Mike W McCoy
<>9<> Her cyborg bodyguard.
Camel Suit, still sporting the MP5-SD, stops half a stride short of the dead skinny Yakuza doorman. The upturned collapsed corpse stares at its own reflection in the Tech-glass shades of the
bodyguard. The bull-necked old Japanese U-sol swivels his pumpkin shaped head to scan the packed Penthouse from dojo to dead daddy with an obvious robotic precision pattern which
only three others in the room ident as a cyborg lining up killer deals, stacking his deck for permanent punctuations.
“The room is secure. Ane-san Kazuomi, will enter now.”The sound smells of a mandatory broadcast, and the Reaper’s raised eyebrow wonders just how many eyes are watching this suicidal
A tall, parietal, poised and perfectly coifed cream colored Japanese woman slides past the carved red lacquer door. She is stylishly costumed inside a long silver and seagull-shit color
kimono which drags in the blood of the executioner’s last kill, leaving behind a gory push-broom effect across the foyer entry.
She stops short, and a simple smile somehow happens when she sees the bald and bleeding Mexican again. His slow wink back quickly re-idents her from the salon downstairs.
“Thank you Mr. Shintaro,” simple, straight and sweetly accented while bowed deep, completely hiding her face.
Her words swivel several heads amongst Red Top Yakuza kyodai Street Soldiers. A few of the 3rd tier rowdy rabble also realize she’s an Older Sister, one important enough to warrant a
cyborg Samurai escort, even this old outdated Universal Soldier off-shoot.
“Saiko-komon Tetsu Tarashima you’re a dishonorable devil!” anger runs the words.
“A mad demon who deserves death for what has been done!” sounding like a spell.
“Ane-san, go away!” the Red Top persona counters. “This is not about you. This is not gokuo? business. This is my family!”
“And I am your sister.” Her strong brown eyes bore into his on the last word. “Ninkyo forbids. I forb-”
The Red Top persona overpowers her protests, and instantly loud curt Japanese suddenly shouts and swings strong strokes of sibling sensationalism that overrides the logic of sanity.
Confusion zips across the wakagashira, Mr. Sumo, and his crew of Red Breasted Bruisers. Red Monkey and Red Mohawk stand ready to fight, and several shatei Street Soldiers slide their
direction to place side bets. Behind them, the back row of the Entourage stands wide mouthed and semi-silent.
Snubbing tradition and protocol, Ane-san Kazuomi fumes forward, a wave of audible attitude crashing against the bombastic vulgar Japanese growls of the Red Top Yakuza kaikei personality.
Not fluent, Cajeda can only read the room when broken bits of English drip with the speed of an IV bottle.
“No Tetsu!.…beloved best brother…insanity possesses you,” he starts to answer, but she deals first by stepping into the puddle of blood alongside the late Corporate Crime Lord’s lifeless husk.
“I love you father,” spoken slow while white nailed hands close his empty eyes.
Tears drip down her next words. “Brother, stop this madness.”
Tetsu Tarashima, now supported by his First Lieutenant Mr. Sumo’s massive paw, responds with misdirected anger. “Why are you here? You do not belong.”
“My escort Mr. Shintaro,” waving at her bodyguard. “Says my blood, my blood!” pausing for effect. “Is needed to open father’s secret vault.”
“You…you lie!” the fat faggot fumbles as foamy froth flies from his furious face. “You lie!” unwilling to believe.
The idea visibly rumbles the petty pretty people posse Entourage, upsetting them just as more rapid fire Japanese screams start slinging.
Cajeda hears, “…discarded spawn of my father…not a rape… how important?”And something that sounds like his name. “Cajeda-sendo.”
The old-school Universal Solider Samurai deals next, but only after a subtle finger wave to check Cajeda’s action, who nods back an affirmative.
“Red Top!” using the perverse persona ident to get more attention. “Ane-san Kazuomi is not your father’s child!”
“Another lie,” stomping the words.
“No it is not,” the cigarette sized cybernetic plug in, bolted alongside his bulldog squat head, flashes a light pattern with each word.
“A lie! I remember,” shaking his spit laced words at the devilish figure of his adopted sister decorated in the ghost-culture colors of death.“I saw you. Newborn that day. I
remember because I was…” words drift into memory.
“You were so beautiful.”
“Mr. Shintaro,” dripping her tears. “Akira is not my father?”
No response, so anger thrusts from behind upheld blood wet hands. “Truth please!”
