After two weeks of being a shut-in, I ran out of money.
Still, I had a good time while it lasted. I ordered delivery for all my meals; I didn’t bathe or wash my clothes; I constructed the world’s most awesome blanket fort; I wore my vibrator out from overuse; I cried myself to sleep every night. It was hard to determine whether I was genuinely despondent over losing my fiancé or whether I was just enjoying my tears and rolling around in my own crapulence during an unplanned vacation. The damnable thing is that both conclusions are perfectly valid when going through the winding calculus of my heart.
Enjeru, my older brother and a mednin to boot, was about ready to stick me in the ass with a shot of haloperidol by the time I finally emerged from hiding in my room. Keeping the patient sedated is his solution to any medical issue, from genital warts to glioblastoma. Fortunately for me, I was able to overpower him in the hallway. I hope I didn’t break his jaw, but hey, he didn’t go to medical school for nothing, right?
After that tussle I emerged onto the cold and impartial streets of Kumogakure and the first thing that struck me was the fact that the world around me simply did not give a damn about what had happened to me, or what had happened to Jo. He was frozen in carbonite and the oil merchants and street vendors and brothel whores were still hawking their wares in the same sing-song artificial cheer that made me think about grabbing a bolter and firing randomly into the street when I heard it two weeks ago in the midst of my entire world’s collapse. The realization that everyone else’s life simply went on while mine had stopped was insulting, but also comforting. I decided it was time to make my own ripple on the ocean of existence, however small it might be.
So, I got my hair cut. Shortened hair is a sign of character development, or at least that’s what all of my Chinese Cartoons teach me, anyway. Until recently I had the sort of locks that most people commonly regard as perfection: straight, night-black strands of drawn silk that went from my head to my thighs. Jo enjoyed running his hands through my tresses while we fucked, and made me swear never to lose them. Thus, when the stylist asked me what I wanted done I told her to cut it all off. I would’ve gone completely bald if I had my way but she looked at me like I was committing some sort of crime and thus we settled on a compromise. When she asked oh-so-sweetly if I wanted to donate my clippings to help make wigs for children with cancer I told her I’d rather have them burned.
Anyway, now that I look back on it, perhaps getting chopped wasn’t the best way of going about things after all. I’m wearing a bob-cut that goes down to the nape of my neck but the overall effect is that I now look like a really wussy boy. I blame it on my father, for I inherited his face while Enjeru got more of my mother’s. Enjeru looks like a girl who looks like a boy who looks like a girl, by the way. Plus, perhaps in punishment for my earlier spite I’ve been battling a case of laryngitis and my voice is husky as hell now. It’s cool – not like I’m interested in dating right now.
On the first day back at work I’m standing around in full tactical gear looking and feeling stupid. I’m overseeing the aftermath of a raid on a Cronopolis opium den whose owners made the mistake of deluding themselves that if they just ignored the Raikage’s tithe it would simply go away. You see, I’m the head Tax Assessor of the Deathwatch, and depending on who you talk to I’m one of the most hated individuals in the village. No one wants to pay ten percent of their gross income in taxes to that goober Shin, but rules are rules. (Actually, I’m being unfair to Hayata-sama, because he’s not the Raikage with the highest effective tithe rate. That “honor” belonged to Aion, who took ninety goddamn percent of your income and probably gave it to illegal immigrants or something. Even Sarunishi took only seventy-five, and his entire reason for being Raikage was to steal from all the rest of us!) Whether you’re a genin earning five dolla’ for cleaning toilets with your tongue or a corporation earning ten billion a year selling onaholes to sweaty otaku, if you’re related to Kumo you get hit with the tithe. Ignoring it doesn’t make it go away. Doing so only draws the attention of bean counters who then notify other bean counters with guns. Er, bolters.
If you owe enough, the Deathwatch will send a team over to your house or place of business to forcibly collect the balance owed to His Lobsterness Hayata-sama. You see why we’re hated? It’s not because we crush juvenile edgelord dreams of going missing on day 2 of the academy, but because we prevent said edgelords from blowing money on whatever they want whenever they want. But I’m getting off topic here. As I said before I’m standing around looking like a mallninja with laryngitis. The raid has gone well: sacks of money are being carted away by goons for sorting and counting down at the Legation and the owners are begging for their lives. We didn’t have to fire a single shot. Next time I’m ditching the heavy ST-15 with all of its useless doo-dads and just going in with a takoyaki stick. Most of my minions are busy tearing holes in the walls looking for hidden stashes of money or illegal arms, and no one’s paying attention to me, which is just fine.
I decide not to wait any longer. Satisfied that no one’s got his eye on me I stroll to the back office of the opium den, slip past the shattered door about to fall off its hinges, and start prying apart the owners’ furniture looking for loot. I might as well derive some enjoyment out of my job, right? As expected, something heavy plops out of a crack in a false bottom of a drawer and my eyes light up in glee. It’s a paper-bound roll of gold Krugerrands, probably twenty in all, and worth at least four-hundred thousand Lightning yen.
Fucking jackpot.
I slip the roll of coins into an empty ammo pouch and no one is the wiser. You knew I had problems when you met me, right?
