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Whereas with the Societies, if the police are brought in, its only after the Spec Ops groups and federal agencies have had their fill.

So Kenji and Hisao are more afraid of the police than they are of Special Ops groups and federal agencies?

Oddball wrote:

Whereas with the Societies, if the police are brought in, its only after the Spec Ops groups and federal agencies have had their fill.

So Kenji and Hisao are more afraid of the police than they are of Special Ops groups and federal agencies?

Yes, BUT, only on the presumption that A) the feds and agents have bigger fish to fry (mutual enemy and all that) and B) H&K (dibs on band name) have done a reasonable job of covering their tracks.

Plus I imagine Kenji would be equally paranoid about all possible authorities, legal or otherwise.

Behold: actual detective work!

Clearly I’ve been overcome by temporary insanity. Wait, no, that’s normal for me. Never mind, move along, these aren’t the droids you’re looking for.

Previous Chapter

Part Two: Pastiche


A sane man wouldn’t have taken a job that legally speaking he had no business taking. A sane man wouldn’t have called his wife to let her know he was working late again. A sane man wouldn’t have driven to an ancient dive bar near the airport to eat Jamaican chicken wings and drink Irish coffee. A sane man wouldn’t pester said bar’s janitor for information acquired by less then legal means.

Fortunately for my peace of mind, Kenji had final say in all those matters, so I could take solace in the fact that he was the insane one, and I was just along for the ride. The Brass Wok was an aging bar that had no business existing, simply because its mere existence was an affront to safety. An old wooden building built in a pre-Meiji style, the only thing keeping it up was the rotting piles of dead termites lodged in its decrepit wood. Derrick, the owner and bartender, was talking to a couple of patrons who hadn’t died of alcohol poisoning yet, while Kenji and I sat at the bar with our information contact, Itachi. A short young man with dark brown hair and gray eyes, he was a shrewd man with enough sense to only ask questions when he was being paid to do so. When Kenji had given him the information Mr. Nomura had provided for us, he had spent nearly ten minutes looking it over before speaking.

“Well,” he finally said, a half-finished beer next to the papers, “I think I know who has your art.”

“Good,” I said, pulling out a small wad of yen for the weasel, “but before you spill, I gotta ask: why would someone steal art in the first place?”

Itachi shrugged, “the same reason anyone steals anything: money. Art can have a high profit margin, since most of its cost is from labor. If it has precious metals or stones in it, you can just sell it for scrap. If not, you can ship it halfway across the world and sell it in some tiny gallery in a big artsy city for a profit. Not a big one, but it adds up. And of course, there’s your standard cliché black market auction for rare and valuable works.”

“I take it we have the standard stealing for small-time profit here,” Kenji said from Itachi’s right.

Itachi nodded, “right.”

“So,” I gave him the money, “who do you think has been stealing these paintings?”

“Adelai Niska,” Itachi said, after counting out the yen and shoving it in a pants pocket, “at least, this case and the ones you’ve shown me the info for are similar to thefts he was arrested for.”

“So he’s a small time art thief who got caught?” I asked.

“Maybe,” Itachi mused, scratching his chin, “he went to jail for drug dealing, actually- the art theft charges never stuck. Art fencing tends to have much lighter sentences if you get caught; another point in its favor.”

“How come you know about him?” I asked, suspecting something sinister in the background.

Itachi glanced at me and smirked, “it’s my business to know.”

“Sure,” Kenji cut in, “but you only know something when it’s valuable. What’s a two-bit art thief to you?”

Itachi sighed, “all right fine, you got me. There is one other thing. I haven’t been able to confirm it, but Niska might have Mafiya connections.”

Well shit.

“The Russian mob, here?” I asked, “Wouldn’t the Yakuza slaughter them?”

“They would, except someone,” Itachi glanced at each of us as he sipped his beer, “seems to have stirred the proverbial pot. The mobs are going wherever they can and doing whatever they can to keep their clout and their finances in the black. They’re hiring punks from the street and hoping they last a week, they’re looking to two-bit low-life’s for professional work…”

“And their doing poor paying crime to pay the bills,” Kenji finished when Itachi trailed off.

Itachi nodded, “exactly.”

“Great,” I muttered, “so what the hell do we do now?”

“Not my problem,” Itachi declared, shuffling off his stool and wandering off to sweep the floor, or something.

I sighed and glanced at my mug. This job just kept getting better, “seriously, what do we do now?”

Kenji smiled mischievously, the bar’s bright lighting glinting off his glasses, “simple, really. We set up a camera in the Nomura’s art studio, record the next theft, trail the thief, find his stash of stuff, and shoot everyone who gets in our way. Then we call the police using an untraceable cell. All while wearing ninja gear, of course.”

“Of course,” I quipped.

The annoying part of that plan was that it made complete sense. Well, the shooting part could get problematic, but that's what Tesla's were for. Granted we would be going toe-to-toe with someone who might be in the Russian mob, but after facing hulking ceramic power armor, that didn’t seem so bad. Besides, it wasn’t like he was confirmed Mafiya -he may just be some petty thief with a good rumor mill, “I suppose you have a camera and phone ready for this task?”

Kenji nodded, “of course man. All we need to do is head over there and set up the equipment and wait.”

So after talking to the Nomura’s, we managed to stick a small spy camera in a corner near a potted plant in their studio. It was a nice studio, really- light blue walls, and tons of painting and sculpting equipment everywhere. Rin’s art was nice, but it was really bizarre, with colors and shapes that would make anyone question their sanity if it didn’t somehow look so…nice. Her husband’s sculptures were surprisingly anachronistic, in that he seemed to make mostly busts and sculptures depicting famous people and scenes. If he was anything like my wife’s best friend Lilly, he took a great deal of pride in overcoming his lack of sight.

With the easy part done, all we had to do was sit in a car by the studio and wait in an alley. Which was a bit unfortunate, because I hated stake-outs. You spent hours on end just sitting and waiting. Kenji at least got to look at a monitor with the cameras feed. I settled for re-reading Ciaphas Cain- Defender of the Imperium. My copy of Dune was at home. The fact that we were wearing our old Templar infiltration outfits -dark blue clothing with goggles and a gas mask- wasn’t helping my comfort level, either.

“So, how’re things?” I asked, mostly out of genuine curiosity.

Kenji had only been married a couple months, and his wife was already pregnant, so I expected him to be nervous. The anxious face he wore behind his mask –well, I presumed it was anxious based on how he spoke- as he glared at the monitor only enforced that impression.

“I’m going to be a father,” he replied, his tone confirming my expectations of an anxious expression.

“I know,” I replied, “How do you feel about that?”

Kenji glanced away from the screen for a second before his head darted back, “somewhere between intense panic, intense fear, and a desire to have explosive diarrhea, is my guess.”

I chuckled, “that sounds about right.”

Kenji sighed, but apparently rallied quickly as he peered even closer than normal for him to the screen and grinned, “Hot damn, someone’s pried open the window and is looting the place!”

Kenji angled the laptop screen in his lap so I could see better. Someone covered in dark blue clothing was sneaking around the studio with a large box- guess a sack would be too obvious. The figure picked through the pieces carefully, picking ones that were relatively small and had something approaching a color theme between different pieces. The thief also swiped a few of the smaller sculptures. Mr. Nomura never mentioned that; guess he was more worried about Rin then his own work.

The thief filled the box with seven or eight paintings, and two or three small sculptures. Using the fire escape on the side of the building, he easily slipped out and closed the window after him. We had had the Nomura ‘s leave it unlocked on purpose, and the building didn’t have any security of its own worthy of the name.

“Ready?” Kenji asked, facing me.

My hand reached reflexively for the Tesla pistol attached to my belt. Between it, the two Tesla grenades each of us had, and the body armor we were both wearing, I was ready for pretty much anything short of a full frontal assault.

I nodded, and waited. When a rickety old black van sputtered its way onto the road and turned left, I turned the ignition, waited three seconds, and followed.

+++
Next Chapter

"Make no mistake... War is coming, with all it's glory... and all its horror." -Starcraft II

Cliché Mafia Writing Powers, activated.

Previous Chapter

Part Three: Contrast


At the risk of sounding like Michael Weston, following someone is a tricky business. The van we were following had black tinted windows, but there were a couple of times when I thought he suspected I was following him –that’s the trick, you see; following someone without making it obvious your doing so. Fortunately I was able to feint a few times by going straight when he turned and doubling back to pick up the trail. Despite what Kenji said, I only got lost once, and it was because I never visited this part of the city. I probably should’ve installed that GPS Lilly gave me. Ironic, I know.

It took almost an hour of circuitous driving cat and mouse, but eventually the van screeched to a halt in the parking lot of some temperature controlled storage units, near an older part of the city that was actually disturbingly close to Kenji’s first office. Well, the sign outside the three story concrete structure said it was a storage facility. From outside it looked like a bunker. A bunker lined with narrow rectangular windows along the walls and more security cameras then a shopping mall, all of them turning and pivoting along the building’s walls and roof.

“We’re going to need to fry some security footage, aren’t we?” I asked. Two guys roaming around in ninja gear might raise questions if the police got hold of the footage, after all.

Kenji nodded, “you got it; we can blame it on infighting or something.”