“Yes,” bowing deeply again. “Yes, truth. Not your father.”
The shattered woman shuffles on hands and knees across the floor, dragging the royal kimono through the gore. “Who’s child am I? Tell me, tell me na-n-now.”
“Katsu, please,” begged using his secret name.“Please,” her eyes plead.
In this silent stunned soap opera moment, ane-san Kazuomi and Cajada share another soul revealing gaze; a blood stained killer and a blood stained princess, both temporally trapped by a long ago
game’s bad deal.
“Kazuomi, I alone am to blame,” the old man’s clipped voice starts apologetically.
“On day of your birth, I murdered your parents. I stole you from the hospital.” The ane-san starts to speak, but the bodyguard waves a stop, and unplugs his Tech-glass shades to reveal
brutally modified eyes, now becoming emotionally tear heavy.
“I brou-“ struggling with the head mounted hardware. “I brought you here, to this room.”
The woman’s outreaching arm quivers.
“Your bloodline was added to the vault. To keep this secret, Lord Tarashima claimed you as his own. I apolo-” sudden overlapping electronic signals flood into his obsolete cybernetic
hardware on a wave of sketchy software upgrades.
The ICE static stammers the cyborg into a mild seizure and drops a weird silence on the Soundtrack, so that even the ‘Flock ‘O Fringers’ behind the Yakuza Street Soldiers go quiet.
Tetsu “Red Top” Tarashima stands still, stunned like the man-child he is.
“Ane-san,” dealing from Mr. Sumo’s strong hand. “I am Oyabun now!” into a long string of guttural grunted Japanese ending with, “Do as I say!”
“No,” she cuts into his rapid Japanese. “No, not for them.”
“Please Kazuomi, I beg you. My mother was hung just for seeing inside,” clinching at the scary witch woman’s kimono.
His eyes tear up. “I must know why. I must.”
Camel Suit fumbles the Tech-glass shades back on, and ends his seizure just in time to hear, “I was only a child…”
Mr. Sumo allows Tetsu a step nearer the cooling corpse of his father. “…I watched her swing.”
Kazuomi reacts to her brother’s pain with a deep emotional wave that bypasses sanity. “My parents were booth killed….”
Slowly and showy, she places her stiff hand defiantly in the blood glazed evidence tray, right alongside the other severed limbs. “…on the day I was born.”
The same sounds slither swiftly, but after the light show, a hiss of escaping air signals the Secret Vault unlocking. Cyborg bodyguard and Mr. Sumo eye-up, each immediately visually agreeing
on action, before pulling back their separate charges.
Red Top is handed off to the Red Breasted Bruisers Red Monkey tattoo and his butt buddy Red Mohawk, who is still holding the dead crime lord’s limp leash. Ana-san Kazuomi slithers to the
shadow of her Samurai.
Seconds tick tock, no one breaths, lights go green, things click and clack, and the Secret Vault opens to reveal a cast steel two-headed high-tech trashcan. Thick gas tanks, dotted with hoses
an dials feed a third box bolted up top, but more importantly is how everything is wrapped by a few tons heavy solid anchor chain cut from a Navy vessel.
“Look at that, brah,” Boss Mao Mao speaks first, and the quick excitement in his voice repeats subtly in the whistles from both SShadows.
‘Um, it’s a something,” the Mexican blurts.
“It is a mistake,” Camel Suit starts stiffly. “A lost secret from the Failed Cyborg Revolt.”
“What brah? That was like thirty years ago.”
“Wait up,” Cajeda’s voice wavers. “Is it a bomb?”
“The warhead is US American NAVY. A 4th strike weapon. Designed to be dormant for decades. Bad news,” indicating the outdated custom control box. “It appears to have been
“How big brah?”
“Twenty megatons, maybe more.”
Ane-san Kazuomi glares a special spell of hate at Red Top. His whimpering makes her mouth violently vomit vitriol and venom without volume.
Boss Mao Mao slow claps under his words. “What a head game, brah. No wonder Akira got everything he wanted.”
Tetsu is stunned, and like a child, he reaches for Mr. Sumo, his big strong protective bear. Bravado flows again, so he reacts quickest, bouncing from one dirty fat foot to the other with
Rapid Japanese fires from the so-honbucho, and the Yakuza Shuffle starts.
