic gestures to the old torii gate and grabs a handful of the darkness between its legs, lifting a thick black plastic tarp. It is still pitch-dark underneath.
“All right.” Akki pumps his fist in the air. “I’m fuckin’ starvin’!” He turns back to Hino with a triumphant smile. It fades as he realizes she has not moved from the main road. He shouts back to her. “What?!”
Even with shades on he can tell when Hino rolls her eyes. With a heavy sigh, she walks over, stoops under the tarp and disappears. Akki follows. The old man’s cackling already sounds as if he is miles away. The two yokai plummet into complete darkness.
“Fuck, it’s dark in here,” Akki’s voice echoes. “The hell we do now? Hino? You still here? Oh, there you are. The fuck’s wrong with you? No, don’t take off! Can’tcha hold my hand or somethin’?”
A deep, cold voice cuts through the air. “Don’t touch me, Akki.”
A dim light fades into view. A woman in a beautiful kimono materializes before them, candle in hand. “Irasshaimase,” she says, bowing low. “Omatase shimashita. Jibun rashiku ite kudasai.” They follow her through the dark empty space to a set of rice-paper shouji doors, which automatically slide open to reveal a tiny courtyard with a giant cherry blossom tree. Illuminated from below, its tiny falling petals twinkle in the light. Hino and the maître d’ step inside, but not before the sight catches Akki’s attention.
“Whoa, check that out …”
The maître d’ notices the yokai’s admiration. “Kirei desu ne? Hai, kochira e douzo.”
Another set of shouji doors slide open on their own accord to a magnificent traditional restaurant with sky-high ceilings dappled with starry lights. The maître d’ announces to no one in particular that two more guests have arrived: “Ni-mei-sama goraiten desu!” From unseen parts of the restaurant, a booming chorus of “Irasshaimase!” greets them. The entire place is lit with a warm glow from scores of red and gold hanging lanterns. The restaurant must be fourteen storeys high, with a massive stage. Towering gold screens with intricately painted cranes and forests line the stage. Sullen-looking men sit alone at several tables in a large pit below. A sparse number of patrons and servers look down over the wraparound balconies on every floor to watch the new arrivals. The maître d’ blows out her candle as she leads them over a stone bridge that stretches over a giant koi pond, away from a long shiny black bar under a thick bamboo roof, past a sushi bar the full length of the restaurant, where customers make their selections from giant tanks brimming with fish, lobsters, and crabs. The chefs greet them with low, respectful bows as the new arrivals pass by.
The maître d’ clears her throat. “You’ve arrived at a good time. More customers will be here soon, but for now it’s still very peaceful.”
“Oh, good,” Akki snorts. “You speak the language. Tell her how peaceful.” He cocks his head in Hino’s direction.
“Certainly. We are open from sunset to sunrise. Our ‘oni only’ hours are from two until sunrise. We have a strict policy against allowing humans during those hours; you will not be bothered while you are our guests here. We make sure you can relax and shed your worldly guises whenever you wish.” Akki takes a second to stick his long red tongue out at Hino behind their escort.
The lady stops at a booth with a window. She bows a perfect ninety degrees. “Please have a seat. I will return shortly. Relax, and be yourselves.”
The girl slides into one side of the booth. Akki collapses on the other with a sigh of relief into his cushioned seat. He rips off his jacket and shirt and chucks them onto the humongous table. The table was not designed with giant boar gods in mind, so he settles for his in-between form: a samurai with a blazing green aura haloed around him. He feels so free. “See? What’d I tell you? The real deal. Pure. Classic. Right out of the old days. None of that newfangled gaijin shit you see everywhere. You don’t even see fries on their menu. Anyway, what was I talkin’ about? Oh yeah. I don’t even know if the kid made it out of there,” Akki goes on. “Haven’t seen him since. I left him a message to show up here but no clue if he even got it. Maybe I went a little too far, settin’ the whole place on fire. Shit, man, I don’t know where I can find a better wingman than that kid. Tail hasn’t been this easy to get in a century. All he has to do is bat those crazy eyes of his and bitches come runnin’. Then all I gotta do is step into the room. The second they lay eyes on this divine temple they forget all about him. Can’t blame ’em. The kid’s like a rickety shack next to me. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I can say that about him. We all know it’s true. The real bonus is he’s got both bases covered — the prudes fall for that ‘cherry boy’ soushoku-danshi vibe he gives off, and the sluts who got that gaijin fever are too stupid to see through him. Best of both worlds, you know? Never could figure out why he goes through all that trouble to convince bitches he’s a ‘hafu.’ Hell, whatever gets the job done, am I right?”
