_________________
"You will never
amount to anything, Kenuichio," Shingen said. "You lack the
will. You are content to take orders and do as you are told. Incapable
of initiating anything, you are a born follower. It is more fitting
than you will ever know that you chose the way of the samurai. You choose
to serve."
_________________
You are wrong, father.
You were wrong about a great many things. I think that perhaps you scorned
the samurai, the way of the warrior, because the concepts it adhered
to were beyond you. You sought only the martial disciplines without
the code of conduct that came with it.
You with your excesses
and lies and back-street dealings with all forms of lowly individuals.
You were burakumin, society's outcast, at the complete opposite of the
samurai social class. You affiliated your family with the Hand. Ninja,
father, how could you? It wasn't enough that you dishonor your name
and my lineage by attempting to branch off from the yakuza only to fall
into debt with them. To publicly mock my mother's name and my pursuit
of bushido while barely keeping the yakuza collectors at bay was more
than I could bare to observe. I would not endure it.
"Sensei, does your
bandage require changing?"* Hirokoto Morri asked from the door that connected
the suite to the room shared by Kenuichio's students.
* Translated
from Japanese.
"No, Hirokoto, it
is not yet time," Kenuichio said.
_________________
"Your men are dead, father. There
is only you and I now."
Shingen looked over his errant son.
Kenuichio wore the modern equivalent of samurai armor. It was wracked
by gunfire when he made his way through the castle's armed guards with
only a sword. The cloth that concealed the mail was in tatters.
"Is wearing bulletproof armor
part of your version of Bushido?" Shingen said. The crime lord
sat cross-legged on a raised dais. A sea of expensive tatami mats separated
father and son. The clan's priceless yet functional daisho: the katana
and wakazashi, stood displayed, out of his father's reach.
"Will you challenge me then,
boy? With your freakish ability and armor that will deflect each strike
I land? Murder is not the way of bushido, samurai."
Kenuichio began removing his armor
piece by piece. Shingen's eyes did not waver from his son's. Growing
up knowing who his father was and that he was disowned before his birth
had been painful. He had learned to fight early in life. Kendo was part
of the national physical regime in Japan's schools. Kenuichio took to
it with every ounce of his frustration over being poor and fatherless.
The frustration turned to hate very quickly.
_________________
"Do you require anything, sensei?
Perhaps you will rest?" Hirokoto asked, his eyes on the floor between
them.
The knuckles on Kenuichio's left hand
whitened as they gripped his sheathed katana. Kenuichio closed his eyes,
exhaled silently and returned from the balcony to the suite.
"You will be informed of my will,
when I deem it necessary," Kenuichio said.
"Yes, sensei," Hirokoto said,
without making eye contact.
Kenuichio was taking a great risk and
he knew it. Coming to America so soon after being injured could prove
fatal if he wasn't careful. No one knew he was in America and that was
the best thing that he had going for him. In Japan, word would spread
about the conflict with his father and the loss of his hand. Every Yakuza,
gang banger, martial artist and lunatic whose ancestor might have been
a samurai would want to take their shot at bringing down the Silver
Samurai. Even left handed Kenuichio knew he could take the vast majority
of comers on the first stroke.
A door closed in his student's adjoining
room. Kenuichio heard the shuffling of soled shoes on plush carpet.
His second student, Arinori Hojo, had returned from confirming tomorrow's
appointment with the gaijin specialist. Arinori would wait until summoned.
Hirokoto had been given the honor of studying under Kenuichio seven years ago and had proven to be a careful if hot-tempered student. Arinori had been accepted on the recommendation of Hirokoto. Arinori had been a student for only three years but his role in the assault on his father's castle was pivotal. Both men had shaped into fine students of both sword and the code of bushido: the way of the warrior.
_________________
"You will not
dishonor yourself or me with your hedonistic ways and dishonorable practices
after today, father." Kenuichio dropped the last of his armor to
the tatami mats.
Lord Shingen stood,
straightened his kimono and stepped silently to the rack holding his
daisho. Kenuichio drew his katana and waited. Shingen slid both wakizashi
and katana into his obi and turned to face his son.
