Re: Hideaki: A Tale of Manliness
Posted: Tue Nov 06, 2012 9:37 am
by Doomish
Holy crap I have been reading this thread since the start and I just noticed I've never commented on it. I love your writing in general but this is definitely my favorite Hideaki series, especially because of how well it incorporates humor naturally into the narration. It makes Hideaki feel like, y'know, Hideaki. I really like this story! Stories! Anecdotes! I don't even know what to call it but it sure is great!
Re: Hideaki: A Tale of Manliness
Posted: Mon Dec 03, 2012 2:23 am
by DanjaDoom
We golfin' now.
Enjoy and be sure to leave a comment!
Part 2 will be in the works when I get this speed ball out of my system.
Golfology: Part 1
This one begins... well actually I’m not in bed. I’m perusing the kitchen for ingredients to recreate the peanut butter and maple syrup sandwich that George Clinton threw at officers during his arrest in 1978 for heroin possession. I found it on the internet. I’m bored today.
Just as I’m reaching up into the top shelf of the cabinet to pull down the vinaigrette, a mighty crash erupts behind me, as if a golf ball crashed through our kitchen window.
Because it did.
“SHIT JIGORO, GET IT TOGETHER!”
More confused than anything else by the white Titleist ball stuck in the peanut butter jar, I rush out the patio door into our backyard. By the looks of things, dad’s been hard at work converting the entire poolside area into a makeshift driving range, with our old grill and a Happy Gilmore lawn ornament acting as markers. He’s even pulled out his khaki slacks and maroon polo for maximum immersion.
“Jigoro, my friend, perhaps you should relax your shoulders a bit?”
I’m quite shocked to see our neighbor Mr. Furukawa galvanizing my father, all the while sporting a forest green polo top to make the both of them resemble the classiest/angriest pair of christmas lights ever.
“And while you’re at it, loosen your grip just a bit. You’re not choking Hideaki, after all, right?”
He chuckles at his own joke, and appears to be a little unsettled when my father doesn't as well.
“Speak of the devil, it’s Hideaki himself!” he beams, striding over and throwing a friendly arm over my shoulder. I’m not too sure if that was a compliment or not but holy shit this guy smells good. It’s like two bottles of Ambre Topkapi reenacted the sex scene from Monster’s Ball on his collar.
“So, not to interrupt anything, but what exactly is happening here?” I ask.
“Neighborhood golf tournament’s coming up next week,” my father gruffs, setting up the tee for his next shot.
“The Ketsuno’s are hosting, and I’m not about to let those glorified loan sharks sully this neighborhood by winning that title again this year! I’m gonna take home that trophy if it’s the last thing I do! And it might just be, if they do that condescending ‘we’ll buy all the losers a round at the bar’ crap...”
While it’s true the Ketsuno’s are less than admirable people, it’s dubitable that my father’s working with the interest of the his neighbors in mind. Unless they all happen to be named Jigoro Hakamichi as well.
“You won't beat anyone unless you work on that back swing, old chap!” Furukawa chides, once again demonstrating his proper abdominal placement and foot rotation. Father appears to be getting restless with all the technical brouhaha he’s being subjugated too, but he’s absorbing as much as he can all the same. He’s serious about beating the Ketsuno’s at their own game, it seems.
I can’t shake the unnerving feeling that he may be glancing my way as his partner is talking. That never leads to anything good. Time to make like a banana and leave the area.
“Well, good luck with that pops, I’m just going to go--”
“Not so fast, bucko!” he interrupts, gripping my shoulder in his Hulk-like grip as I turn to leave.
“Every great golfer needs a caddie, don’t you think? And who better to witness my ascension to greatness than my own flesh and blood? And if I lose, well, you’re the nearest target. Here, take this handbook and get yourself up to speed!”
He hands me a yellowed book that, from the looks of things, hasn't seen use in a while. “How to Golf for People Who Can’t Golf Good,” it reads. I imagine it must have been handed down through the years in some pseudo-Heavens Gate occult rituals.
Time to brush up, then.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
[It’s been a whole week and I still keep forgetting what a Texas Scramble is! I don’t know, maybe I should tell dad to find another caddy.]
Shizune has been patiently hearing out my grievances as she conducts research for her university physics paper (i.e. checks Facebook).
[Not possible], she answers. [Father has dug himself into a hole that may be too great to escape from. His ego and pride are dangling on the proverbial hook here.]
[So what does that have to do with me?]
[He’s latched on to the idea that you may provide him with some semblance of comfort and familiarity in an alien environment. In other words, you’re his safety blanket. It’s a bit sweet, in a weird way.]
[Well, you've got the ‘weird’ part down... Hey, what were you and Misha going to do while we were at the tournament?]
For the first time since we began our chat, she turns away from the laptop monitor to look at me. Her feline stare suggests that she has some insidious secret that she wants to keep from me.
[It’s a secret. An insidious one. That I want to keep from you.]
The mystery doesn't last much longer as a familiar bounding shape flies through the front door and into our living room.