The girl faces him for the first time this evening. She speaks in a throaty voice, deep as a man’s: “You moron. He is ‘hafu.’”
He cracks up. “Please! You tryin’ to play with my balls, Hinochan? You know I prefer the real thing.”
“He has been dreaming about his American father kidnapping him for years. Do you not talk to him? You have been harassing this human for a third of his life, and you do not know anything about him?”
Akki swears under his breath. “Leave me alone. Fuck. Can’t we just hang out instead of talkin’ about stupid shit nobody cares about? I’m hungry. And DON’T look at me like that. I picked a good place for us this time.”
He snaps his fingers and the maître d’ reappears with a young girl holding a large electronic device. Her kimono is gorgeous: a lavender background with pink sakura petals floating over a garden and a pond etched in perfect details at the bottom of her dress. Hino’s eyebrow lifts a little as she watches the petals flow in invisible wind. Akki smirks. “See? I told you this is the place for us. No more waitin’ all year for the one day we can go out in the human world and do what we want.”
“Oh, certainly, if you do not mind people throwing soybeans at you all night.”
“Hino.” Akki cocks his head at her. “They’re just beans. Now, check this shit out.” Akki proceeds to bark his order from the paper menu: “Fugu liver and spike dorian, four plates of each. Aka-chan sashimi, two plates … um, the ground bone gratin, four of those, and two plates of your finest horse.”
The young server blinks in stunned confusion. The maître d’ murmurs Japanese into her ear. After a few moments of quick interpretation, the server nods and taps the screen at record speed to keep up with Akki’s requests. “Hai, kashikomarimashita,” she confirms. “Nomimono wa?”
“A glass of your youngest B-positive blood, and a whiskey sour.” He grins proudly across the table. Hino is not amused. “Oh, come on! That’s the whole reason I brought your skinny ass here! What restaurant in this country do you know that has B-positive blood? Name one! See? You can’t.” She does not respond. Akki frowns. “Fi-ine,” he whines. “Just the whiskey sour.”
“Hai, hai!” The server bows, then flutters to the bar and returns holding a single whiskey sour in both hands as if it is a precious artifact. “Jibun rashiku ite kudasai,” she sings as she bows again and disappears.
“I apologize,” the maître d’ says with a bow. “Our restaurant is still very new; in time, our staff will learn to understand our clients in fluent yumego. If there are any problems, please do not hesitate to talk to management. Jibun rashiku ite kudasai; please be yourselves.” With a final bow she takes her leave to guide new arrivals.
“Yeah, Hino, please be yourself,” Akki grumbles before he downs his drink. The girl removes her sunglasses and places them delicately on the table. They glare into each other’s eyes — in the light, she can see the pulsing, neon-green flames in his eyes, and he can see her crimson irises. Hino turns away to look about the restaurant. She is not in the mood to argue with him. She never is. Akki signals a waitress for another drink and resumes sulking.
The food comes and goes without another word exchanged. While Akki wolfs down everything that steams and wriggles before him, Hino cannot help but marvel at the voraciousness of his mortal inclinations. Earlier, she had presupposed his attempt at conversation as chauvinistic banter; but, watching him now, she sees there was more to it. Hino always thought yokai were above such earthly desires as food and sex. She has never known another to engage in these fledgling behaviours with such enthusiasm. Then again, she thinks to herself, Akki has always been a bit “unique” and, to be fair, everyone must consume something for survival. Even demons. She decides to keep this rationalization to herself, however, and turns to watch the stage, upon which two human girls appear with a large, ancient-looking woman. They lead her to a stack of cushions and a shamisen in the centre of the stage and, struggling together, help her sit. One puts a large shakuhachi flute in her hands before they bow to the audience and flit back to the wings. The woman’s eyes are white, bulging vacant orbs in her slowly decomposing skull. She sings in a scratchy warbling voice, an ancient song no human would understand. She then brings the bamboo flute to her dry, cracked lips and plays another melancholic tune. During her third song, the woman’s kimono twitches. Another pair of long, craggy arms stretches out from once-unseen sleeves and plays along on the shamisen. Hino finds herself nodding in time with every piece. When the performance ends in a final dramatic flourish, everyone rises to their feet in applause, clapping long after the four-armed creature is guided off stage.
