SHINJUKU WILD, PROLOGUEby rukia
Time: November, 2015
Place: NHK Television Studios
Mr. Kurosaki glanced onstage to check the progress of the show. It wasn’t time yet. It was still at the part where the audience sympathized with the grieving nobody.
He slipped a pen out of his coat pocket, uncapped it, and turned his attention to the figure in front of him, “Name?”
“Y-y-ya,” the ghost stuttered horribly. Obviously, this was the first time it had spoken with a living person in quite a while. It also found the scowl on the dark-suited man’s brow to be quite intimidating.
“What? Yamada? Yotsuya? I’m just asking for your name. Relax,” Mr. Kurosaki rolled his eyes and finally pointed the pen at his orange hair. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m not some ex-gangster or anything. This is my natural hair color.” He was tired of saying that all the damn time.
“Oh,” the spirit of the businessman calmed down slightly. “Yah-Yamada,” it finally said. “Yamada Hiroshi.”
“That’s what I figured,” Mr. Kurosaki mumbled to himself and read off the next question, “Despite the different family names, do you have any relation to the living? …Her, I mean,” he cocked his head in the direction of the stage, where a plump woman in a hideous green dress sobbed wetly in front of the cameras, broadcasting her flushed, pug-nosed face nationwide.
She was crying because her dear sweet Hiro-chan got hit by an express train last month and her family was going to starve without a bread-winner in the family. She came to the show seeking the best spirit medium in the country to help her communicate with Hiro-chan (and possibly, after the show, ask about her late husband’s Swiss bank account number).
“K-kuh-kind of,” Mr. Yamada glared bitterly at the woman through its wire-framed glasses. “She duh-divorced me a year ago. Luh-lying bitch.”
“Whatever,” he put a mark on the paper. “No need for a life story, Mr. Yamada.”
The ghost couldn’t help but ask, “W-what are you a-anyway?”
“I work in public relations – for the living impaired,” he added with a raised eyebrow. “I’d give you my card, but I don’t think you need one.”
“You wuh-work for that guy?” Mr. Yamada pointed at the lighted stage, indicating the brightly dressed man in a cape who was trying hard to drown out the bawling lady with some sort of idealistic speech. Eventually, the caped man gave up trying to talk over her and belted out a characteristic, “BOHAHAHAHA!!!”
“Hell, don’t remind me,” Mr. Kurosaki muttered. “Oh, and I know what you’re thinking - ‘if this guy can talk to ghosts better than a famous spirit medium, then why isn’t he on-stage?’”
Mr. Yamada gave a weak nod.
“It’s something called ‘dignity’ – which most people take for granted around here,” Mr. Kurosaki directed a side-ways glare at his employer before he put down the clipboard, “You know, I graduated from Todai with honors. Freaking Todai! You’d think that companies would be busting down my door to have me, right?”
With another feeble nod, Mr. Yamada prayed that the man wouldn’t get violent.
Mr. Kurosaki continued, “But no, the first thing they say in every interview was ‘is that your real hair color?’ or ‘perhaps you should dye that hair, young man; it’s not the sort of image that we at Such-and-such Incorporated wish to portray’… shit like that, you know. It pisses me off!”
Growing nervous, the ghost put its fingers to its lips, hoping to quiet the PR guy down before anyone else backstage noticed.
“However, the day I conform to those morons is the day I become one,” Mr. Kurosaki crossed his arms. “Unfortunately, the only half-way respectable job I could find was with this clown,” he jerked a thumb in the direction of the stage. “It’s not like there are many people who can fill this sort of requirement.”
“Y-yes,” the spirit quickly agreed. “I can s-see that.”
“Anyway,” Mr. Kurosaki picked the clipboard up again. “Any messages that you would like to send through to the world of the living, Mr. Yamada?”
“W-well, there is one muh-minor thing…” it hesitated. “See… I c-couldn’t confess to it while I was alive, but I fuh-figure…”
“…what’s the harm now that you’ve passed on, right?” Mr. Kurosaki finished for it. “Cleanse your sins before moving on and all that. Like I haven’t heard that one before,” he looked up, checking the time. The commercial break would soon end and his boss was preparing to give his dramatic psychic reading in front of the excited audience. It was going to happen any minute now.
“Out with it, already,” Mr. Kurosaki said. “We don’t have all show. The Artist formerly known as Gackt is waiting to be on in ten minutes.”
Mr. Yamada grinned sheepishly, “I-I-I had an a-affair with my ex-wife’s sister the whole time we were muh-married.”
“Oh, this is fucking wonderful,” Mr.Kurosaki’s expression hardened into a mixture of surprise and disgust, “Good thing you’re already dead, man.”