He was smiling behind that mask. It bothered me sometimes how much Kenji enjoyed this. Do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life, I guess. I sighed lightly as I parked down the street, about half a block away from the alleged storage facility. As we got out of the car, I couldn’t help but question aloud how involved we could be with the criminal side of the job, while still being able to help the Nomura’s criminal perpetrators on the path to prison.

Kenji waved off my concern, as usual, “its fine, man; we still have the camera in the studio. The Nomura’s will say they installed it, and we get to keep out of it, while getting paid.”

Made sense, in theory, but part of being a scientist is dealing with the aftermath of when theory and reality clash violently. Usually that involves less shooting than when I have to deal with it. We made our way back to the storage units as casually and stealthily as two guys dressed as ninjas could in the middle of the night on the outskirts of a city. This part of the city was pretty deserted at night, so it wasn’t difficult to carefully stride up to the front door, after making sure the thief and no one else was anywhere around. The door to the storage facility was a bulky, white metal door that required a keycard for entry.

“I forgot to ask Akio for his Sonic Screwdriver,” I quipped.

Kenji glanced at me, his prescription goggles somehow catching what limited light the area possessed, “don’t worry, man, I got this.”

He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small rectangular black box with a thin card-like protrusion on one side. He jammed the protrusion into the pad and stared at the device, waiting. So that would be unlawful entry along with interfering with a police investigation. And property destruction once we turned the storage unit’s security footage to static. Assault and battery were likely ahead, too.

So more of the same, really. Occupational hazard of working with Kenji, who seemed to attract strange people and jobs like a magnet; birds of a feather and so on, I guess.

“Sometimes I miss the days of simple cases,” I lamented, “and I was sort of hoping this would be such a case. Criminality aside.”

“Yeah, the mob fucks up everything,” Kenji concurred, “keeps things interesting, at least.”

That was one way of putting it. A few seconds later the little box lit up green and the door clicked open. We both pulled out our pistols, and since I was against the door, I slowly opened it, Kenji hugging the wall near the keycard as he yanked out the device. I poked my head out from the door and looked inside. The hall was dimly lit, painted a boring beige color, and lined with wide, tall, orange shed-like doors. Somewhere, at the far end of the hall, was another white door, I think. It was hard to tell, though the overhead tube lights were on –the ones that worked, at least.

“Clear,” I declared, “and I think I see the security control room.”

“Good,” Kenji stated, “we can use it to find the thief. And watch for night patrolman.”

Since I had plenty of practice doing that in high school, that was actually one of the easier parts of this job. It had me less worried then dealing with the Russians, at least. Stepping inside, I noticed that the main hall had branching hallways near the front door and on the other end of the main hall, as well. An elevator was at the end of the right hall, while a large door leading to a stairway was at the end of the left hall. We walked as quietly and slowly as we could, listening for echoing footsteps or some other sign we weren’t alone. Getting to the security room had been easy, but the door itself posed a problem: another keycard by the white metal door. Worse, there was a large tinted window to the door’s left. As soon as I noticed that I hugged the right wall, dragging Kenji along with me. When no one set off an alarm or came out of the room, I tapped Kenji’s shoulder and he started moving forward.

I expected Kenji to hook up his little hacking tool again, but instead he took the more practical approach of knocking on the door. When the door opened he immediately shot the man in the threshold with his Tesla. As the man fell to the floor in a bath of blue energy jolts I looked behind Kenji, quickly pulling him back as another person in the room pulled out a pistol to shoot him. I shoved Kenji back and fired my pistol at the same time the guard, a woman this time, fired hers. Her shot grazed my arm, and I felt the all too familiar sting of searing lead against flesh as my shot not only downed her, but also shorted out some of the security equipment. Sparks fed into several monitors or keypads, creating erupting sparks and bursts of static as screens went blank.

“Clear,” I stated, “quick on the draw, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, looks like Itachi’s guess mighta been right,” Kenji grumbled as he strode into the small white room.

The wall next to the window was covered in monitors, under which was a white metal desk covered in papers, keyboards, and some coffee mugs. Clipboards with sheets of paper were perched on pegs on the far wall, and two metal rolling chairs were in the middle of the room.

I paused in thought while Kenji sat in one of the chairs and rolled it in front of the wall of monitors, “what, the whole building is a Mafiya front?”

“It could be a legitimate business, they just own it,” Kenji replied while he brought his face centimeters from one screen after another, “and use it as a base for some of their petty crime.”

I really hoped Kenji was reaching with that theory, because it would make things a lot more complicated, and the last thing I wanted from this job was for things to get worse. After a few minutes Kenji tapped a monitor, which showed an open storage unit lined with boxes, and our masked thief.

“Second floor, storage unit… 224,” he stated, “we better hurry; the next patrol will swing by that hall in two minutes.”

“How did you figure that?” I asked as we aimed and fired our Teslas to fry the computers shoved below the lone desk. After dragging the bodies under there, tossing their weapons into the trash can in the corner, we headed out of the room, closing the door behind us.

“The schedule was taped to the desk,” he said, answering my question, “the mob must be desperate for bodies these days.”

“Makes our job easier,” I quipped, “stairs or elevator?”

Kenji pointed to the hall that led to the elevator, “it’ll make less noise in the long run, and while it may not be faster, it’ll be more direct.”

There was also my heart condition to consider, though a few stairs wouldn’t be a problem. At least as long as no one was throwing explosives at me. I nodded and, after making sure the hall to the elevator was cleared, we snuck over to the elevator at the end of the hall and pushed the up button, our pistols still out and ready. The elevator light above us glowed and slid open quietly. It was empty, so we walked in and hit the button for the second floor. I was getting nervous about how easy things had been going, so I was actually a little reassured when Kenji lightly massaged his spleen with his free hand.

“Damn spleen,” he grunted, then, perhaps anticipating my worry, added, “don’t worry. Whatever happens, we can handle it.”

I nodded, slightly reassured. Kenji had a point, and besides, worrying about theoretical problems could easily cause us to screw up on the legitimate problems. The scientist in me reasserted itself, and I managed to focus on the task at hand. Before we reached our floor we each took a forward corner of the elevator. I took the right while Kenji took the left as the elevator quietly opened to reveal four guards in black suits holding readied glocks.

+++
Next Chapter

Oh look, a cliffhanger. I remember those.

…Hmm, so that’s what happens when you jury-rig a homemade chainsword with a car battery. Fascinating.

Um, anyone have an extra ring finger lying around?

Previous Chapter

Part Four: Shadowing


The guards opened fire at the same time we ducked our peeking heads back to return fire blindly and legally blindly –not much of a problem with a Tesla, really. This wasn’t the first time I was disturbed by how used I was getting to shooting people. Fortunately the Yakuza kept several therapists in their fold, and Kenji had good mob connections. Of the four incoming shots, only one got close, glancing off my body armor near my shoulder and making my heart thump once in annoyance; a grim reminder that I was still vulnerable to my heart condition if ever there was one. Once the four guards hit the ground from our shots, we stepped out of the elevator. Three women, all of them taller than average, and a stocky guy with a short beard were sprawled on the floor. I kicked their pistols away as I stepped over them to keep moving, but Kenji stopped and kneeled next to one.

“We got a problem,” Kenji said, pointing to a tattoo on one of the woman’s necks, “That’s a Mafiya ranking tattoo.”

I groaned and slapped my forehead, “so this place is a Mafiya front. Terrific. Let’s keep going.”

As we moved over to the end of the cross hall towards the main hall, I peered over to see two more guards stealthily zig-zagging towards us, using the recess’ of the sheds for cover.

I ducked my head back and turned to Kenji, “two more coming in. How did they know we were here?”

Kenji shrugged, “Either the guy we were tailing made us, or I set off a silent alarm when I hacked in.”

I readied and tossed a Tesla grenade down the hall, “so they were waiting for us? Great, that means-”

“It is, as one Admiral once said, a trap,” Kenji finished the sentence for me, while the grenade sparked and crackled down the hall, “but it’s a general trap for anyone getting nosy. These people have no idea who they’re fucking with.”

“Well let’s not keep the thief waiting, then,” I remarked, checking down the hall and moving out once I was sure it was clear.

“That’s the spirit!” Kenji declared as he followed me down the hall.

The two guards were both down and on the floor, but we staid stealthy to keep the noise down. Finding the proper shed was easy because it was still thankfully open, and the thief was still inside, too busy unloading and organizing art to notice us as we peered over from the wall, or apparently to have noticed the sounds of combat that had occurred. Before I could signal anything to Kenji, he had reversed his grip on his Tesla and quickly advanced at the thief. While the thief straitened himself after sorting some paintings, Kenji deftly pistol whipped him. After he collapsed onto the floor with a dull thud, Kenji grabbed him and dragged him out into the hallway.

“Not exactly subtle, you know,” I commented.

“Fuck subtlety, we need to be fast,” Kenji countered, “Besides, we’re gonna end up shooting our way out of here anyway now that the cats outta the bag.”

I sighed, “Don’t we always.”

“Here,” Kenji handed me his Tesla and emptied a large open crate near the wall, “keep watch and help me find the right pieces, it’s too damn dark in this shed, and I am not turning on a light.”