<>10<> the Yakuza Shuffle
The Reaper’s professional personality darts like a fly on crack. Images instantly freeze-frame inside flashed fractions of action which then collectively compete against his vengeful
emotional urges so that each clash slightly slants the reality of the Now, leaving a ghostly shimmer fluttering between each breath.
Crossways the concrete conference mesa, Boss Mao Mao fast-draws from his shirt pocket. Cajeda’s smile shows admiration for the blazing reflex motion as the derringer flashes a TK-BWOOM,
Heavy .44 caliber 180 grain radioactive bullets burst beyond bright orange fireballsThe implosive impacts smash Mr. Sumo’s thickly muscled back as he shields Red Top with his own massive body.
Two seconds later gravity sucks against the shattered and shifted spinal column, then both knees buckle like a marionette on dead strings. A loud grunted curse covers the pain of the physical
and physiological paralysis, leaving the So-honbucho as the first witness to his own operatic death dance.
The Headquarters Chief’s point of view has a vibe of a slow motion replay behind an eerie Zen overlay on the pain.
Boss Mao Mao claws at cover behind the concrete office-barrier. His XXL sized head pokes above the edge and is immediately tracked by a sloppy sporadic spray of .9mm bullets from a screaming
Yakuza Street Solider.
“Gentelmen!?” the Samoan blurts in frustration after another face of flying concrete chips. “Somebody…” prepping to throw. “…damn well do something!”
The heavy gun clears the concrete, and clips the silk suited shooter’s shin, bumping his balance. Trying to correct, the pretty boy bops directly into a line of MAC-10 .45 caliber bullets
ripping out of SShadow Red’s suppressed barrel in a harsh prolonged cough.
Mr. Sumo stares unblinking at the bullet impacts, ignorant of the blood burping from his own immobile mouth.
A quarter dozen hardball slugs shatter the pretty boy’s left hip in an explosive burst-balloon effect, while a half mag more of radioactive rounds clip clothing and bits of jaundice Japanese flesh,
heavily dusted with white powder over makeup, before drilling into the backstage of the surprised Entourage.
A choir of screams shouts out, the Soundtrack suddenly saturates with the sharp snaps of thunder, and a dozen dancers draw, dive for cover, and die.
Sweeping untrained panic fire empties entire magazines, chewing up walls, furniture, and a few fluttering Frantic Female Floozies plus friends. The erratic blasted bass beats thunder like the
heartbeats of wild animals, which gain volume with hues of dripping death that echo under the next track.
Frozen in an inadvertent kneeling position, the dying but still aware, Mr. Sumo keeps eyeing the action blurring the space around him.
The shirtless Mexican grunts and grimaces across the gap for the sunken dojo as bullets gouge the hardwood around him. Not letting the lame leg abort the action, he thrusts
forward for the drop.
The Reaper keeps his forearms locked together behind sixteen inches of bloody steel, spears the blocking big man through the sternum, and then rides the tipping wide-load thug, now flaying
backwards, down the drop to the dojo floor.
Mr. Sumo continues to watch, speechless, but appreciation tilts his face forward.
The executioner grabs another of the weakling Yakuza pretty boys, hurling him seemingly without effort into a display case of swords. Bones crunch and the man lands with unforgiving glass and
gravity combining to punish him.
The dazed shatei thug claws for his belt, and a dull dark gun. Cajeda grimaces, works off the pain that numbs his right leg to half useless, and closes with a merciful stoke straight into the young
The Reaper whirls and his eyes slowly smile at the eerie reflections off the floor to ceiling windows. Time stretches on the adrenalin churning cocktail. Outside, bits of Little Tokyo
Two burn, and sudden surreal flashes of flame backlight the manic panic and perverse pleasures.
But before Cajeda can place his bet, a thickly tattooed arm makes a play. Reflexively lashing out with the blade, the steel bites beep across the offending arm. Flashes of lava hot heat
burn through broken bone, and overload the young Yakuza punk’s brain so only a hint of consciousness recognizes the squish of his own severed flesh slapping on the floor.
Heartbeats pound in the Mexican’s chest, his eyes throb from abuse, then movement surges in the peripheral. Swinging up, he focuses on the low level Shingiin law advisor. This one has
big thick glasses and a huge chrome gun thrusting into view.
A strained stride closer, and they both crash into a tangle of arms and legs. Cajeda’s knife wrist is held at bay, while the other’s gun hand bobs up and down. This perverse struggle
surges several seconds straight as first the Mexican then the Japanese roll across the flagstone foyer floor.