Mr. Kurosaki turned away from the cowering spirit as he clicked on the small headset plugged into his ear, “Mr. Kanonji?”
Under the hot florescent lights of the NHK variety show, Don Kanonji sweated and shifted in his seat between the sobbing widow and the square-jawed show host. He coughed in what he thought of as a discrete manner to show he was listening to his PR assistant through the hidden receiver.
Personally, Mr. Kurosaki thought this little ‘secret code’ Kanonji came up with was pathetic.
“Two things, so listen carefully,” Mr. Kurosaki told his boss over the link. “First, Ms. Kobe’s precious ‘Hiro-chan’ had been bonking her sister for years, so he ain’t so precious anymore, got it?”
Don Kanonji sat smiling blandly for the cameras as his left eye blinked twice to show he understood. Some of the live audience saw this and thought he had some kind of silly nervous twitch.
“Secondly,” a satisfied smile finally spread across his lips. The commercial break was finally over and the host was just about to present Kanonji’s big finale. This was the moment Mr. Kurosaki had been waiting for all week, so he wanted to savor it like a fine wine, “I’m sick of this job. I quit.”
“WHAT? No! B-boy!?” in front of 3 million viewers, Don Kanonji’s jaw dropped in horrified realization as he gave a shocked little squeak at the back of his throat. He spun towards the left side of the stage, nearly tripping over his silk red cape in the process. As he peered into the shadows behind the curtains, he could see his PR assistant give him the one-finger salute.
“Find someone else to be your goddamn monkey, Kanonji. I’ve finally found somewhere else to put my skills to use,” Mr. Kurosaki spoke into the tiny mike as he walked away and tossed his clipboard on the staff refreshment table, which knocked over a plate of catered chocolate donuts. “I got hired by the Tokyo Police Department to be their new psychic homicide detective. I’ve just been waiting for the perfect moment to announce my resignation. You can take your ‘bohaha’ and shove it.”
Mr. Kurosaki yanked off the mike and flung it over his shoulder as he rammed through the backstage exit triumphantly. Several bewildered television staff and one awed ghost were left in his wake as the metal door slammed shut.
The discarded headset plopped into a punch bowl, sunk to the bottom, and then buoyed back up.
~*~*~
Hey, everyone deserves to have their 15-seconds of fame. Even Ichigo. ;)
Note: Todai stands for Tokyo Daigaku (Tokyo University) – it’s supposed to be one of the toughest schools in the nation.
Time: November, 2015
Place: NHK Television Studios
Mr. Kurosaki glanced onstage to check the progress of the show. It wasn’t time yet. It was still at the part where the audience sympathized with the grieving nobody.
He slipped a pen out of his coat pocket, uncapped it, and turned his attention to the figure in front of him, “Name?”
“Y-y-ya,” the ghost stuttered horribly. Obviously, this was the first time it had spoken with a living person in quite a while. It also found the scowl on the dark-suited man’s brow to be quite intimidating.
“What? Yamada? Yotsuya? I’m just asking for your name. Relax,” Mr. Kurosaki rolled his eyes and finally pointed the pen at his orange hair. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m not some ex-gangster or anything. This is my natural hair color.” He was tired of saying that all the damn time.
“Oh,” the spirit of the businessman calmed down slightly. “Yah-Yamada,” it finally said. “Yamada Hiroshi.”
“That’s what I figured,” Mr. Kurosaki mumbled to himself and read off the next question, “Despite the different family names, do you have any relation to the living? …Her, I mean,” he cocked his head in the direction of the stage, where a plump woman in a hideous green dress sobbed wetly in front of the cameras, broadcasting her flushed, pug-nosed face nationwide.
She was crying because her dear sweet Hiro-chan got hit by an express train last month and her family was going to starve without a bread-winner in the family. She came to the show seeking the best spirit medium in the country to help her communicate with Hiro-chan (and possibly, after the show, ask about her late husband’s Swiss bank account number).
“K-kuh-kind of,” Mr. Yamada glared bitterly at the woman through its wire-framed glasses. “She duh-divorced me a year ago. Luh-lying bitch.”
“Whatever,” he put a mark on the paper. “No need for a life story, Mr. Yamada.”
The ghost couldn’t help but ask, “W-what are you a-anyway?”
“I work in public relations – for the living impaired,” he added with a raised eyebrow. “I’d give you my card, but I don’t think you need one.”
“You wuh-work for that guy?” Mr. Yamada pointed at the lighted stage, indicating the brightly dressed man in a cape who was trying hard to drown out the bawling lady with some sort of idealistic speech. Eventually, the caped man gave up trying to talk over her and belted out a characteristic, “BOHAHAHAHA!!!”