I doubt a light would’ve helped him anyway. I pointed Kenji towards what paintings looked like Rin’s work, and a few small sculptures I remembered from when we were in the studio. Rin had a pretty distinctive style, and picking out her pieces wasn’t too hard. What was hard was when more guards showed up and started firing at us with Mac-10’s. Apparently they weren’t too concerned with bullet holes peppering the walls as they unloaded in short automatic bursts. Or taking prisoners, come to that.

“Damnit get down!” I barked at Kenji.

Kenji quickly ducked behind some boxes and went back to sorting and packing our chosen crate. Not that he was in any real danger of getting shot from this distance, but better safe than sorry. Especially considering what a pain Mac’s were to aim- their recoil could be intense and they tended to be inaccurate in general.

I readied a grenade and tossed it down the right hall. Two guards were coming at us from that side, with two more on the left, who were armed with pistols, mostly likely to keep friendly fire risk to a minimum. I saddled over to the left wall of the shed and waited for the other guards to get close.

“Almost done?” I asked Kenji as the two guards took cover up and across the hall in a recess at the same time the grenade sparked and crackled down the hall.

“Yeah, just a few more lying around,” he declared, “I think. Is this one of hers?”

I glanced at the painting he was indicating and shook my head, “No, she doesn’t paint landscapes.”

“What about this one?” he asked.

“That’s non-representational, she’s abstract,” I took an art appreciation class in college for an easy grade. I do not recommend that to my fellow scientists.

“This one?” he asked.

I rolled my eyes, “That’s a photograph, man.”

Between helping Kenji and dodging incoming fire, I was starting to wonder why more guards weren’t showing up, considering it took a few more minutes to find the last proper paintings. Hopefully this place was minimally guarded -or as minimally guarded as a mob war could allow- and there just wasn’t anyone else to show up.

“So now what?” I asked after Kenji triumphantly lifted the painting and sculpture laden crate.

“We get the fuck outta here, what else?”

I rolled my eyes and managed to shoot the last guard trying to shoot us –I had hit the other one earlier. That left me three shots in my right Tesla, and two in my left- a sharpshooter I’ll never be. In the process of taking out the last guard I had also received a graze on my leg that thankfully missed my calf. Otherwise my morning runs would really hurt. Kenji had two grenades left, but using them would be a problem with his hands full. I checked down both halls to make sure they were clear, and we headed back to the elevator.

Peeking down the side hall, I saw two more guards, this time armed with shotguns, both aimed right at the end of the main hall. I turned to Kenji, who was behind me, watching the other side of the hall.

“Why didn’t we bring the chargers?” I asked as I holstered my pistol to grab one of Kenji’s grenades. I awkwardly readied and tossed the Tesla grenade before pulling out the holstered pistol.

“We don’t have enough time to wait for the shots to recharge, so there was no point in bringing the extra weight,” Kenji said as the grenade went off in a burst of crackling energy, “though a couple pistols woulda been nice.”

I sighed, “Yeah, let’s just give the cops a written confession while we’re at it.”

Kenji shrugged, “good point.”

We double checked the cross-hall again before darting to the elevator. Grumbling about his spleen, Kenji hugged the left corner by the call button, while I aimed both pistols at the door. Once we were ready, Kenji leaned the crate against the wall so he could push the down button.

“Does it bother you how easy this is?” Kenji asked.

I raised an eyebrow, “kinda, though I’m getting Kyoto flashbacks.”

Kenji groaned and turned his head to likely glare at me behind his goggles, “I thought you were over that?"

I returned the glare, not that he could see, “I had a limp for a week; that’s not easy to forget. Is your spleen still acting up?”

Kenji nodded as the door dinged open. I had been so worried about Kenji’s spleen I had forgotten to duck for cover, but fortunately the elevator was empty. Which apparently just made Kenji more anxious.

“That can’t be good,” he said, “You’d think they’d be waiting for us.”

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” I said as we stepped into the elevator, Kenji on the left side and me on the right, “I’m running out of shots, so I really hope they’re running out of guards.”

“You could always take one of their guns,” Kenji suggested.

I sighed and shook my head; as long as the gun was nonlethal, I had some claim to the moral high ground, fleeting as it would be. Not that anyone we were shooting would be terribly missed. At least that’s what I told myself after waking up from nightmares involving men in black suits gunning down Hanako, Akio, and Satomi while they screamed and begged for mercy. What I dreamed they did to Refia… I almost couldn’t go to work that day.

I hugged the right wall as the elevator slid open. To my surprise, no one was waiting outside. The hall was clear, so I told Kenji and we moved forward, just as a guard with a shotgun dashed into the hall, another leaning over the corner of the halls to provide fire support.

“Great, they’re getting smarter,” I remarked as I ducked down while walking. I ended up sliding a little as I fired at them before they could shoot; an intentional move to reduce the risk of concussion. The one by the main hall managed to squeeze off a slug that apparently winged Kenji. I turned my head at his pained grunt and relaxed when I saw he had just taking a graze to the left shoulder. Once the two guards succumbed to the Tesla shots, I hefted myself back up and darted to the corner of the hall, Kenji right behind me.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, the slide was intentional,” I checked the main hall, which had two more guards standing in it, using the recess’ for cover. So much for no reinforcements. We were only a few feet from the front door and freedom, so I asked Kenji if he wanted to run for it after making sure he was okay.

“Go for it,” he said, likely grinning behind his mask.

I readied and tossed the last Tesla grenade down the hall and darted for the door just after it went off. Unfortunately, before we could reach the bulky metal door it swung open. Standing in the doorway were three men, all in black suits and body armor. Two of them had shotguns pointed at me and Kenji, while the third, standing in front of the other two, was holding his hands at his sides. He had a short black beard and a scar under his left eye.

It took me a few seconds to realize I hadn’t been shot, but before I could impolitely decline to return the favor, the man spoke in accented Japanese.

“Before you shoot me,” he stated, his voice calm and an amused smirk on his face as he spoke, “I should probably point out someone is behind you.”

I slowly turned my head slightly and noticed a lone guard standing in the main hall, his shotgun aimed right at my back. How he had dodged the grenade, I have no idea.

“We’re surrounded, aren’t we?” Kenji asked, his head darting around as he tried to figure out why we weren’t moving and I wasn’t shooting.

I groaned and nodded, “yeah, I missed one in the hallway.”

Kenji grunted, “So it is like Kyoto.”

“Seems so,” I remarked.

Kenji’s response was a direct and annoyed, “Well, fuck.”

+++
Next Chapter

Well, that could’ve gone better. I think I’m getting back into the spirit of it, but what the hell do I know.

I was starting to wonder why more guards weren’t showing up, considering it took a few more minutes to find the last proper paintings. Hopefully this place was minimally guarded, and there just wasn’t anyone else to show up.

THAT is "minimally guarded"?
How many guards does it take to guard a warehouse filled with stolen paintngs of mediocre value?
I can buy that number of personnel for secret organizations bent on taking over the world, but the Mafiya is focussed on making money, and this is not cost effective...

Also - you did it again.

P.S.: Nice Star Wars reference.

Mirage_GSM wrote: How many guards does it take to guard a warehouse filled with stolen paintngs of mediocre value?
I can buy that number of personnel for secret organizations bent on taking over the world, but the Mafiya is focussed on making money, and this is not cost effective...

You're assuming there's only paintings there? Plus, there is the Yakuza to deal with. Mob Wars are rarely cost effective (insert War song from Abe Lincoln Must Die! to refute me here.)

I added a line about the mob war, hope that helps (also thanks; I do so love editorial feedback )

Also - you did it again.

I'm sorry. /kowtows in apology.

P.S.: Nice Star Wars reference.

Thanks . I am capable of subtlety; it's just harder to do properly.

Cue the obligatory conversation with the mobster.

Insert appropriate Godfather quote here.

Previous Chapter

Part Five: Framing


“Would you two like to explain why you are here stealing my property?” the bearded man asked. His Japanese had a Russian-like accent, so I hazarded a guess as to who he was

“We’re not stealing, we’re recovering,” I replied, “Mr. Niska, I presume?”

The man nodded and bowed lightly, “indeed. Ah, recovery is it? So you are here to re-acquire someone else’s works?”

“That’s the gist of it,” Kenji said, his breath a bit shallow from hauling the crate, “now if you don’t mind stepping aside? This crate is kinda heavy.”

Mr. Niska sighed and shook his head, “if only it were that simple, yes? Sadly, it is not so simple.”

“Not that I don’t enjoy breathing,” I interjected, “but if you don’t mind my asking, shouldn’t you be shooting us?”

Mr. Niska sighed again, “after all the trouble you have caused -destroying my security system, setting off my silent alarm, scorching the walls with your weapons- I felt the least you should do is explain yourselves.”

One thing I’ve learned while working with Kenji is if the guy with the weapon –or in charge of the guys with the weapons- is talking to you rather than shooting you, odds are good you have a way out of whatever problem you stumbled into. The trick was knowing how to use the guy’s chattiness to your advantage. In this case, it was seeing a fatal flaw in the whole “we were surrounded” part of his ambush. I heard the guard behind us creeping closer, but I still had an opening. All I had to do was wait. Glancing at Kenji’s shaking arms and slightly panting breath, I didn’t have to wait very long.

“Well, we’ve done that,” I stated, “so if you don’t mind, we’ll just be on our way.”

Mr. Niska raised an eyebrow, “Oh, and you are so sure of this, why?”