“THE CLUBS CAME IN TODAY SHIICHAN!!~”
In her excitement, Misha’s become momentarily forgetful of the fact that her friend is deaf. Shizune, apparently feeling the vibrations through the hardwood floor, jumps to her feet and signals for her former student council partner to shut her trap. It doesn't take long for things to get lost in translation, unfortunately.
[Wait... you two are playing in the tournament?] I ponder with disbelief.
Misha cups her hand over her mouth far too late. “Wahaha... oops?” she chuckles nervously, as Shizune attempts to wipe the egg from her face.
[Cat’s out of the bag, I suppose,] she signs in resignation. [Yes, we’re entering into the tournament... I would, um, appreciate it if you not let this information slip to father.]
[Because you don’t want him to make fun of you?]
[Because I want our victory to be even sweeter.]
[You’re sick.]
[I’m better.]
[I’m caddying!]
[Yes you are, Misha. Now then, we have lots of preparation to get done. Remember, you didn't hear anything.]
[And if I did?] I sign back.
Sometimes I just feel like being an asshole. It’s nothing personal.
Her face contorts into a stern and semi-malicious glare. It’s a look that hasn’t been seen in almost a year, not since dad admitted to using her sanitary cups to scoop worms out of his azalea bushes. [I kept one of your old stockings as leverage. Don’t test me.]
The clammy sweat on my face is her cue to leave, a self-satisfied smirk plastered on her face. I fear that I’ve become another stepping stone on her path of rage. Golfing rage.
Shit sucks.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“You sure you won’t be needing that TUMS, dad?”
“No, dammit, I don’t! Stop asking me already! Caddies are supposed to be seen, not heard!”
“Technically, a caddy supposed to aid his golfer by offering strategic and moral insight, as well as supply them with clubs properly tailored for their momentary need.”
He looks at me sidelong with a look of indignant confusion.
“It’s in the book...”
“Give me that!” my father barks, tossing it into a nearby waste bin. In his current state, I guess I should be thankful he didn't start eating it.
A few honks from outside and a downright sexy engine rev mark the arrival of the official third member of Team Hakamichi.
Mr. Furukawa makes his way to our front door, made up from head to toe in his finest sportsman apparel. Legend has it he won that fur-lined jacket from Charles Barkley in a game of Best Ball.
“Not nervous, are you old friend?” he teases as he hangs up his coat and drivers cap on the rack.
“I look fear in the eye and tell it it’s mother gives great head,” boasts my father grimly. More than likely he’s trying to convince himself of that.
Our teammate, for his part, seems wholly amused by the bravado.
“Here’s hoping you can at least keep that attitude up during the car ride!” he chuckles.
He excuses himself to the bathroom, allowing my father to release a pained breath I wasn't aware he was holding in.
“... Are you nervous?”
“What? ‘Course not! Don’t tell me you’re going to start with that dime store psychoanalyst shtick again!”
“Just saying,” I counter, holding my hands up in defense. “You looked a little bit clammy today. It’s ok to be nervous, dad. Hell, it’s normal.”
“Normal?!” he huffs. “By who’s standards?! ‘ Metro-sexual Monthly’?! Don’t give me that crap Hideaki!”
I attempt to offer up more advice, but at this point he’s resorted to the tried and true schoolyard antic of putting his fingers in his ears and pretending that I’m not there.
“Fine, be that way,” I groan in frustration. “I’m just saying, dad, you’re like mentos and coke.”
“... I’m an internet meme?”
I shake my head. “No, I mean you’re one bottled up emotion away from bursting out of your top in a giant bubbly fountain. I don’t want to come downstairs one day and find you weeping in the broom closet because you forgot to DVR House!”
“You’re doing it again, dammit!” he bellows.
“Doing what?”
“Psychoanalyzing! Just leave your stupid comments in your pocket!”
“What the hell does that even mean?!”
“I don’t know! Dammit, now you’re making me confuse myself! Just... stop talking until we get to the golf course! Or you're grounded!”
“But-”
“HEY. NO.”
Furukawa returns a short while later and claps his hands together with gusto, scaring the bejeezus out of the two of us. He seems much more eager than the rest of his team to get out to the course. “Tee-off is in one hour, boys! Unless you’d rather be fashionably late?”
The happy demeanor in his voice is confusing. He’s either vainly attempting to re-establish some semblance of cohesion between us, or he’s really loud when he uses the bathroom and didn't hear anything.
All the same, we follow him out to his vintage 1972 Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow, restored to pristine condition and custom built to make anyone driving a Jaguar feel terrible about themselves.
For a split second of a split second, I spot a red convertible speed by, carrying two female figures in hooded jackets, a large bag of clubs, and some guy wearing Ray Bans and a It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia shirt.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Groytuer Oaks is among the oldest and most well-respected country clubs in Japan. It was founded in 1937 by a visiting German emissary, who as luck would have it was almost executed for having carnal relations with Emperor Hirohito’s wife. However, to ensure no ill will formed with their Axis ally, Japan settled on exiling him to a stretch of farmland for the remainder of the war. That land would soon enough become one of the hottest destinations for the rich and wealthy of Japan.
Allegedly.