Cajeda releases his grip and claws the close-shaved scalp for leverage, but his fingers only manage to gouge an eye. The optical invasion forces a flinch, and that brief weakening gives the
Reaper the advantage to burst free.
Muscle memory controls the take down, flipping the Yakuza, and smirking at the sick bone splitting sound. Twisting hard, Cajeda smiles at the immediate high-pitched squeals signaling the
shattered arm and shredded spirit.
“No,” abruptly pulling back. “No.”
The released terrified paper-pusher watches the Mexican slowly smear the blood splatters across his forehead, face, and tattooed dome. The slick smudged strains of Pain shellac his skin
to a near uniform crimson, the universal badge of an ancient peoples Death Dealer.
“No,” sounded now like a command. “I must play through to your Oyabun.”
The stunned but still alive lawyer would later swear he could hear the heartbeats boom in the executioner’s chest, ticking off slices of time that could have be seconds or hours.
“There is honor in this,” the forgiving part of his professional personality puts forth. “Don’t make me sorry,”
but the Shingiin just stares. Cajeda’s head throbs and as he is about to move off, he realizes his victim wasn’t eying him.
Too late, a thick chain wraps around his head and chest from behind! The steel lasso yanks Cajeda away and back from Tetsu “Red Top” Tarshima.
Instinct tucks his chin, protecting the throat, while he kicks hard trying to apply the brakes. But the bullet wounded right thigh forces a staggered step into a karate strike from Red
Mohawk, an off-center elbow swing to the neck.
The floor hits Cajeda’s face hard, green light flashes inside his skull like a burst of lightning, and makes him want to curl up like a worm. Vengeance injects him past the pain, bringing
back a quote of his murdered half-brother.
“Suicide is not always senseless.”
Red Mohawk is not a pretty boy, or just some pajama wearing wannabe Entourage asshole. His position has been secured, and thinking the game done, thinking the Reaper done, his emotional high
doesn’t note Cajeda crawling forward to secure an antique blade, or how just like He-Man, the Mexican has the power to unleash the Day of the Dead.
The Red Breasted Bruiser stops and swivels sharp the slurped sounds, not understanding the trap. Red Mohawk tugs the chain and leans down over the felled man who lashes out with a no-look
A meaty slap sinks the blade deep into Red Mohawk’s exposed chest.Immediately yanking the chain, the Reaper leans into the dagger now sticking out of the dying man’s chest, and forces it back and
through the Yakuza’s torso.
A sudden violent shift of Mr. Sumo’s point of view alters the diorama. His still immobile body succumbs and collapses into a right shoulder prone perspective. Now, nearly turned
around, the paralyzed witness watches Wonderment stained by tears.
Ane-san Kazuomi is a lithe limp thing clutched tight by her obsessively protective bodyguard, a flailing formless blob costumed in a blood and gore smattered kimono which flutters and waves about
like the unfolding wings of a serpent.
.40mm copper capped slugs clang into the Cyborg Samurai’s sub-dermal armor. His fifty-plus year old Pinwheel Corp. bionics absorb round after round, allowing the old school metal man time
enough to bull their way towards perceived safety.
Blood, torn flesh and exposed metal are nothing new to this veteran geriatric player of the games of death. So, having secured ane-san Kazuomi, the bodyguard shifts into super-solider mode.
Most of the Yakuza Shuffle Players shoot with fitful fire discipline, allowing rapid recoil to raise the aim higher. Boss Mao Mao’s SShadows simply burn off clips fast and fancy, amid a woven
dance that hardly pauses to acquire proper targets, trusting the swarms of deadly lead to clear their path.
Switched into SSM; no smile, sub-machinegun to shoulder, cybernetics amped to Redline, the terrified faces around the room start popping apart like a gory arcade game. The deal is a thing of
freighting beauty, even ane-san Kazuomi is mesmerized, repelled, and unbelieving at the precision and detachment dancing around the Penthouse, cursing this place with lingering stains of
dying souls, feeding the Ghost Culture a feast.
Cajeda eyes the show, and he knows for damn sure it was Camel Suit all those decades ago at that Lost Bank between the Fringes and the Wall. The muffled .9mm subsonic rounds spit out as duos
or trios of death, and in most cases it’s a race between the falling spent brass and the falling corpse.
Mr. Sumo burps blood again, lungs fighting for final breaths, then realizes the Grim Reaper is real, and is here.
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