“Because I told you,” Kenji grunted, “this crate is fucking heavy!” with another grunt and a groan he heaved the crate at Mr. Niska.

The guard on Mr. Niska’s left instinctively moved to intercept it, catching it and knocking him, Mr. Niska, and the other guard over in the process. While Kenji was running out the door I ducked down and pivoted on my heel to shoot the man in the main hall before scrambling after Kenji. The guard managed to fire before I downed him, but his shot ricocheted off the wall somewhere. I made it outside and ducked behind the door with Kenji while the other three were still struggling to right themselves.

“About time you realized they wouldn’t shoot while we were close to Niska and the art,” Kenji grunted through his mask.

Before I could reply I heard a guard step outside, so I slammed the door into him and pulled it back. The other guard was speaking to Mr. Niska in Russian, which had I had time I would’ve had Kenji translate. I poked my pistol around the door and bind fired my last two Tesla shots on the other guard and Mr. Niska, then waited as the jolts and arcs of blue electricity hopefully did their work. Cautiously peering into the inside, I saw Mr. Niska and one of his guards down in the main hall, while his other guard was knocked out from the blow I gave him with the door.

“Clear,” I stated, smiling now that we were more or less in the clear, even as I had to work to steady my breath and my heart from the burst of action. Remembering Kenji’s earlier quip, I added, “and I knew they were getting closer to take us out, I just needed to wait for you to get impatient.”

Kenji nodded lightly, “the Leroy Jenkins strategy? Risky, but effective. Usually.”

I rolled my eyes –only Kenji and the Imperial Army would consider a suicidal charge a viable strategy- holstered my Tesla, and handed Kenji his, “make the call to your cop friend while I grab the art. We need to get outta here before more Mafiya mooks show up.”

Kenji nodded, grumbled a bit, and made the call while I hefted the crate outside. A few bullets had splintered the crate in places, and one of the sculptures was broken, but overall it had survived rather well, considering. I shut the door behind me with my foot, forgetting that a guard was in the way. Kick rolling the guard out of the way took some effort, but by the time I had finally shut the door, Kenji had finished his call and was waiting for me to finish fooling around.

“Time to go,” I stated, sighing in relief as I headed for the car at a quick trot, Kenji right behind me.

“This is the last time we help a former schoolmate you’re not related to,” Kenji declared once the art was in the trunk and I was driving off.

“What about Lilly?” I asked.

“She is family,” Kenji replied.

“I’ll pass on the compliment. Your friend have good news?” I asked.

Kenji nodded, likely smiling behind his mask, “the story’ll be that an anonymous tipster heard gunfire and the police sent someone to investigate. They shouldn’t have a problem mopping everything up, arresting Niska, and recovering the stolen property. All we have to do is return the art, make sure the Nomura’s say they installed the security camera themselves –and don’t mention that we recovered some of their art, obviously- and we won’t be any more involved.”

I nodded, “Good, this art thieving stuff is way more involved than I thought.”

Kenji grunted, “That seems to be a recurring problem with us.”

We called the Nomura’s the next morning, and they showed up in the evening after classes, so I would actually be there. The crate of artwork was on the desk, and had suffered a bit more damage than I had originally thought. They didn’t seem to mind though. Mr. Nomura felt the frames of the paintings and the sculptures, while Rin merely looked down at the crate with a smile.

“Well, you two surprised me,” Mr. Nomura said, his cane leaning on our desk as he felt the frame of one of the larger paintings. His hand stopped and lingered at a bullet hole for a moment. I glanced at Kenji, who was too busy examining their check to notice anything else. Mr. Nomura smirked and lowered his sunglasses. Angling his head down a bit, his lifeless gray eyes gazed near my left ear. If I wasn’t used to such sights I probably would’ve shuddered; being “stared” at by a blind person can be a very disturbing feeling.

“You two must have had an interesting night,” he said before placing his sunglasses back up over his eyes.

“You could say that,” Kenji stated, finally looking up at the two.

“We’re not sure how much we recovered,” I added, “or how much was still there, but the police did a raid last night and you should be receiving a call from them as soon as they sort out the loose ends.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Nomura said. Her eyes were wet and her smile wide and warm as she looked at me and Kenji, “I’m glad you’re heart thingy doesn’t affect your heart.”

Mr. Nomura chuckled, “Indeed. Thank you for helping us, even when you shouldn’t have.”

I smiled and bowed to both of them, even if only one could see, “no problem,” smirking, I couldn’t help adding, “But I’d appreciate it if you don’t make a habit of it.”

Mr. Nomura chuckled again, “I doubt we’ll have need of your services in the future.”

Mrs. Nomura glanced at her husband for a moment before looking back at us, “Take a painting.”

“Excuse me?” Kenji and I asked at the same time.

“A painting,” she stated, that wide smile still etched on her features, “Take one. One with a bullet hole. I don’t like what the bullet hole says about me,” her smile became a bit smug as she continued, “I like what it says about you two.”

Kenji glanced at me over his glasses, “you did say Hanako wanted something in the living room.”

“True,” I looked at the larger painting that Mr. Nomura had been feeling earlier.

It had a nice mix of blues and reds of different shades, and the frame was a dark wooden color to add some vibrance to the lighter colors around the painting’s edges. The painting itself was Rin’s usual style, depicting creatures and things swirling and combining in a way that would make people question their sanity if it somehow didn’t work together so well. I could always fill in the hole, anyway.

I lifted the painting from the crate and placed it carefully on the desk, “thank you, Rin.”

Rin smiled and nodded as Mr. Nomura bowed. Picking up the crate, I added, “let me help you get this downstairs.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Nomura said. With Mr. Nomura’s cane in one hand and Rin’s sleeve in the other, the two slowly strode out of the office, me and the crate of artwork trailing behind.

+++

Awww.

Next time on Hisao and Kenji- Master Detectives!

Kenji thinks the Illuminati are reorganizing, and he is determined to stop them once and for all again. When Kenji insists on going alone, will Hisao be able to live with himself if he leaves his partner to his fate? He’ll need to make up his mind, because if he’s not careful, he might be not living at all.

Tune in next time for Mystery Nine: The Illuminati’s Revenge!

Same thread, same forum!

To reiterate: I love Christmas. So in good Hoitashian™ fashion, I am going to inflict my passion and insanity on those around me. To that end, I present a story centered around one of the greatest Christmas movies ever. Speaking of which, I enjoyed having to watch said movie for this fic, and drinking along with the game, almost as much as writing this.

Now, um, does anyone know why there’s an elk head on my coffee table?


Drink Hard on a Couch –An HK: MD One Shot


Back in college, while Kenji Setou was still trying to Spirit Journey his way through his borderline schizophrenia, the two of us started a monthly tradition. Somehow, that tradition grew and survived into our middle age, although we managed to keep the drunkenness to a minimum. Still, the event became not just a tradition between two college friends, but a family affair, and, occasionally, a holiday one. Such was the case the last Christmas before Kenji’s first child was born...

It was a Sunday afternoon in the middle of December. My wife, Hanako, and I had just arrived at the apartment of Kenji and his wife, Miya. While I had decided to move to the suburbs to take advantage of the relative peace such a place provided, Kenji had remained in the city. For a man who had once barely left his own high school dorm, it might seem odd, but Kenji had always been a man of action, and for him it made sense to be where the action was. Plus it was closer to where Miya worked.

Anyway, Hanako and I were dressed to fight the cold as we waited in front of Kenji’s door. I was holding a bottle of Jack Daniels, while Hanako was holding a platter of Christmas cookies. The wait between us ringing the doorbell and the door opening wasn’t very long, and I wasn’t surprised when the door swung open and Kenji’s beaming face appeared. Kenji’s door had a peephole for a reason.

“Welcome,” he said, smiling and stepping aside so we could enter.

Dressed in a green sweater and matching slacks –which I was pretty were from his old high school uniform- he managed to look rather festive, the gold and red scarf he practically had surgically attached around his shoulders for once suitable to the season. His black hair was actually combed and clean, and his thick, round glasses looked like they had been wiped with a cloth sometime this week.

Hanako gave me a wary glance; she never liked being the first to enter someone else’s home, even when invited. I smiled at Kenji and stepped into his apartment, Hanako following quickly.

Kenji’s apartment was best described in two words: bright and eclectic. Like my wife’s best friend Lilly, the place was carefully laid out and organized, in order to reduce the risk of injury to its blind –in this case legally blind- occupant. The front door opened into a long hallway that led to a living room on the right, a bathroom down the hall and to the left, and a kitchen/dining room in the back, which led to the bedrooms. Don’t ask why Kenji bought a two-bedroom apartment before he married. It was necessary, I’ll tell you that much.

“Hey, man,” I said once Hanako and I were inside. Hanako closed the door behind her as I added, “everything ready?”

“Hell yes!” Kenji declared, “how about on your end?”

That question was directed at Hanako, who smiled and nodded, “Miya and I will keep out of your hair, Kenji,” frowning slightly, she added, “just don’t burn the bathroom down again.”

“That spider started it!” he retorted, his nostrils flaring in recollected rage.

“Oh, they’re here,” I heard from down the hall.

Turning to face the hall, I saw Miya amble out of the kitchen. A bit on the short side, with brown eyes and matching hair she kept in a short ponytail, she was also dressed for the winter. Her thick clothing hid the fact that she was several months pregnant.