Still, I had a good time while it lasted. I ordered delivery for all my meals; I didn’t bathe or wash my clothes; I constructed the world’s most awesome blanket fort; I wore my vibrator out from overuse; I cried myself to sleep every night. It was hard to determine whether I was genuinely despondent over losing my fiancé or whether I was just enjoying my tears and rolling around in my own crapulence during an unplanned vacation. The damnable thing is that both conclusions are perfectly valid when going through the winding calculus of my heart.
Enjeru, my older brother and a mednin to boot, was about ready to stick me in the ass with a shot of haloperidol by the time I finally emerged from hiding in my room. Keeping the patient sedated is his solution to any medical issue, from genital warts to glioblastoma. Fortunately for me, I was able to overpower him in the hallway. I hope I didn’t break his jaw, but hey, he didn’t go to medical school for nothing, right?
After that tussle I emerged onto the cold and impartial streets of Kumogakure and the first thing that struck me was the fact that the world around me simply did not give a damn about what had happened to me, or what had happened to Jo. He was frozen in carbonite and the oil merchants and street vendors and brothel whores were still hawking their wares in the same sing-song artificial cheer that made me think about grabbing a bolter and firing randomly into the street when I heard it two weeks ago in the midst of my entire world’s collapse. The realization that everyone else’s life simply went on while mine had stopped was insulting, but also comforting. I decided it was time to make my own ripple on the ocean of existence, however small it might be.
So, I got my hair cut. Shortened hair is a sign of character development, or at least that’s what all of my Chinese Cartoons teach me, anyway. Until recently I had the sort of locks that most people commonly regard as perfection: straight, night-black strands of drawn silk that went from my head to my thighs. Jo enjoyed running his hands through my tresses while we fucked, and made me swear never to lose them. Thus, when the stylist asked me what I wanted done I told her to cut it all off. I would’ve gone completely bald if I had my way but she looked at me like I was committing some sort of crime and thus we settled on a compromise. When she asked oh-so-sweetly if I wanted to donate my clippings to help make wigs for children with cancer I told her I’d rather have them burned.
Anyway, now that I look back on it, perhaps getting chopped wasn’t the best way of going about things after all. I’m wearing a bob-cut that goes down to the nape of my neck but the overall effect is that I now look like a really wussy boy. I blame it on my father, for I inherited his face while Enjeru got more of my mother’s. Enjeru looks like a girl who looks like a boy who looks like a girl, by the way. Plus, perhaps in punishment for my earlier spite I’ve been battling a case of laryngitis and my voice is husky as hell now. It’s cool – not like I’m interested in dating right now.
On the first day back at work I’m standing around in full tactical gear looking and feeling stupid. I’m overseeing the aftermath of a raid on a Cronopolis opium den whose owners made the mistake of deluding themselves that if they just ignored the Raikage’s tithe it would simply go away. You see, I’m the head Tax Assessor of the Deathwatch, and depending on who you talk to I’m one of the most hated individuals in the village. No one wants to pay ten percent of their gross income in taxes to that goober Shin, but rules are rules. (Actually, I’m being unfair to Hayata-sama, because he’s not the Raikage with the highest effective tithe rate. That “honor” belonged to Aion, who took ninety goddamn percent of your income and probably gave it to illegal immigrants or something. Even Sarunishi took only seventy-five, and his entire reason for being Raikage was to steal from all the rest of us!) Whether you’re a genin earning five dolla’ for cleaning toilets with your tongue or a corporation earning ten billion a year selling onaholes to sweaty otaku, if you’re related to Kumo you get hit with the tithe. Ignoring it doesn’t make it go away. Doing so only draws the attention of bean counters who then notify other bean counters with guns. Er, bolters.
If you owe enough, the Deathwatch will send a team over to your house or place of business to forcibly collect the balance owed to His Lobsterness Hayata-sama. You see why we’re hated? It’s not because we crush juvenile edgelord dreams of going missing on day 2 of the academy, but because we prevent said edgelords from blowing money on whatever they want whenever they want. But I’m getting off topic here. As I said before I’m standing around looking like a mallninja with laryngitis. The raid has gone well: sacks of money are being carted away by goons for sorting and counting down at the Legation and the owners are begging for their lives. We didn’t have to fire a single shot. Next time I’m ditching the heavy ST-15 with all of its useless doo-dads and just going in with a takoyaki stick. Most of my minions are busy tearing holes in the walls looking for hidden stashes of money or illegal arms, and no one’s paying attention to me, which is just fine.
I decide not to wait any longer. Satisfied that no one’s got his eye on me I stroll to the back office of the opium den, slip past the shattered door about to fall off its hinges, and start prying apart the owners’ furniture looking for loot. I might as well derive some enjoyment out of my job, right? As expected, something heavy plops out of a crack in a false bottom of a drawer and my eyes light up in glee. It’s a paper-bound roll of gold Krugerrands, probably twenty in all, and worth at least four-hundred thousand Lightning yen.
Fucking jackpot.
I slip the roll of coins into an empty ammo pouch and no one is the wiser. You knew I had problems when you met me, right?