_________________
"Punctual as ever, Mr. Fusaaki."
the kobo, or priest, Daiki Ino grinned.
"Had I a choice this meeting would
not take place period," Yoshimoto Fusaaki, the shatei or senior
boss, said.
Two of the three men that accompanied
Fusaaki snarled their agreement. Though the room appeared as any other
in the hotel something wasn't right. Fusaaki was a master of aikido
and winner of countless encounters and tournaments, legal and not, but
he couldn't stop the hairs on the back of his neck from prickling. It's
the same at every meeting, Fusaaki thought.
The sun set some time ago. A lamp, of
a design inconsistent with the room's decor, sat on the small table
in front of the window. The shadows it created in the room did not fall
as Fusaaki thought they should. The ceiling was completely black and
rippled like a pond made of ink. When Fusaaki paid complete attention
to the onyx sky overhead he heard and saw nothing out of the norm. It
was when he was looking at the kobo that he imagined he saw the rippling
above. It was then that he heard the whispering and soft sobs and raspy
chuckles.
"Yes, Mr. Fusaaki, I am well aware
of that. Your disdain for the pact becomes more evident with each passing
meeting. Perhaps it would be wise for you to curb your discomfort should
I find offence. The illustrious lady would be most displeased were I
to report that etiquette and demeanor was not maintained," Daiko
Ino said.
Ino sat with his legs crossed like a
woman. His hands rested on the bare, wooden arms of the simple chair.
His fingernails were unfashionably long. The man's teeth were a jagged
series of gray bone that reminded Fusaaki of a broken fence-line. His
teeth are monstrous, and possibly moving, Fusaaki thought. The kobo,
as if knowing the discomfort he caused, grinned far longer and wider
than needed. Much more often than a sane man would.
Fusaaki was armed and accompanied by
three of his best men but when the kobo grinned he felt his manhood
shrivel of it's own accord. Fusaaki wanted to draw his Gloch 17 and
empty the clip into Ino more than anyone else he had ever met.
He had never dared for two reasons. First,
the pact was inviolate. Two, the fact that he had never been told to
come unarmed bothered him. It was like he was being dared to start trouble.
Ino held his grin as his gaze passed
from man to man in Fusaaki's employ. Each were students and disciplined
but it was the first time any of them had met the kobo. The last meeting
had been so disastrous that the cease fire had almost been broken. There
would be war in the streets of Los Angeles were that to happen. The
idea was a pleasing one.
The idea of paying homage to Ino and
his mistress made his ulcer bleed.
The kow-towing was bad enough. That was
insulting. What was worse was the way he felt standing in the kobo's
presence. These quarterly meetings were always held in a simple room
in an expensive hotel. Never the same hotel two meetings in row. Always
the kobo and his attendant, the hawk faced Mr. Okikaze. Neither man
ever came obviously armed. The kobo always wore the same slightly
wrinkled blue suit with the collar open. Mr. Okikaze carried a cane.
The handle resembled a falcon's head cast in what might be silver or
platinum. The attendant always wore a black turtle neck and slacks that
seemed to be a few sizes too baggy for him. The cane had to conceal
a sword, Fusaaki thought, not for the first time.
Mr. Okikaze had never revealed the truth
of it or any need to lean on the cane. He wouldn't even remove his sunglasses
for the meetings. Fusaaki stared at the attendant's forearms. Mr. Okikaze
had worn them rolled up only once in the past. Some Japanese men were
hairier than others but rarely were they the equal as some of the whites
Fusaaki had seen. Mr. Okikaze's growth surpassed anything he had ever
seen. The thick, black arm hair on the attendant was akin to fur.
Mr. Okikaze nodded at Fusaaki and rolled
down his sleeves. Fusaaki cursed himself for getting caught staring.
It was worse to be caught by Okikaze than the three females sitting
on the bed. Fusaaki could smell their perfume from where he stood just
inside the room. He knew that his men could as well. They had been sternly
ordered to do nothing but obey Fusaaki no matter what crossed their
minds. The tale of the one and only member to have drawn near the three
for a closer look was warning enough.