“Hey, Miya,” I said, bowing lightly in greeting.

“Hello,” Hanako stated, turning fully to face Miya as she bowed.

Miya returned the bow with some difficulty, and it looked like it might’ve hurt a little to bend like that, but she was smiling brightly when she asked, “you ready to go, Hanako?”

Hanko smiled and nodded, “yes. Are you?”

Miya nodded and ambled forward, stopping to give Kenji a peck on the cheek, “have fun while we’re gone, but don’t burn down the bathroom again, okay?”

“The spider started it,” I declared in support of Kenji.

Miya rolled her eyes and opened the front door, “bye!”

Hanako gave me a careful kiss on the cheek, “take care.”

“I always do,” I replied, returning the kiss on her left cheek. Smiling shyly, she handed Kenji the tray of cookies and followed Miya out the door.

“We haven’t much time,” Kenji declared when the door closed, “George and Mr. Hakamichi will be here soon.”

I sighed and followed Kenji as he stepped into the living room. Painted a light green, the room had large, ceiling mounted fluorescent lights like the rest of the apartment. It also had a 50” flat screen TV with a ton of support equipment. Surrounding the TV were two padded chairs and a decent sized couch, all a slightly darker green then the walls. Bookshelves and cabinets loaded with books and art supplies lined one wall, and a few advertisement posters Miya had made adorned the opposite wall. A small coffee table was placed on each end of the couch. Kenji carefully placed the platter on the right table, next to a tray covered in shot glasses and several decanters. The left table also had a tray on it, but this tray held two rolls of parchment –I kid you not, legit parchment.

“I still can’t believe you asked Mr. Hakamichi to come,” I said, “come to that, I can’t believe he agreed.”

“Honestly I’m surprised, too,” Kenji replied, turning to me and shrugging, “guess he just likes drinking and watching movies.”

“Guess so,” I replied.

Mr. Hakamichi was a complicated man. A former Yakuza spy who had literally hacked his way out of the organization, he was a devoted father who never missed a chance to belittle his children to their faces. A task made more complex by his oldest child being deaf. Shizune was a lot like her father that way; assertive and aggressive, she never shied away from a challenge, but at the end of the day would fight to the death for what she believed in. She wouldn’t hesitate to give you the shirt off her back, either.

Despite a long-standing friendship with his daughter, I had only met Mr. Hakamichi himself a handful of times. Most of those times involved heavily armed third parties, so I was wary of socializing with the man; drunken fighters can be dangerous. I was reassured somewhat by George’s presence, though. Somewhat ironically, the only time Mr. Hakamichi and I had met in a social setting had been at George’s wedding to Lilly.

I took off my coat and moved to the closet by the front door to hang it up. Kenji, meanwhile, darted off to the kitchen to prepare the food for transportation and consumption. I had just managed to hang up my coat when the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” I announced.

Peering through the peephole, I saw Mr. Hakamichi waiting, each hand holding something, neither of which looked like his family katana. Instead of the usual Hawaiian t-shirt, he was wearing a light blue greatcoat. His hair was as carefully trimmed and his beard as unruly as ever. The hair around his temples and the ends of his long hair were starting to gray. Still not sure it was a good idea, I opened the door.

“Good afternoon,” I said, bowing in greeting.

“Hello, Nakai,” Mr. Hakamichi grunted, “you look ridiculously festive.”

I glanced down at my argyle red and green sweater vest. Deciding to take the statement as a compliment, I thanked him and stepped back so he could walk in.

“Kenji’s getting the food ready,” I said, “May I take your coat?”

“I can get it,” Mr. Hakamichi grunted, handing me what he was holding so he could do so. He had brought two bottles of Jagermeister and a bottle of sake, which he had already chilled. Glancing at his coat, I noticed he had strapped his katana along the inside of it. Under the coat he was wearing the anticipated Hawaiian short; red and green this time.

“I’ll just put these in the decanters, then,” I said, mostly to myself.

Mr. Hakamichi hung up his coat and followed me into the living room. His eyes analyzed the entire room, and I wasn’t sure what he thought of it. The man wasn’t easy to please, but if he was upset he made it known. Although he was a guest, which might temper his more abrasive side. Hopefully.

“Have a seat,” I stated, “we’re just waiting for George now.”

Mr. Hakamichi sat on the couch while I poured one of the Jagermeisters into a decanter. The sake I left in the bottle, since he had already chilled it. I also filled one of the decanters with the Jack. We were definitely prepared on the alcohol front, and if we needed, the fire front as well, although there were far cheaper alcohols for making Molotov cocktails.

“Who is it?” Kenji asked from the kitchen.

“Mr. Hakamichi,” I stated.

“Excellent! I’m almost ready!”

Proving the point, Kenji appeared a few moments later, several platters and trays of food precariously held in his hands. How he managed to bring the food, place the food on the little table space available, and not trip or drop a single thing, I have no idea. Practice, most likely.

“We can start when George gets here,” I said, then turned to Kenji, “you have the rules written out, right?”

Kenji nodded, “yup, this should be a good one.”

I nodded and tilted my head as the doorbell rang. Kenji ran off to get it, leaving me in the awkward company of Mr. Hakamichi.

“Your friend knows how to throw a party,” Mr. Hakamichi stated his eyes raking over the food with something approaching acceptance.

I nodded, “after a decade of practice, he had to figure it out sooner or later, I guess. Though we still seem to set too many things on fire.”

“The spider started it!” Kenji declared from the threshold into the living room. George was standing behind him, holding a six pack of Guinness in his right hand, and something wrapped in a paper bag in his left.

Slightly shorter than his wife, with short black hair and dull hazel eyes, George was wearing what could only be described as the most offensively ugly holiday sweater to ever grace Holy Terra.

“Merry Christmas!” he shouted, “and a Happy New Year!”

“Are you drunk already?” Mr. Hakamichi asked from the couch.

“Uncle Jiggy! You came!” George stated.

“Anyone else getting A Christmas Carol vibes?” I asked.

George smirked at me, “you’ve read Dickens?”

I shrugged, “I blame Lilly. I prefer Sandy Mitchell and HG Wells.”

“I was always a Soseki and Basho fan, myself,” George said –he would, being a Japanese Literature professor, “anyway, I brought the beer, and I got a special gift from Akira and Daichi, since he couldn’t make it.”

George set the beer down next to the table loaded with food and decanters, and, with a dramatic flourish, revealed from the paper bag a bottle of scotch that probably cost more than my car.

“Holy shit,” I blurted.

“Satou always had good taste,” Mr. Hakamichi barked as he glanced at the bottle.

Kenji took the bottle to examine the label. Holding the bottle mere centimeters from his face, he grinned and lowered it to declare, “They certainly outdid themselves from last time.”

“Seems almost a shame to waste it on this,” I mused.

Kenji turned to me, glaring slightly at my left ear, “this is no waste. It is being put to a most honorable and dignified purpose!”

“What’s so honorable about a drinking game?” George asked, his Canadian accent doing funny things to the extra “o” sound Japanese possessed.

Kenji rounded on George, pointing a finger at him as he stated, “this tradition dates back to the very Founding of the Brothers in Brotherhood! Back when it was only two men against the vast feminist conspiracy, our only weapons an empty bottle of Jack and a straight razor! Together Hisao and I forged ahead against the feminist horde, and now we are here to bring our other kinfolk into the fold.”

“Are you drunk already?” Mr. Hakamichi asked, giving a Kenji a cautious glance.

“I think the shock therapy from college is wearing off,” I quipped.

“Very funny,” Kenji said, smirking as the light glinted off his glasses, “now that George is here, the time has come! Everyone, take your seats while I prepare the movie and Hisao states the rules for tonight’s event.”

“Don’t we have to initiate Uncle Jiggy first?” George asked, “You had me do it.”

Mr. Hakamichi grimaced at the nickname even as Kenji and I leered at him. He noticed that and glared at us, “what is he talking about, and why are you looking at me like that?”

“Just a formality,” I stated, “Kenji, will you do the honors?”

Kenji grinned and nodded. He grabbed one of the rolls of parchment, trotted in front of the couch, and slowly unfurled it. The entire time he was doing this, Mr. Hakamichi was carefully following his movements, as if he was ready to pounce on Kenji if he had to.

Kenji cleared his throat and glanced at Mr. Hakamichi from over the parchment, the contents of which he had likely already memorized so he didn’t have to look at it, “Jigoro Hakamichi, you sit before the Brothers in Brotherhood, a tradition of drinking and male bonding dating back over the last decade. Are you prepared to become a Brother?”

“If it lets me drink and watch the damn movie,” he retorted.

Kenji nodded, “very well. Do you confirm that Lilly Williams nee Satou is your niece by marriage?”

“Yes,” Mr. Hakamichi grunted; Lilly’s aunt on her father’s side had been Mr. Hakamichi’s wife.

Kenji nodded and turned to me, “do you attest that the bond between Lilly and your wife, Hanako, is like that between sisters of blood?”

“Yes,” I stated.

Kenji nodded and grinned, “very well. Mr. Hakamichi, you are now initiated into the Brotherhood.”

“So can we start the damn movie?” he asked.