Maybe this place is not so bad, Hino thinks to herself.
Once the woman is gone, human musicians arrive with koto to play for ambiance, and a flood of customers enter the restaurant. Some are as big as Akki, their skin the colour of his ruby bracelet, sporting dark matted hair, horns, and severe underbites. Some are fat, flesh-coloured, and so short they would not be able to stand next to Hino without seeing under her skirt. Others arrive dressed as humans, unzipping their skin and shedding their disguises once seated at their tables. The patrons at the sushi bar greet their long-time friends as they unzip their own uncomfortable facial disguises. Akki pretends to ignore the fact that Hino remains unchanged. She has been stuck-up ever since they met. He does not expect her to relax anytime soon.
“Wow, we really did get here just in time,” Akki says, mostly to himself. “Not late enough to enjoy the slogan, though.”
The bite in his words seems to be directed at a pale-blond man bumping into the tables and guests, escorted by a group of flush-faced red-haired Japanese women, who laugh as he whirls and topples against them. “Oh man, this place is sick,” the man slurs. “Who’s up for some sake, baby?! Whoo!”
Akki sucks hard on a post-dinner cigarette with a loathing hiss. “Fuckin’ gaijin. Never would’ve thought humans could be any worse.”
Hino holds back a snort. “Does your minion not count?”
“’Course not! The kid ain’t … well, he ain’t no regular human. Ain’t many that can walk through dreams. Least, not like he can. Kid’s got a gift, hafu or not. That puts him way above humans. ’Specially these assholes. This country needs to throw a fuckin’ wrench into whatever conveyor belt keeps bringin’ ’em in. How’d everythin’ go to shit so fast? All these years it’s been like watchin’ a slow jinrikisha wreck. I don’t get it. We’d always had it made until they showed up. Solid food, soothin’ music, nice tight milky-skinned women who knew how to keep their mouths shut … and, of course, we had the samurai. How did this country decide to give all that up?”
Hino scoots deeper into the booth so she can lean her chin against her hand and look out the window next to their table. “You are forgetting about all the things this country has retained, Akki. More than that, you are talking about a planet with seven billion people. ‘Foreign’ influence is inevitable. Everything is so interconnected that even in Japan there are things that people do not realize are from other countries and influences, and people seem to love them fine.”
Akki glares at her. “Bullshit. Name two.”
Hino’s eyes flicker to Akki’s whiskey sour glass; she overturns her initial response. “Tempura. Coffee. May I go on?”
Akki gives her a nasty snarl. That had been his first dinner, no more than two hours ago, fresh from the Lawson trash bins. He thought, of all people, she would be the one to agree with him. “I already regret bringin’ this shit up with you.”
“The point is, if we as a nation want to keep up with the rest of the world, we must hold together, work through our ideals, and get used to change. We must find solutions, not add to problems with our stubborn determinations. We must not think of Japan as ‘going to hell’ just because things are not as they once were. There are many things that we have held onto, as well. You would not believe how many traditions have been lost in other lands … how much history has been corrupted, the number of races that have gone extinct.” Hino’s eyes flicker downward with a hint of sadness. “We are very lucky, Akki. You would do well to remember that.”
Akki makes a grunt of slight approval. “This might be the most I’ve ever heard you say since Nagasaki. Where’d you get all that shit?”
Hino does not remove her gaze from a nearby window as she answers: “Japanese history teacher.”
“Far out. How is he?”
“Delicious.” She spins her shades on the table. “Sometimes I think about how lucky we yokai are. Still venerated. We have not been reduced to annual Halloween costumes or anime or cartoons on cereal boxes yet. Count your blessings, Akki.”
“What? Sorry, I wasn’t listenin’. See the chick that just walked in with that blue-skinned dude? Hang on, she’ll turn around again … there! Look at the size of that. How do you think she sits on that thing? And shit, check this out — ha, ha, look at this gaijin fuck!”
Akki gestures his cigarette to the drunk man now lying across his table. Half of his red-skinned companions are removing his clothes by tearing them in long thin strips. The other half have removed their long red wigs and are giggling at the bite wounds they have made along his arms and throat.