"I assure you, kobo Ino. No offence
was intended. I only wish to conduct our business as quickly and efficiently
as possible that I might leave you to your own affairs," shatei
Fusaaki said, inclining his head slightly.
The three ladies cooed, grinning with
red, wet, full lips.
_________________
Kane Koga, wakagashira or number two
man of the Los Angeles Yakuza, waited in the dining room of the Regent
Beverly Wilshire Hotel. He was used to waiting. Patience was a prerequisite
under Oyabun Akiro Ishikawa, father figure of the syndicate in all of
southern California. Kane held a silver platter holding a small velvet
drawstring bag. Kane wondered if the bag had once been wrapped around
a bottle of wine. Had the contents been used to provide courage for
the purchaser in his time of need?
Korekata Watari, a wakashu or junior
member of the yakuza, should have known better than to get involved
with Mr. Ishikawa's second oldest daughter without permission, Kane
thought. There are so many fools in the syndicate.
His face revealed nothing to those in attendance.
Oyabun Ishikawa and the Fukuzawa-gumi
of the yakuza had dominated organized crime in southern California since
before the second world war. Akiro took over for his immigrant father
in 1961. His father had been arrogant in dealing with the gang's only
serious opposition and it had cost him his life. Akiro was almost too
young to assume his father's mantle upon the elder's removal. Some of
the gang leaders needed motivation to assure their support of the dead
Oyabun's son. Akiro's cessation of the hostilities with the Crone had
cemented his position.
Mr. Ishikawa smiled at the business heads
in attendance in the lavish dining room. Each grinned and bowed, thanking
the Oyabun for inviting them to the celebration like they any choice
but to attend. Neither they nor Ishikawa tried to appear sincere.
Mr. Choshi and his chain of five high-end
sushi restaurants had been accepting protection from the syndicate for
over twenty-five years. Dr. Hayashi's medical practice had been unable
to take on any new patients for years since he began covertly treating
yakuza soldiers, in addition to his more low profile patients. Mr. Ogata
owns and operates a highly lucrative chain of Korean massage parlors
in Los Angeles and San Diego. There were a dozen others cavorting and
drinking more than they should.
The purpose of this evening was to celebrate
the newest acquisition of Mr. Ishikawa. Ken 'Righteous' Dou had finally
decided that he needed yakuza protection more than that previously received
from the Red Dragon tong. Righteous Dou was so loyal, so stubborn,
so proud. His five sons were too. Now there are four sons and we get
the Red Dragon's cut of the slave trade with the middle east in addition
to our own operation.
Mr. Dou is here to pay homage to our
Oyabun. He doesn't look too proud now handing over his favored and much
bragged about sword. The jian was rumored to be from the Song dynasty.
His lower lip quivered. His eyes watered. Certainly he misses his
son. It was only after I forced him to watch me bed his wife that his
attitude changed. He didn't enjoy watching. I did not enjoy wiping his
spittle from my face before my men either.
The man sells people on the open market!
One would think he had a greater constitution for horrors.
"What is this, Righteous?"
Oyabun Ishikawa asked as he took the sheathed sword.
"I felt perhaps you might appreciate
this token of thanks for your continued protection of my-our business
interests," Righteous Dou said.
Ishikawa nodded as he drew the sword
from its sheath. Kane could see the corners of his leader's lips attempting
to grin. The sword was worth thousands. Kane knew this because he suggested
the token as an apology for Righteous Dou's stubbornness and lack of
manners. From now on, whenever he looks at the empty display case in
his den he will remember who he works for and that those things he holds
dear, he keeps by the good grace of Oyabun Ishikawa. He still had three
daughters between the ages of six and twelve.
"It isn't a katana but no other
sword is. I appreciate the token, Righteous," Ishikawa said and
turned to hand off the antique. "Kane, take this to my room. Make
sure that everything is prepared, yes?"
Kane bowed low. Ishikawa replied with
a nod in accordance with his station.