Kenji nodded as he rolled up the paper, “Hisao, you wanna read the rules while I set it up?”

“Sure,” I replied.

I grabbed the other parchment and unfurled it while Kenji went to work. Before the rules of the drinking game was a short preamble, so I cleared my throat and stated, in my best lecturing tone, “December is a time of year of great import to the Western world. In respect of our mutual cooperation, and in recognition of our non-native born guest,” George was Canadian by birth, Japanese citizen by marriage, “we will celebrate the Christmas season with one of the most romantic, endearing, and emotionally powerful holiday specials ever made: Die Hard.”

“Before we may do so, however, we must be made aware of the proper rules, both of the drinking game and for the night ahead. Rule one: keys go on the platter with the parchment.”

Hanako and I had taken her car, so I didn’t have any keys. Sometimes she was as protective of it as she was of her motorcycles. Kenji, obviously, didn’t have to worry about car keys, either. George reached into his pants pocket and lightly tossed his keys to his left, even though he was sitting right next to the tray. Mr. Hakamichi handed his keys to George, who laid them down on the tray more carefully.

I nodded, “very good. Rule two: please refrain from setting anything on fire. Rule three: keep all discussion civil and free of vitriol. Rule four: do not complain about the wives, for they will find out.”

“Ready when you are, man,” Kenji declared behind me.

I nodded again, “alright, now for the rules of the game. Consume when someone is shot and someone says ‘fuck.’ Also, a celebratory beer shall be consumed when Bruce Willis utters the immortal line ‘yippie-kai yay, motherfucker.’”

“Question,” George interjected, raising his hand, “does the fuck in motherfucker count as a separate drink?”

I nodded, “indeed.”

“Also, aren’t we a little old for this kind of thing?” he asked.

I shrugged, “at least you didn’t have to talk to your doctor before coming here.”

That had been a fun conversation with my doctor. Fortunately he had me on a blood coagulant for a bit to reduce the chances of me dying from a nosebleed. Or from having that nosebleed causing a heart attack. There was always the risk of a concussion from falling off the couch, but that’s what my other meds were for.

“Besides,” Kenji added behind me, “you’re only as old as you feel!”

“Damn straight,” Mr. Hakamichi grunted, “are you ready yet?”

I turned in time to see Kenji nod, “it’s go time, motherfuckers!”

“Halla-freakin’-ulah!” George declared, scooting over so I could sit to his left.

Kenji hit the lights, adjusted a chair so it was closer to the platters and trays on the right side of the couch, and started the movie before sitting. Kenji readied the first shots to be distributed, using the sake while it was still cool, “we all okay with English language, no subtitles?”

Everyone nodded, to my surprise; I didn’t know Mr. Hakamichi new English. My knowledge of it wasn’t the greatest, but I had seen the movie before, so I knew what I was in for, anyway. I asked Mr. Hakamichi about knowing English, to which he nodded.

“My company works with several American based contractors,” he stated, “we also used to have a very lucrative contract with Weyland Industries, but that went down the tubes a few months back.”

The leer he gave me told me he knew Kenji I were responsible for that, but his smirk put me at ease that he wasn’t too upset about it. By that point the movie had started.

“Do you think Alan Rickman should stick to dramatic roles?” George asked just as Argyle parked in the parking garage.

“He was pretty good in Galaxy Quest,” I stated.

“Right, but he hasn’t done a lot of comedy since,” George countered, “Hell, he hasn’t done much at all since Harry Potter.”

“He did great things with that role, though,” I said, “I mean, he did have the most nuanced character in the series.”

“All the characters were nuanced,” George stated.

I shook my head, “no, Deathly Hallows made them nuanced. Only Snape had any real subtlety to his character early on.”

“Can we save the literature bullshit for later?” Mr. Hakamichi grunted.

George shrugged and snarfed down a snicker doodle. I nibbled on a chicken wing and stated, “What do you expect when a writer, a writer’s wife, and a literature professor get together?”

==

By the time Mr. Takagi’d been shot, we’d managed to down a few drinks, and holy hell that sake had a punch to it.

“You know,” George said, his accent slurring his speech a little as the alcohol hit him, “when you think about it, this whole movie is a… an allegory for World War II.”

“How the hell do you figure that?” Mr. Hakamichi asked.

“Think about it; Takagi is Japan, Hans is Germany, Karl is Italy, Holly is Eastern Europe, and that moron Ellis is Vichy France.”

“Alright Mr. Allegory,” Kenji cut in, his glasses askew for some reason as he pontificated with his shot glass, “So you’re telling me McClane is America, right?”

George chuckled a little and shook his head, “no, see, that’s the beauty of the whole damn thing. Think; McClane does all the real work, but on the outside you have a bunch of gung-ho guys who’d rather be in the Pacific.”

“McClane is Russia?!” I nearly shouted; a cue I needed to fight the alcohol with a cookie.

George laughed and nodded vigourously, “extacly! Er, exactly. The cops are the US, and the Feds are the Brits. It’s fuckin’ brilliant!”

“So who the hell is Powell?” Mr. Hakamichi asked, apparently tipsy enough to humor us, despite all the food he’d eaten.

George shrugged, “Canada, obviously.”

==

Two dead robbers, a couple of fucks, and a yippie-kai yay equals no more sake. The Jagermiester had as much kick to it, though. When I opined that we wouldn’t get to the scotch, George just laughed. Then I remembered how many times someone said fuck in the movie, and I laughed, too.

==

It was about when we got to the scotch that Mr. Hakamichi fell on George’s lap with a half-eaten chicken wing still in his mouth.

“My daughter’s a lesbian,” he groaned, even as he started downing four shots as the cops did their idiotic assault on the front door.

I sipped the scotch slowly, savoring the flavor as long as I could. I certainly did not slam it, and I at no point inhaled one through my nose, “you’re oversimplifying it.”

“Your nose is bleeding,” George stated.

“I’m decorating it for the season,” I retorted, “c’mon, Mr. Hakamichi, so what if she is? She’s a successful businesswoman with a loving partner, and a patron of the arts beside.”

“That’s the thing!” he snapped, “She’s a better man than I ever was!”

That prompted an unknown amount of laughter for an unknown amount of time. Honestly, I’m surprised I remembered the night, much less who said what when.

“That’s good, though,” Kenji said when we had managed to calm down, “it’s every generation’s duty to do better than the one that came before it… or something like that.”

Mr. Hakamichi groaned as he hefted himself up. The chicken wing still clamped in his mouth, he slowly nodded, “you’re right. Both of you. And you should probably do something about your nose.”

“I am,” I said as I crammed a napkin into my nostril.

==

By the time the APC exploded, my nose had stopped bleeding. I’m not exactly sure when, though; as I said, it’s hard to remember some of the details from that night.

“How the hell do we count that?” Mr. Hakamichi asked, “They just shot a whole damn squad of SWAT!”

“Yeah, what the hell?” Kenji asked, “These are the best funded robbers ever! Why don’t they just stick to whatever the hell it was that funded this op in the first place?!”

“I know!” George chimed in, so buzzed he had slipped into English, “they’re like Team Rocket! Stick to honest business, and stop building those stupid robots! You ain’t in Gundam, stop wishin’ you were!”

“Screw it,” I declared, “a beer for the APC! May the LAPD learn a valuable lesson!”

“What lesson is that?” Mr. Hakamichi asked, “And we don’t have enough beer.”

“Half a beer, then,” I countered, “and they learned, um… Kent… Kenji, what did they learn?”

“Buy better APC’s, duh!” Kenji declared as he slowly and carefully evenly divided the two remaining beers.

I nodded, “right, that.”

“That’s a good lesson,” George declared, still speaking in English.

==

“Holy fuck!” Kenji shouted, “how come the explosion wasn’t that epic when we used C-4!?”

“Huh?” George asked.

“Nothing,” I stated, “and because we had the sense not to use a gajillion detonators.”

Kenji slowly turned his head to face me, his eyes unfocused and his head moving dizzily, “oh, right.”

I chuckled at his despondent tone, “Don’t sound soooooo disappointed; if the explosion had been that big, we’d be dead.”

Kenji shrugged, “true. Plus he used more than we did, I think.”

“What are you two talking about?” George asked.

“Nothing,” the other three of us replied.

==

Mr. Hakamichi passed out shortly after the Feds proved that no matter what country is involved, the government still hires morons. I was still clinging to consciousness, as were George and Kenji. At one point Kenji had started a diatribe about the FBI, during which he had thrown his glasses somewhere in his zeal. Too dizzy to go look for them, or just unwilling to get up for them, he spent the rest of the night glassessless.

“Oh God, not the shaman eyes,” I cried, averting my eyes from his.

“I’ve seen things, man!” Kenji declared, his eyes wide as he flailed his hands around, “and some stuff! You don’t wanna even know, man!”

“I do know, though,” I retorted, “I was there for most of those things and stuff, remember?”

“Oh yeah,” Kenji said, calming down as recollection hit him.

“Mommy, I want the kitty,” Mr. Hakamichi muttered in his sleep.

All three of us slowly gazed down on him. George cracked first, laughing so hard he fell off the couch. Kenji slumped down in his chair, his nose almost level with his knees as he laughed so hard he almost threw up. I took advantage of the newly created room on the couch to lie down, since Mr. Hakamichi was curled up, ironically enough, like a cat.