It takes quite a while to find parking, mainly due to Mr. Furukawa taking pity on the overworked valets and attempting to find a space on his own.
“Bingo!” he exclaims, discovering a free spot only a few meters ahead. A flash of silver roars... well, purrs past us in an instant and overtakes the spot before our driver can even step on the peddle. Furukawa leans out of the car window, slender brows furrowing in offense.
“Hey now, that was our spot you... you nincompoops!”
Jigoro places a hand over his friends shoulder. “Let me handle this one...”
Stomping out of the car, my father makes a beeline for the offending silver Prius.
“Hey dirt bags, didn't you see us heading for that spot?! I know you can hear me in there! Take your stupid Playskool car back to whatever hippie commune you crawled out of and--”
Two figures emerge triumphantly from the vehicle and put a screeching halt to my father’s raving.
“Ketsuno...”
A slender figure, brown hair shinier than a coke bottle in the sun and with a smile that suggests he likes to smell himself when no one’s looking, steps towards our group. He’s trailed by a fairly muscular man in garish workout apparel that may as well have been painted on. His hair’s just as blindingly shiny, but with much more spike.
Scanning along the horizon with his serpent-like slit eyes, he settles his glance on us and smiles with devilish glee.
“Jigoro Hakamichi!” Kestuno chirps, a disingenuous smile forming on his lips. “I didn’t think I’d see you again after you no-showed these last few years! Did you come out here to birdwatch?”
“I came out here to take that trophy out of your money-grubbing hands, Ketsuno! And maybe take you to get the oil in your hair changed afterwards.”
“My, my!” he exclaims with mock offense. “Quite rude, are we not? Here I am just trying to make friends! Well, to be expected, I suppose.... Oh, is this your son?”
All eyes flock to me, the scrawny kid trying to eat his low-fat pringles. Father moves closer to my side, his hand proudly draping over my upper back.
“Damn right it’s my son! He’s the best caddy in all of freakin’ Japan, so you and Punch Rockgroin over there can just kiss your little trophy goodbye!”
Aw, dad. I know he doesn't really mean it at all, but it sure is nice to hear a compliment from him.
Mr. Rockgroin pipes up, removing his obnoxiously expensive sunglasses to have a stare down with us. “Hey, brah you don’t talk to my dad like that brah! And my name’s not Punch!”
“They know, son, it was a joke...” his father whispers harshly to him. “I see you still need to resort to insults to get your point across, Jigoro! How very sad. My poor son did nothing to earn such mean-spirited mockery!”
“On the contrary,” pipes Mr. Furukawa. “You’re son has earned all the mockery he can handle for choosing the hotel I co-own to satisfy his... base and crude desires!”
“Base and crude desires?” I ask.
Jigoro is only happy to elaborate. “Caught the roid monkey in a hotel room snorting blow off of a Thai rent boy’s stomach.”
“I-it was a party game!”
“Son, just stop talking,” his father advises. “Now, in the interest of fairness, I’ll give you this parking spot. Though, I wouldn't get used to it, if I were you. It’s the only thing you’ll be getting from me today. Come along, son.”
Mr. Ketsuno and Glutethrust McKnucklesquat hop back into their vehicle, presumably looking to purchase some somatropin on the way out.
“Like it?” he asks smugly. “It runs on electric power, manufactured at a humane workers commune. Sure you don’t want to trade your gas guzzler in for one?”
“If it means you’re a little less happy in this world, I’ll keep on driving it,” Jigoro counters.”Now why don’t you go suck a reduced-hormone, grass-fed dick, Ketsuno?”
The two rivals share an icy glare as the Prius makes it’s way out of our new spot. It begins to rock steadily from side to side, followed by a lunchbox thermos shaped head emerging from the sunroof.
“YOU CAN’T SURVIVE THE ONSLAUGHT!” roars Bicep McTricep. Just to make his point clear, he keeps his head stuck out of the car every second he’s in our field of vision. By the time they round the lot’s corner, he resembles a Diglett popping out of a spaceship.
Furukawa shakes his head and stands resolute. “Don’t pay them any heed Jigoro. They’re liars and cheats, simple as that! It took us almost three weeks of hard PR to convince people that we weren’t holding depraved sex parties in our hotel! I want to show them up just as much as you do old friend--What do you say? Ready to go?”
He hovers his hand in front of us, waiting to meet in the center for a stirring burst of inspiration. When we don’t respond, he takes matters into his own hands and pulls us in. What follows is a half-hearted call to take up arms and defend the honor of the neighborhood.
The breeze begins to pick up, like the final battle in a samurai film. The time has arrived.
Time to get the carts.
Re: Hideaki: A Tale of Manliness
Posted: Mon Dec 03, 2012 10:10 am
by Hoitash
Dumanios wrote:Hilarious! Now I'm wondering if Hisao will appear.
I mused the same thing myself.
Hilarious as always, but my historian rage has been unleashed:
It was founded in 1947 by a visiting German emissary...
...However, to ensure no ill will formed with their Axis ally
Do I REALLY need to say what's wrong here
?
(I'm guessing you meant 1937 or '39?)
As I said, everything else is excellently done