"Mr. Ishikawa, the matter that we
discussed earlier? It has run its course," Kane said.
"Indeed? Excuse me, gentlemen. Do
enjoy yourselves."
The heads of business gladly left the
Oyabun's presence.
"This has just arrived, sir."
Kane presented the silver platter.
Ishikawa took up the bag and removed
its contents. He held the two glass vials over his head, squinting his
eyes and grinning. The first two knuckles of a pinky finger floated
in each receptacle.
_________________
Jiro Chikanori had accompanied his shatei
Isomu Genda on the first pact meeting with the kobo Daiki Ino years
before. Genda brought his three men, as agreed, and the meeting had
begun. Chikanori was notorious for his hunger for women of all ethnicities.
Genda handled the talking and the business. Chikanori couldn't take
his eyes off of the three Japanese women sitting on the bed dressed
in thin silk and leather. The three flirted with their eyes and swooned
and writhed yet remained on the bed. Chikanori could focus on nothing
else despite being threatened and even struck by his shatei. Daiki Ino
was very forgiving of Chikanori's rudeness, even accommodating when
he mentioned what everyone else could plainly see. He encouraged Chikanori
to sit with his ladies if that was what he desired. Chikanori didn't
wait for permission from Genda.
The ladies, not hiding their pleasure
in the slightest over Ino's offer, covered their mouths and giggled
submissively. Genda never explained why they had neither stopped the
women or run away instead of witnessing the devouring (Genda did not
live long enough for a thorough explanation). Chikanori laughed and
flirted as they removed his skin, limbs and manhood on the bed. It was
impossible to tell what Chikanori thought he was doing while being fed
his own genitalia.
When Genda returned to the Oyabun and
presented the head of Chikanori, all that remained of the man, the mouth
was frozen in a grimace of insanity. Once Genda had made amends through
the ritual of yubitsume, the finger severing act of contrition, Genda
took the elevator to the roof of the Oyabun's apartment building and
leapt to his death.
"Perhaps you seek the company of
Itami, Gekido and Kiga before you leave? They are at your disposal,
Fusaaki-san." The kobo grinned wide.
One of the men to Fusaaki's left, Ietoyo,
shuffled his feet. His eyes were locked on the things wearing women's
skin sitting on the bed.
"A most generous offer, kobo Ino,
but I fear we must all decline. It's best we conduct our business."
The kobo frowned. "Do all of you
feel that way?"
"Ietoyo!" Fusaaki shouted.
The man snapped-to and faced his boss, his gaze dropped to the floor.
"Yes. I must decline," Ietoyo
said and wiped the sweat from his brow.
"So be it," Ino spat. "Bring
forth the offering for divine Chiyo Kasumi!"
Locking his eyes on the kobo, Fusaaki
reached into his suit jacket and withdrew a hand held radio.
"Bring them in," the shatei
ordered.
A forth man entered slowly, holding a
length of chain in his left hand. Four children, wearing metal collars
around their necks and connected by a common chain entered the hotel
room. The first was a Chinese boy then a blonde Caucasian girl followed
by a black girl and a Latino boy. None were over the age of ten. All
had their hands handcuffed behind them.
Kobo Daiki Ino's face formed a wicked
smile. Fusaaki clenched his teeth.
"Bring them to me, now!" the
kobo ordered.
"No!" Fusaaki countered. The
man leading the children froze.
Fire burned in the kobo's eyes.
"You know well what has to happen
before you get anything, priest," Fusaaki said.
"In the name of the Illustrious
Chiyo Kasumi do I speak. Upon receiving the tribute do I renew the vow
of armistice for another quarter year. Now, surrender the bounty."
Fusaaki wondered if he saw flecks of
saliva forming at the corner of the kobo's mouth. He motioned for his
fourth man to walk the captive children to the priest.
"Master kobo," Mr. Okikaze
interrupted.
"What?" the kobo asked.
"There are matters that require
our attention here. I ask for your leave."