“No one tell him we heard that,” I said when I could breathe again. I also had to check my heart, which was doing well, thankfully. That’s all I’d need; after all the shit I’d done, for it to go off during a drinking game.

“No shit,” Kenji said, “he’d disembowel us and rip our spines out for trophies.”

“I’d make a good trophy,” George declared.

Which naturally started another bout of laughter.

==

Eventually the movie came to an end, with Holly and McClane riding off into the night thanks to Argyle and his limo.

“That’s the best part about this movie,” George muttered from the floor as he rubbed the sake bottle over his forehead, trying to use the cool surface to ease his pain, “at its heart this movie is a romantic comedy.”

“Damn straight,” Kenji stated, slamming his fist on the chair for emphasis, “and the best damn one, too.”

“Indeed,” I concurred.

“Hair clip!” Mr. Hakamichi barked.

Glancing down, the man was once again conscious. If one could call blearily sword fighting thin air with a chicken wing conscious.

“Welcome back,” I quipped.

“Did I fall asleep?” he asked, hefting himself vertical slowly, his eyes closed as he swayed and pivoted.

“You passed out,” George mumbled.

“Balderdash!” he retorted, “Hakamichi men do not pass out from alcohol consumption. We are the Irish of Japan!”

“God save the King,” George grumbled, also hefting himself vertical, “so now what?”

“I vote we fall asleep where we sit,” I stated, “like men.”

Kenji eased himself up a bit so he was sitting up. Or at least somewhat up. Blinking and squinting heavily as he tried to see without his glasses –not that they helped much- his eyes slowly focused on the bottle of scotch, which somehow still had some left.

“Looks like there’s four shots left,” he stated, “I think. There is a bottle there, right?”

“Yup,” George croaked, “and looks like four to me. What’re you gettin’ at?”

“You’re sssspeaking in English,” Kenji replied, “and I was thinking a toast was in order.”

“I agree,” I concurred, “as long as I don’t have to pour it.”

“I’ll do it,” Mr. Hakamichi said. He tried to heft himself up, but ended up plopping back down on the couch with a thud.

“I can handle it,” Kenji declared.

Though it took some time, Kenji somehow managed to pour out the last four shots of scotch. We slowly passed them around, waiting. When everyone had one, Kenji tried to lever himself up out of the chair, but ended up sliding down onto the floor.

“Am I standing?” he asked.

“Indeed,” I quipped, my eyes nearly as bleary as his normally were.

“Thought so,” he said, “so, how we gonna do this? One tooooast, or four?”

“How about,” George said, still not bothering to speak Japanese, “how about… we each say something, and do a …ind…indi… we each do one toast. Neat idea, eh?”

Mr. Hakamichi snickered, “you said ‘eh.’”

Kenji nodded slowly, “alright, I’ll go first,” Kenji cleared his throat and lifted his glass, “to the Brotherhood, the best damn bunch of friends a man could ask for!”

Kenji sipped his shot in salute and promptly threw the glass behind him. It crashed somewhere with a crash, probably in the main hall or the wall behind us; my eyes were to unfocused to tell which.

“I guess I missed the tray,” he quipped, “Hisao?”

“Ahem,” I knew better then to try and stand up, “to our wives, who let us do crap like this, even if we are too old for it.”

I sipped my shot and threw the glass where I though Kenji’s had landed, but it it ended up hitting Kenji in the head.

“Shit, you okay, man?” I asked.

“Huh?” Kenji asked, apparently too numb to feel something as insignificant as a shot glass hit to his temple.

“Nothing,” I replied, “George?”

“Alight…,” George also tried to stand up, and actually managed to lift one knee. Holding up the shot like he was proposing to the television, he declared, “to… the chicken wings we ate. May their noble sacrifice not be in vain!”

“Pathetic!” Mr. Hakamichi barked as George downed his shot and threw the glass at the wall behind him, “let me show you a real toast!”

Mr. Hakamichi once again tried to stand up, and thanks to some choriography, he almost managed it. Posing like Captain Morgan on the rum barrel over the couch, his chicken wing held like a drawn sword, he barked, “to my wife, Hideko. You may be gone from this earth, but your spirit lives on within our daughter. May you and our ancestors continue to look down on us, guiding us as we honor ourselves in your memory!”

Mr. Hakamichi proceeded to sip his shot and spike the shot on the floor. Since it was carpeted, the glass didn’t break, rolling somewhere near something; probably under the couch.

I felt a manly tear work its way down my blood stained cheek as George proceeded to sniff. Crawling over to slap Mr. Hakamichi’s knee, he declared, “That was fuckin’ beautiful, man!”

“No shit!” Kenji shouted, “You have got to start working with Hisao and me as a writer!”

Mr. Hakamichi shook his head, “no way; it was just one speech, don’t go getting ideas. ‘S there any more food left?”

Kenji turned his head to check the platter, but never answered as he slumped over and passed out.

“Guess not,” Mr. Hakamichi grunted, sprawling himself over the back of the couch as he passed out again.

George chuckled and we exchanged a glance, “not a bad night, eh?”

“You said ‘eh’ again,” I stated, lying down on the couch while I still could.

“Indeed I did,” lying down on the floor, the sake bottle still clutched to his head, he managed to mutter, “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

Then he was out, too. I considered crawling over to the TV to yank out the disc, but decided I’d rather stare at the ceiling until I passed out. My eyes closing, I was slightly disappointed that we hadn’t set anything on fire this time.

“Uhhhhh,” I moaned, “thank God we don’t do this every month.”

I exhaled deeply as inebriated exhaustion slowly overtook me. In the process I sniffed some dried blood from my nose, and managed to inhale a disturbingly familiar smell…

“Does anyone else smell smoke?”

+++

And then the place burned down.

Kidding. Kenji just left some mini quiches in the oven.

Notes on the drinking game:

If you drink whenever someone is shot, you’ll drink roughly eighteen times (I counted the APC as two drinks, since it was shot twice.)

As for fuck, well that’s roughly 35 drinks. So you got 53 drinks in store if you do. I did not down a whole bottle for yippie-kai yay, motherfucker. I did, however, go through a six pack, so it is doable and survivable. I don’t recommend you use hard liquor, though.

So seriously, please abuse responsibly.

Season’s Greetings!

What kind of terrorists take out APCs anyway?

“You have got to start working with Hisao and I as a writer!”

"Hisao and me"

Dumanios wrote:

What kind of terrorists take out APCs anyway?

From a military standpoint it seems rather obvious; roadblock, inflict casualties, sow disorder amongst the ranks, take out equipment, etc, etc. Standard military stuff, 'cept with an RPG instead of a stinger or an aerial bombardment.

...I read a lot of military fiction, and play a lot of video games.

Besides, they're not terrorists, their robbers. Heavily armed robbers with way too much free time, apparently.

Thanks for reading, glad you liked it

Mirage_GSM wrote:

“You have got to start working with Hisao and I as a writer!”

"Hisao and me"

Thanks, fixed.

I am really starting to hate English. Maybe I should move to Quebec and learn French.

Fan fiction: the final frontier. This is the writings of an aspiring unemployed writer. Its mission, to boldly go where no KS fan fiction has gone before…

Mystery Nine: The Illuminati’s Revenge!


Part One: Determination


It was the middle of winter as I spent yet another Saturday afternoon in the office of my business partner, Kenji Setou. I was sitting in front of the large dark wooden desk, trying to grade papers while Kenji stood in front of a large whiteboard that was covered in scribbles and arrows. Over a year ago that board had been used to destroy the world’s puppet masters, and now he was using it to track their decline and destruction. Never mind the cold case we had been hired to work, he wanted to play James Bond Rambo some more. I’m pretty sure he was just trying to distract himself from his impending fatherhood. I’ve described this office more times than I care to admit, but I’ll never stop complaining about the yellow paint on the walls. Its mustard yellow color mocks me. At least the bookshelves and cabinets strewn about were well organized; Kenji’s wife has a thing for orderly paperwork.

“Dammit, I was right!” Kenji shouted, his hands nervously running along the length of his gold and red scarf. I jumped slightly at his pronouncement.

Dreading the answer, I slowly asked, “What were you right about?”

Kenji tapped a converging star of arrows on the board, “the Illuminati are reorganizing in the north, using the region’s remoteness to gain a stronghold.”

“It’s not our problem anymore,” I stated.

I had a job, I had three kids, I didn’t need to go grabbing a gun and playing cowboy ninja. I spent far too much time doing that working with Kenji as it was.

“You’re half right, man,” he said, before striding over to the desk and opening a drawer. He heaved out a large black briefcase and snapped it open.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m going up north to shoot those bastards in the head,” he declared, checking the chamber of his Nambu pistol before tucking it into a chest holster he had just thrown on, the jacket to his brown suit over his shoulder.

“Alone? Are you insane?” that question was really rhetorical, but he answered anyway.

Kenji looked at me over his thick round glasses, his expression firm as he stated, “I have to, man. I’ve asked you so far to help me, and you’ve done it all the way. But it’s not your problem anymore. I started this when I vowed to save the world, and now it’s up to me to stop them.”

I sighed and raised an eyebrow, “do you have any idea how cliché you sound?”

Sticking a bunch of grenades onto a bandolier, he shrugged lightly, “Maybe, but I’m still right. I need to do this alone.”