“Well, my point is, we’re goin’ down the shitter, and I don’t mean the yoshiki-style. Think about it. Forks and knives. Pants on a woman. Christmas. All kinds o’ bullshit that were hard enough to take back then, and they’re still around! Don’t make sense for us to replace good shit with all this Western crap. Okay, fair point, their alcohol ain’t bad. It’s no sake, though. Can’t beat the home team. Nah, things oughtta go back to the way they’ve always been. All this foreign influence is just bullshit dumped on an already hardworkin’ society’s shoulders. It’s ’cause of all the suckin’ up we did to ‘fit in’ and keep up with the world that we had to get rid of things that made this country what it was: perfect.”
Hino puts her shades back on and accepts a cigarette from the tray of a passing waitress. Before turning back to the window, Hino mutters in Japanese, “Boke.”
“I heard that.”
The restaurant is in full swing now. Tables on the ground floor are occupied, but the customers are quiet. Their mouths are kept full by a small, efficient army of kimono-clad waitresses, pink, blue, and lavender butterflies flitting up and down and around the restaurant to keep patrons fed and happy. Many of them work in pairs to carry heavy rainbow arrangements of fresh sushi, steaming bowls of noodles, wide platters of sizzling skewers of meat drizzled in warm sauces, and giant ice-cold pitchers of beer dripping beads of condensation. The decor and spotlights overhead make the restaurant look more like a giant kabuki theatre than an exclusive establishment for fine dining. Those who are not eating or drinking wait patiently for another performance. The waitresses only have a moment to take dishes and glasses away and wipe down the tables before another crowd of guests swoop down on the chairs, relieved after an hour of lining up. The room is as dynamic as the city nightlife, but with a much wider assortment of characters.
One guest — a man — arrives alone. He strides right past the long line, ignoring the inquisitive looks of the wait staff who do not have the courage to question him. At first glance he looks like a normal person, but his eyes stop them. They watch him weave through the tables straight to the window seat with the giant yokai and the demon posing as a high school student. He has the look of someone who has already put in several hours but still has a long night of work ahead of him. His black suit and blue dress shirt are dishevelled. Hino is not surprised to see something else on his face: a look of dismay masked with the commitment and duty the country has drummed into so many young people she has seen over the centuries. Hino sees his disappointment, his bottled rage, his broken heart. She also notices how puffy his eyes are. Akki, as usual, notices nothing.
“Hey, whaddya know? Zaniel-kun. Fancy seein’ you here! Glad to see you’re still alive!”
The young man stops at their table and bows low, panting. “Akki-sama … I’m sorry. It took ages to get down from the mountains and … Are you glowing? Sorry. I mean … you look different.”
“Like it?” Akki beams at him in all his fiery-green glory, his grin so wide Zaniel could count all sixteen of his upper teeth were he not staring at Akki’s broad naked chest, upon which a large tattooed dragon appears to sleep. It opens one yellow, glistening eye, hisses at Zaniel, and rolls over so its back is turned. Zaniel snaps back to attention again when Akki answers: “Kinda nice, right? I finally found a place outside the mountains where I can let myself go. No shirt, no shoes, no problem.”
“Uh …” Speechless, Zaniel turns to Hino, who rolls her eyes behind her shades.
Akki tilts his head back to gulp down the last of his drink and belches. “Yup, the other yokai weren’t kiddin’ about this place. Glad they talk so loud when they’re walkin’ by the house, or I never would’ve heard about it! Only issue is all the humans you gotta go through to get here.”
“I see.” Zaniel remains stoic. He starts to speak again but is caught off guard by the array of empty plates and whiskey glasses scattered all over the table. “Um … Akki-sama, how long —”
“You ain’t said nothin’ to Hino, by the way.”
Zaniel catches his tongue and steels himself before bowing again. “Hino-sama,” he says. “Greetings. I apologize for my rudeness.” The girl continues to look out the window, ignoring them both. “Akki-sama —”
“Oh. OH. That reminds me. You’re not gonna believe this. Hino-chan here thinks you’re a hafu. Ha, ha! Can you believe that?!” Out of habit, Akki smacks Zaniel in back of the head. The yokai laughs, hard. “Oh, cool! Check that out, Hino, I can touch people in here! Awesome! Ain’t gonna be no more sittin’ around the house for me. I’m gonna be bringin’ bitches here all the time!” He interprets the look on the young man’s face not as a reaction to pain, but of shame. Guilt. “Wait. That true, kid? All this time, you’ve been a hafu?”
Zaniel pins his arms by his sides to keep from rubbing his head. He is in trouble. “I apologize, Akki-sama. It’s true. But my mother is Japanese, and I am a full citizen, born on Japanese soil. I have nothing to do with my foreign side anymore, I swear.”