Fusaaki didn't know what to make of the
request. It had never happened in the seven years he had been in charge
of the exchange. Ino couldn't tear his eyes off the children. He blinked
and swallowed.
"Do as you must. Be swift, Mr. Okikaze."
Fusaaki found the grace and speed of
the attendant maneuvering around the quintet and the linked prisoners
unnerving. Once the offering was handed over, the shatei's man quickly
stepped behind the quartet.
"We're finished," Mr. Fusaaki
said.
"Yes." Ino stroked the Caucasian
boy's blonde hair, running his long nails through the length. "For
now, Mr. Fusaaki. For now."
The four children began crying.
_________________
"Inform Mr. Watari that his apology
is accepted," Oyabun Ishikawa said.
Kane bowed, pocketed the bag and tucked
the platter behind his back. A servant instantly removed it with the
stealth of a shinobi.
"What a sword, Kane. He must be
desperate to keep my favor."
"Yes, sir."
"I'd kill the soft-hearted weakling
if he wasn't so business savvy. A man can always have more sons. He
should keep as many women with child as possible. It's sign of virility.
How else does one secure a legacy?"
Kane said nothing. No answer was required.
He was more interested in the elegant balance of the sword he carried.
"Is everything ready?"
"All is as you require, sir."
"No trouble acquiring the medicine?"
On evenings of debasement and homage
Mr. Ishikawa always had a number of young woman waiting for him. He
felt that after such a heady meal of honoring and adoration one should
finish the evening with an equivalent desert. For Mr. Ishikawa to ensure
that his one-eyed monk could breach many jade gates, all night long,
he felt he needed a supply of rhinoceros horn. Kane had no faith in
the ancient powder but knew better than to make such a comment.
"All is ready. Your visitors anxiously
await your favors, sir."
"Good. I must remain for another
hour yet but your work is done here. Leave the sword with my driver
as you take your--"
Gun shots echoed through the dinning
room. Wives and mistresses screamed. Yakuza soldiers drew firearms.
Kane couldn't tell where the shots came
from. Standing almost six feet tall, he had been blessed with height
greater than most of his ethnicity and could see over the gathering.
Twenty feet away the sea of guests was
parting. Kane saw flashes of steel, a spray of blood and the flesh-waters
continued to part. Whoever was blasting a path through the crowd was
drawing close at an alarming speed. If the assailant continued on his
course he would reach the Oyabun in seconds.
Two more shots dropped party-goers. Kane
could see the attacker. A Chinese male of eighteen was wielding a gun
and swinging a jian of his own. Behind the manic attacker two security
guards and four soldiers lay bleeding on the expensive dining room floor.
The young man kept charging. Twenty feet
became ten, another guest was cut down for moving out of his way too
slowly. A woman was shot, someone's wife that Kane couldn't remember.
The wakashira watched his Oyabun. Ishikawa remained in place, expressionless.
He tilted his head to better observe the slaughter. Five feet from Ishikawa,
the young man, having run out of human bamboo to cut down, froze in
place.
Kane could smell the sweat coming off
the attacker. It was one of Righteous Dou's sons, currently the oldest.
His eyes were wide and red rimmed. His green silk shirt hung halfway
out of his pants. Both sword and gun arm were streaked in red.
"You bastard!" Dou's son yelled,
now within sword-striking distance. "You raping, murdering--"
Ishikawa nodded.
Kane drew and slashed his jian across
the jugular of Dou's oldest son in one fluid strike. Central to the
art of iaijutsu is the drawing and utilization of the sword in one movement.
Kane had studied the art for decades.
Dou's son cut weakly for Kane but couldn't
raise his sword high enough. He dropped both sword and gun in favor
of stemming the flow of blood arcing from his neck. He failed to get
a proper seal and fell to the floor. Righteous Dou's eldest son hadn't
held his position in the family long.
"Best clean that once you've departed,
Kane. I don't want that offal's blood staining my sword."
"Yes, sir," Kane said and bowed.
Kane exited through a servant's door.
He wanted to ensure everything was going according to plan upstairs
before he left the Wilshire. He wondered how Righteous Dou would react
to Ishikawa's policy of the father answering for the behavior of the
son.