“It’s not our problem anymore,” I reiterated, “neither of ours.”

Kenji grinned at me, “don’t worry, man, I got this.”

Kenji threw his jacket back on after clipping some ammo clips to his belt. He strode past me to the hat rack by the short hallway that led out of the office to grab his brown fedora. While he did that, something inside me snapped. For months I had agreed to help Kenji combat the Secret Societies that were plotting to rule the world. I wanted my kids to grow up in a world free of their influence, and I knew there was no way in hell Kenji would resist the chance to validate his writing and his paranoia. I had agreed to help to keep him safe as much as to protect my family. I had done it knowing that each time I went with him, I might not come back. This time, I knew that if he went alone, he wouldn’t come back. Determined to do something about that, I reached for one of the drawers and yanked it open, pulling out a similar black briefcase to the one Kenji had grabbed. I pulled out a black and brass Tesla pistol and aimed it at Kenji.

Mustering my sternest teaching voice, I told him, “You are not going.”

Kenji slowly turned around and leaned forward a bit to see what I was doing. When he had figured out I was pointing a gun, albeit a nonlethal one, at him, he folded his arms and raised an eyebrow.

“You would really shoot me?” he asked, a patronizing smirk plastered on his face.

I nodded once, “If it prevents you from leaving this office and going on a suicide mission, yes. The gangs and the cops can finish this.”

Kenji scoffed, “I have to do this, man. I have to finish what we started.”

“No. You have a wife- a pregnant wife,” I stated, “You owe it to Miya not to go getting your ass shot to pieces.”

Kenji rolled his eyes and grunted as he lowered his arms, “you’re one to talk! You have three kids and a wife! How would they have reacted if you died pulling the shit we did? How the hell would Hanako have handled your death, on top of all the other crap she’s endured?!”

“She’s a strong woman; she’d handle it,” I was trying to convince myself as much as him when I said that, “besides, that’s not the point. I went along with your plans because you needed me and I believed in our Cause. It’s not our problem anymore. The police can handle it. The CIA, Mossad; anyone but us. I’m sick of having to fight the world’s battles!”

Kenji sighed, “I get that man. But look, we kicked the hornet’s nest and doused it in poison. A few hornets survived, and one of them might become a queen. We need to stamp them out while they’re still weak. I have to finish this.”

I glared at Kenji’s eyes through his thick glasses for a while, waiting for him to give up. I should’ve known better; when Kenji set his mind on something, it was almost impossible to stop him. I groaned and slowly lowered my pistol, “fine, go die. I won’t stop you, but I won’t be held responsible for what happens, either.”

Kenji nodded, “I understand. I drug you into this in the first place, and I won’t hold it against you when I get back.”

Kenji turned to face the door and paused, a grin spreading across his face, “I also get it that you’re sick of it. I thought being my partner meant something-”

“Go before I change my mind,” I nearly snarled.

Kenji grunted and nodded again. He turned to reach the doorknob and paused again, “if I don’t come back, tell your wife her stuffed bell peppers are terrible.”

Intent on getting the last word, he was gone before I could respond.

I stared at the door as it swung shut, my mind locked in indecision. I had more or less told my best friend that I was going to let him die, and leave his wife and unborn child without him. I had betrayed a friendship that had been forged in high school and honed over years of effort and understanding. I knew all those things, but at the same time, I also knew that it wasn’t our fight anymore. At least part of me, the part that had suffered one too many heart flutters, combined with simple passage of time, insisted that that was the case. Another part insisted Kenji was right; we had to finish what we started. Both of us.

I groaned and slumped into the chair behind the desk, lowering my head against the wood.

“Damn it, Kenji….”

+++
Next Chapter

Well, that escalated quickly. Frankly I’m surprised he didn’t snap at him sooner.

Yes, I often act like my characters have minds of their own. Helps the writing process.

And now to fix what once went wrong, because there’s never a tech-priest around when you need one.

Previous Chapter

Part Two: Backup


“Dammit,” I reiterated.

After a couple seconds of eerie silence, my mind started recovering from our fight, several emotions fighting for dominance, the most prominent being shame and anger. I should’ve hit him over the head with a whiskey bottle, or something, anything, to stop him. I should’ve just shot him and let the cards fall where they may, but enough of me knew he was right that I had let him slip away while I tried to sort out my own reluctance. To this day, I’m still not sure what decision was worse; my willingness to let him go alone, or my unwillingness to stop him in the first place.

I had a point, though. It wasn’t really our problem anymore. I could very easily let him go alone, go home to my wife and kids, and… my best friend would be dead, his wife a widow, their unborn child never knowing their father. I had no intention of letting that happen, and realizing that, my mind started to form an unsettling thought; that Kenji had planned my refusal to go and his insistence on going alone.

I groaned aloud at that idea, and my head turned to face the large whiteboard. When I noticed he had left the address of the new headquarters in big black script on the board, and on an index card on the desk, that theory further solidified in my mind. Then I started wondering why he insisted I not go with him. That took me a moment to figure out, but as I got up from the brown leather rolling chair it occurred to me he didn’t want someone to watch his back this time. No, this time he wanted someone to save it.

Did he expect to be walking into a trap? I groaned at that, and then again when I started thinking about how he was going to get where he was heading. If he was smart he’d take a taxi, or a bus. I’d worry about that later; at that moment I had a duty to save my friend. There was no way I was going to let him die, especially if he was willingly running headlong into a trap. I also had a duty to call my wife, though. I went to the drawer opposite the one Kenji had opened and pulled out a briefcase similar to the one he had used. As I opened it I took off my jacket and reached into my pocket for my phone.

“Hisao, is everything okay?” Hanako asked once she answered the phone. While it rang I had managed to find the last undamaged body armor in the largest drawer, which I awkwardly shrugged into.

Deciding between the Colt or the Browning, I replied, “yeah, I just need to work late with Kenji tonight; nothing serious.”

Hanako sighed as I awkwardly put on both a holster on my chest and one on my belt, “are you sure? I made Korean style grilled salmon tonight; Shizune’s recipe.”

I nodded despite the futility of the gesture, “Yeah, I’m sure. You can always use my portion to make a spread for tomorrow when Lilly and George come over; I can eat some leftovers when I get back, or grab something at Kenji’s.”

“That’s true,” Hanako replied. Quietly considering my suggestion, it was a few moments before she added, “Speaking of them, did you hear about Thomas yet? He almost fell down the stairs yesterday.”

Placing the Colt over my chest, I paused before holstering the Tesla I was still holding, “again?”

“He lost his balance trying to find the hand rail,” Hanako replied.

I sighed as I started fishing around for grenades. Boys and blindness are a bad mixture, especially when combined with Satou family pride, “is he alright?”

“Yes, fortunately Hanaye was there to catch him before he fell.”

I chuckled as I grabbed a couple flashbang grenades to place in my right jacket pocket, “good thing older sister’s looking after their siblings run in that family. Speaking of which, how are the kids?”

“They’re fine. Akio played chess with me again. He’s determined to either beat me, Lilly, or Miya before the beginning of Spring.”

“Miya he has a chance with. Maybe Lilly after a few glasses of wine,” I said as I stuck several Tesla grenades and four clips of ammo onto my belt.

I heard Hanako make a strange sound before remarking, “I still can’t believe she’s pregnant. With Kenji’s child.”

I grabbed a light blue dagger and strapped its sheath to my left shoe, “you don’t have to sound so surprised, dear.”

Hanako giggled, “its hard not to.”

Shoving a couple of frag grenades into spare pockets, I shrugged into my jacket and glanced at my watch, “well, I better head out. I’ll call you when I get back. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Try not to work too hard; the doctor said these late night sessions are bad for your condition.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s the pizza and whiskey that’s bad for my condition, but I’ll try to be home soon.” Remembering Kenji’s crack about my wife’s stuffed peppers, I remembered a suggestion Shizune had texted me once, “Oh, and before I forget, Kenji says your stuffed bell peppers could use a little tomato paste.”

Hanako made a thoughtful noise, “I wondered about that. Tell him thank you for me.”

I kneeled down and rolled up my right pant leg. I wasn’t sure I needed it, but the poor thing deserved to be fired once in a while, so I reached under the desk and pulled out the sawed off shotgun and four leg bands of shells Kenji kept under there, “I will, goodbye.”

There were so many other things I could have said then. I could have thanked her for putting up with my overprotective nature. I could have said how happy I was she had managed to overcome her anxieties so well. I could have simply said once again how much I loved her. I could have even just thanked her for putting up with my late nights working with Kenji. She knew all those things, of course, but that didn’t make them any less true.

In the end, I couldn’t say them this time, because I didn’t want to give myself a reason to not go after Kenji. Besides, there was no way I could say any of those things without making her suspicious or worried. The Kenji of our high school days would’ve approved, at least. The new Kenji obviously thought otherwise, but if I didn’t hurry he wouldn’t be thinking at all very much.

“Bye,” she said, bringing me back to reality as I secured the shotgun with the leg bands.

Shoving my fedora onto my head on the way out the door, I sincerely hoped that wasn’t the last time I spoke to my wife.

+++
Next Chapter

Lock ‘n load, mofos, its go time! To WAR!

Oh, Part Three will be posted Wednesday due to Matthew and Luke.