“Huh.” Akki sneers down at him. “Guess that explains the eyes. And the accent.” And a great deal of other things, now that Akki thinks about them. His smile returns. He will not let this ruin his good mood. He is feeling merciful tonight. “Ah, lighten up, kid. We’ve known each other too long. I ain’t gonna hold it against ya. Ain’t like you’re gonna give me reason to. Gotta say, I’ve never seen anythin’ really gaijin about ya, aside from those weird eyes of yours. But I guess it can’t be helped. Don’t worry, I still think you’re one of us — well, not us.” He gestures at himself and Hino. “Japanese, I mean. Nihonjin. You get me.”
“Oh.” Zaniel exhales. “Um … thank you? I mean, thank you. Akki-sama is too kind.”
Akki sighs. “I know.”
“I do not mean to question you, Akki-sama, but how long have you been here?”
The yokai shrugs his giant shoulders. “No idea. Twenty minutes. Couple of hours. Why?”
“A couple of …” Zaniel pulls at his obsidian bracelet, nervous. The stinging sensation of its potential removal stops him. “But I thought — tonight —”
“And why you still standin’ there, kid? What are you, a foot soldier? Take a seat or somethin’. Have a whiskey sour. They’re go-od.”
“Akki-sama,” Zaniel says with a little more urgency. “Your guest, um … she’s been waiting for you all night.”
“My guest?” Akki’s eyes search the bottom of his freshest glass. Realization spreads across his face in a lecherous grin. “Oh, yeah … well, she can wait a bit longer, can’t she? I’m still digestin’. Oi, omae!” he barks in Japanese at a passing waitress. “Another whiskey sour, chop chop.”
“Akki-sama,” Zaniel trembles. “I had to leave her to come and find you. If you don’t go now, she might not stay. I’m sorry I left her. I didn’t know what else to do. And I’m very sorry, about the last one … that time, I …”
“Geez, kid.” Akki points to him when the waitress hands him his drink. “Mou ippai, hayaku,” he repeats. She nods in compliance and runs off for the second time. “Relax. I ain’t had a night out in Osaka for ages. You know, if you’re so concerned about makin’ the woman wait, you can do her yourself. I don’t mind. Unless she’s real hot. Is she? I don’t remember.”
Zaniel wipes his brow. Once again, the yokai’s memory — and concept of time — has shown its fickle nature. “Well, I guess it depends on what you mean —”
“You know what I mean. How hot was she for me?”
“Well, she was kinda —”
Akki does not wait for the rest. “Ah, forget it. I don’t feel like gettin’ up right now, anyway. If she ain’t rarin’ for me, there’s no point. Speakin’ of which, I ran into a whole batch of humans at this conbini. They were definitely feelin’ the samurai vibe, beggin’ me with their eyes to fuck ’em. Anyway, I want one of ’em for later. I haven’t decided which one yet. No, don’t take off now. They can wait! Have a seat. Order somethin’. Don’t be so wound up. They got some pretty relaxin’ music here, too, don’t they, Hino?”
Zaniel slowly slides into the booth next to her, as if sitting down too fast will trigger an explosion. “But … Akki-sama … I can’t eat food in this realm. If you recall, I’d —”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, don’t remind me. You’ll explode. Or whatever it is you humans do. Blah, blah, blah. Always the same shit with you. Anyway, while I have you here. The chicks you’ve been bringin’ up to the house have fuckin’ sucked lately, you know that?”
Zaniel is surprised, but not at the fact that he is being blamed. “I’m sorry, Akki-sama. All I can tell is who desires you. I’m afraid I have no control over their personalities.” Zaniel does not add that it is Akki’s own choices that have brought such disappointment. Pointing out his own flaws would be the utmost disrespect.
“Yeah, well … you should! Save me the trouble! Isn’t that what I’m payin’ you for?”
“You pay him?” Hino interrupts. “Since when?”
“I, well … I pay him in protection. And whose side are you on?”
“Same side I’m always on,” Hino murmurs to herself.