“Hell, don’t remind me,” Mr. Kurosaki muttered. “Oh, and I know what you’re thinking - ‘if this guy can talk to ghosts better than a famous spirit medium, then why isn’t he on-stage?’”
Mr. Yamada gave a weak nod.
“It’s something called ‘dignity’ – which most people take for granted around here,” Mr. Kurosaki directed a side-ways glare at his employer before he put down the clipboard, “You know, I graduated from Todai with honors. Freaking Todai! You’d think that companies would be busting down my door to have me, right?”
With another feeble nod, Mr. Yamada prayed that the man wouldn’t get violent.
Mr. Kurosaki continued, “But no, the first thing they say in every interview was ‘is that your real hair color?’ or ‘perhaps you should dye that hair, young man; it’s not the sort of image that we at Such-and-such Incorporated wish to portray’… shit like that, you know. It pisses me off!”
Growing nervous, the ghost put its fingers to its lips, hoping to quiet the PR guy down before anyone else backstage noticed.
“However, the day I conform to those morons is the day I become one,” Mr. Kurosaki crossed his arms. “Unfortunately, the only half-way respectable job I could find was with this clown,” he jerked a thumb in the direction of the stage. “It’s not like there are many people who can fill this sort of requirement.”
“Y-yes,” the spirit quickly agreed. “I can s-see that.”
“Anyway,” Mr. Kurosaki picked the clipboard up again. “Any messages that you would like to send through to the world of the living, Mr. Yamada?”
“W-well, there is one muh-minor thing…” it hesitated. “See… I c-couldn’t confess to it while I was alive, but I fuh-figure…”
“…what’s the harm now that you’ve passed on, right?” Mr. Kurosaki finished for it. “Cleanse your sins before moving on and all that. Like I haven’t heard that one before,” he looked up, checking the time. The commercial break would soon end and his boss was preparing to give his dramatic psychic reading in front of the excited audience. It was going to happen any minute now.
“Out with it, already,” Mr. Kurosaki said. “We don’t have all show. The Artist formerly known as Gackt is waiting to be on in ten minutes.”
Mr. Yamada grinned sheepishly, “I-I-I had an a-affair with my ex-wife’s sister the whole time we were muh-married.”
“Oh, this is fucking wonderful,” Mr.Kurosaki’s expression hardened into a mixture of surprise and disgust, “Good thing you’re already dead, man.”
Mr. Kurosaki turned away from the cowering spirit as he clicked on the small headset plugged into his ear, “Mr. Kanonji?”
Under the hot florescent lights of the NHK variety show, Don Kanonji sweated and shifted in his seat between the sobbing widow and the square-jawed show host. He coughed in what he thought of as a discrete manner to show he was listening to his PR assistant through the hidden receiver.
Personally, Mr. Kurosaki thought this little ‘secret code’ Kanonji came up with was pathetic.
“Two things, so listen carefully,” Mr. Kurosaki told his boss over the link. “First, Ms. Kobe’s precious ‘Hiro-chan’ had been bonking her sister for years, so he ain’t so precious anymore, got it?”
Don Kanonji sat smiling blandly for the cameras as his left eye blinked twice to show he understood. Some of the live audience saw this and thought he had some kind of silly nervous twitch.
“Secondly,” a satisfied smile finally spread across his lips. The commercial break was finally over and the host was just about to present Kanonji’s big finale. This was the moment Mr. Kurosaki had been waiting for all week, so he wanted to savor it like a fine wine, “I’m sick of this job. I quit.”
“WHAT? No! B-boy!?” in front of 3 million viewers, Don Kanonji’s jaw dropped in horrified realization as he gave a shocked little squeak at the back of his throat. He spun towards the left side of the stage, nearly tripping over his silk red cape in the process. As he peered into the shadows behind the curtains, he could see his PR assistant give him the one-finger salute.
“Find someone else to be your goddamn monkey, Kanonji. I’ve finally found somewhere else to put my skills to use,” Mr. Kurosaki spoke into the tiny mike as he walked away and tossed his clipboard on the staff refreshment table, which knocked over a plate of catered chocolate donuts. “I got hired by the Tokyo Police Department to be their new psychic homicide detective. I’ve just been waiting for the perfect moment to announce my resignation. You can take your ‘bohaha’ and shove it.”
Mr. Kurosaki yanked off the mike and flung it over his shoulder as he rammed through the backstage exit triumphantly. Several bewildered television staff and one awed ghost were left in his wake as the metal door slammed shut.
The discarded headset plopped into a punch bowl, sunk to the bottom, and then buoyed back up.
~*~*~
Hey, everyone deserves to have their 15-seconds of fame. Even Ichigo. ;)
Note: Todai stands for Tokyo Daigaku (Tokyo University) – it’s supposed to be one of the toughest schools in the nation.