_________________
"I knew that you
would inherit your mother's penchant for drama. Like you she lived in
a fantasy world. The samurai died out for a reason, fool. They held
our country back for decades while the outside world changed, it evolved!
I have spent my life taking what I deserve from those weaker than I.
Just like the samurai did for hundreds of years!
"Crime is the
new way of the warrior, boy. Cease this foolishness. Kneel down before
me, bow your head and commit your seppuku. You may use my wakizashi
to slit your belly." Shingen offered the short sword to Kenuichio
and jutted his chin.
Kenuichio did not move.
"I have decades
more experience. While you clearly hate me, I see you as just another
obstacle. Little more than a distraction before I return to business
as usual. Kneel! This is the best and only offer you will receive from
me."
Kenuichio took up the
basic chudan, mid-guard, posture and waited.
Lord Shingen slid his
short sword into his belt, drew his katana and advanced.
_________________
Kenuichio rotated the teleportation ring
on his left index finger with his thumb.
"Sensei? Would you prefer saki or
cha? I have arranged for both to be made available for the duration
of our stay," Hirokoto asked.
It is dangerous and foolish to remain
lost in the past, Kenuichio thought. There is too much in the present
to do for that. Chief among them is to make the appointment tomorrow
with the gaijin called The Tinkerer. It would have been easier to get
a replacement hand in Kyoto or Tokyo but the chance of attack is tripled
in my homeland. It is simpler to let things settle before claiming my
father's mantle. My handicap would be viewed as a weakness though any
aggressor would fare no better than my father did.
"Sensei?"
"What is it?" Kenuichio asked.
Hirokoto was approaching with a flask
of saki, Japanese rice wine, and one cup on a tray. His teacher's curt
manner startled him. Hirokoto tripped on the corner of the master bed
dumping the tray's contents on himself, the bed and the floor.
Kenuichio frowned.
"Forgive me, sensei. This gaijin
carpet is ridiculously long. I will retire to the bathroom to clean
up then order room service to tidy the mess." Hirokoto's eyes never
left the floor.
Kenuichio nodded and Hirokoto stepped
into the bathroom and closed the door.
"Crime is the
new way of the warrior, boy."
A muffled thud followed by the sound
of breaking glass came from the adjoining room. What could Arinori be
doing over there, Kenuichio wondered. He stepped to the closed door
dividing the rooms and heard a raspy exhalation.
Sword in hand, Kenuichio burst into his
student's room. At first he didn't see anyone. Where was Arinori? The
sliding door leading to the balcony was shattered. Curtains blew inward,
whipping the metal doorframe. He charged to the opening and froze.
Arinori lay on his back between one of
the twin beds and the wall that divided the balcony from the room's
interior. He had been stabbed in the chest. Resting his sheathed katana
on the bed, Kenuichio checked for a pulse at Arinori's neck with his
left index and middle finger. Nothing.
"I will find the coward that has
taken your life, Arin--"
The door to the room blew open and slammed
against the wall. A Japanese man in a suit stood in the doorway, legs
shoulder-length apart, aiming a gun at Kenuichio.
"Police! Don't move!"
TO BE CONTINUED
______________________________
STEEL FILINGS
Well here it is. My first attempt at
samurai fiction to be released for public consumption, reposted. I started
it at the great MARVEL KNIGHTS GROUP site. All things come to an end.
This story didn't though. Which is one of the reasons I am presenting
it to you here. I want to finish the tale.
If yer a fan of the dark side of Japan
historical, magical or criminal there should be something for you in
this saga.
You might notice that this isn't exactly
the Silver Samurai from Marvel. I've tweaked the history some. Wolverine
didn't kill Shingen nor was he responsible for the removal of poor ol'
Kenuichio's sword hand in this reality. I think the character of Mr.
Harada is intact though, as are his powers.
Let me tell you, my fine reader, he is
going to need them.
Lookin' for something a little different
in your fan fiction diet? Stick around.
C. William Russette
Jan 2010