“Thank you,” Akki says curtly, having not heard her. He sighs and massages his furry temples. “The point is, boy, if you still want my help in this world, you’re gonna have to step it up. I don’t want any more chatterboxes who lie there like dead fish. I need somethin’ worth the effort, y’hear? This bullshit is gettin’ really exhaustin’. Unless you want things to go back to the way they were. I mean, hey. Maybe I have no idea what I’m talkin’ about. Maybe you’ll be perfectly safe without my protection. Hmmm. You’ve been workin’ longer hours in the real world lately, haven’t you? A hafu in your position needs all the sleep he can get if you ask me.” He snickers at his own joke.
Zaniel gulps, his eyes fixated on his feet. What on earth can he do? “I apologize again, Akki-sama.” He bows low. “From now on, I’ll do my best.”
Akki throws up his hands. “That’s all I ask! Save me the trouble of havin’ to replace you. I don’t blame you, though. Women aren’t the same as they used to be.” Falling silent, the three of them watch the drunk Westerner’s lady friends suckle on his limbs. The lull in the conversation gives Zaniel a moment to think, to imagine the very idea of being replaced by another. He cannot wrap his mind around the image, and wonders if he even wants to.
“See, Hino?” Akki smirks. “I told you I picked the right place for us. Take that.” He drains his glass in one gulp. After one last drink, with great effort he slides out of the booth, removes another gold ring, and tosses it onto the table. “All right, I’m outta here. Gotta rest up before my next ‘visitor.’ That’s for the tab; order whatever you like. And bring back my change. Oh, and order some shoujo horumon for takeout and bring it up to the house. On second thought, nah, just bring back my change.” He struts out of the restaurant without a backward glance. The staff chorus-sings at his departure: “Mata okoshi kudasaimase!”
Zaniel sits rigid and uncomfortable, silent next to Hino, who continues to smoke and stare out the window, playing with her lighter. The rain has started again. He does not dare touch the ring or even the whiskey sour. A part of him wishes the floor would open and devour him. He had concocted a whole story to relay about the other night, a perfect explanation that gave him an excuse to leave the vicinity of Akki’s house but left out the Yokai. The one he cannot get out of his head.
He turns to see Hino’s shades are now fixed on him. He clears his throat. “Um, I was surprised when Akki-sama asked me to find him here. May I ask, what is this place?”
Turning back to the window, she takes a long, slow drag. “We are in Osaka. This is a real place, in the real world. Did you see the name outside, on the walls?”
Zaniel shrugs. He did, but they meant nothing to him.
“This is ‘Jibun Jishin.’ Look closely when you go back out. You are smart, so you have probably figured it out that it is a new restaurant for our kind.”
“I see,” Zaniel nods. “Um … it seems like a nice place to bring a friend.”
Hino’s head turns sharply to face him. She lets out two sharp puffs of smoke through her nostrils, like a dragon. “Akki and I are not friends.”
“But —”
“I am his friend. Does not mean he is my friend.”
“Yes, of course. I apologize.”
Satisfied, Hino returns her attention to the window again. “They will have to kick you out soon. The witching hour is coming, no humans allowed.”
“Yes.” Looking around the restaurant, he sees Hino’s description is accurate. No one besides the two of them and the employees looks human. He wonders if the creature from the other day could be here. If she can breach Akki’s private territory and change things, make things disappear, she might end up here. What was she? Zaniel cannot figure it out. Aside from being mysterious, and perhaps a little exciting, he is still unsure.
Hino speaks again. “Well, now … what do you suppose this could be?”
He turns. All this time Hino has been watching a tiny creature no bigger than a sake cup on the other side of the window. Her white kimono looks familiar. She catches raindrops on her long, snakelike tongue. She licks the drops rolling down the window. Then, she notices Zaniel. Startled, she scuttles away along the ledge with quick, fluttering steps. He gasps. Despite its size, it is indeed the Yokai, the same one from the other day.
“That was interesting,” Hino mutters. She turns and sees Zaniel is already gone. Her eyes droop closed on her next drag, during which she can hear him excusing himself to everyone he bumps past in his attempt to catch up with whatever is outside. He will not catch up with her in time. She leans back against the cushioned booth and surveys the damage from Akki’s buffet. She notices the lone whiskey sour in the midst of it. Hino eats the rest of her cigarette with polite, tiny bites. It does not satisfy. She clicks her tongue. What good will it do to waste a perfectly good drink? She reaches for it and takes a sip. It burns her lips, goes down smooth. Not bad. She takes another to be polite, but over time finishes the whole thing. It still pales in comparison to B-positive children’s blood. She almost wishes she had not turned Akki down.
However, she grins, it seems this world is indeed getting more interesting.