And three: that a man with a knife was approaching with murder in his eyes.
“Hmm…?”
At last, the boss noticed the third of these details. The man with the knife stared at the gleeful yakuza, seething with hatred.
“You bastard…”
“Who the hell are you? Who’re you with?!” the boss demanded.
But the tear-streaked young man with the knife responded, “You’ll pay…for what you did…to my sister…”
“Huh…? Oh, I get it. You must be that one girl’s brother. Yeah, now I remember seeing you in that family photo she carried around.”
“You got her hooked…on your damn drugs! It’s all because of you! Now they say…she might never wake up and walk around again!”
Apparently, the interloper had a score to settle with the boss over the gang’s drug-dealing operation.
“Hah! If anything, you should be thanking me for letting her last memories be blissful, then! C’mon, Akabayashi, do your job. Grab this ungrateful little shithead and squeeze the life outta…ah…ah…ah…”
He spun around to give Akabayashi his orders but froze in place.
As the saying goes, one can look down on another person like an ant—but in Akabayashi’s case, the gaze he was giving the shorter man was full of such disgust and anger that he might as well have been trying to squash that ant through visual pressure alone.
The gaze was so strong that the boss felt as though his shoulders were being held down. All that unstoppable pressure was emanating from the prosthetic right eye.
“Wh-what the hell…are you staring at me…like that…for…?”
He could barely even form the words to accost his subordinate. The pressure flowing from Akabayashi was so all-consuming that the boss completely forgot that he was in a dire situation that allowed for no distractions.
Several minutes later, the yakuza boss was lying facedown in the street, twitching. Red liquid pooled beneath his upper half.
A short ways away, the young man trembled, his knife dripping with blood.
“…”
Akabayashi took a step closer, causing the boy to turn the knife toward him. But either he instinctively realized he didn’t stand a chance against a much larger man, or he was satisfied at completing his revenge; in any case, the young man sat down on the spot.
“Kill me… Just kill me already! I can’t… There’s nothing I—”
Akabayashi slapped him. “If you die, who’s going to take care of your sister? Huh?”
“…! …? H…huh?”
The boy turned his trembling face to look up at Akabayashi. He clearly didn’t understand what the man was saying.
“Just…go. Hide the knife and get out of here. If you’re lucky, they’ll chalk this one up to the slasher.”
“…?! Ah…aaah… Th-tha…thank you!” he stammered, getting to his feet and hiding the knife under his shirt.
No doubt the young man had no idea why his life was being spared, but hearing the word sister had brought some measure of control back to his mind and spurred him away from the scene.
“‘Thank you’?” Akabayashi murmured, looking down at the corpse of his boss. “Don’t thank me, kid… You should hate me.”
“I just turned you into a murderer…”
Present day, near a Yamanote Line station, shopping district backstreet
“Ooh, Ruri’s got a photo album coming out? Better get my preorder in.”
Akabayashi strode down the street, reading the same tabloid as Dougen Awakusu had.
Suddenly, his eye stopped on a particular word in the article. “Oh, right, she changed agencies. And they haven’t found Yodogiri yet? Guess Shiki’s got his hands full.”
The word in question was the name of Ruri Hijiribe’s new talent agency. “Jack-o’-Lantern, huh?”
It was a very peculiar and memorable name, but Akabayashi snorted and thought, Hell, it’s me.
While it wasn’t widely known in Japan, a jack-o’-lantern was a pumpkin-faced spirit often associated with Halloween. It started off as an Irish legend: a human turned away from heaven for his wicked deeds but also shunned from hell for cheating the devil and therefore doomed to wander the earth as a ghost forever, carrying a lantern carved from a pumpkin.
In the world of the yakuza, the most forbidden act was to kill one’s parent—the boss.
Akabayashi didn’t do the deed himself, but there was no denying that he abandoned his boss to a certain death. Naturally, he wasn’t going to wind up in heaven, either.
He was something like a ghost, unable to exist fully in the light or the darkness, wandering aimlessly.
Maybe calling myself a jack-o’-lantern is a stretch. That’s cooler than I deserve.
Akabayashi chuckled as he walked along the street, paced from behind by a smaller figure.
This sneaking follower carried the sharp glint of a knife in its hands.
However…
“Yah!”
“!”
Akabayashi knew he was being trailed. He spun around, grabbed his assailant’s hand, and snatched the knife right out of it.
It turned out to be a boy, maybe fifteen years old.
“Come on, kids should be kids, not playing with toys like this. Go back home and play some video games. You can’t hurt anyone doing that.”
“Eep! Aa…aaah!”
The boy raced away. Akabayashi watched him go and tucked the knife into his pocket. “Hmm… Does a small knife count as recyclable? Or is it classified as metal garbage?”
He wondered about the boy. There had been a tattoo sticker on his neck, which meant he was one of the remaining members of that gang. Or perhaps he was hoping to get in, and they ordered him to stab Akabayashi as a means of initiation.
I’ll be damned. If it weren’t for the fake tat, I really would have no idea.
He considered the Dollars and the way Anri reacted yesterday and couldn’t help but feel that something in the atmosphere of the city was eerily lukewarm.
It’s like the kids these days really don’t know how to tell the difference between day and night. Not that a pumpkin head like me has any room to call them out.
He murmured, “Still, I’m allowed to pray.”
If possible, I’d like to at least keep the boundary between day and night clear—so that Anri and Miss Akane can avoid being collateral damage.
He thought about the daughter of the first woman he ever loved. The way she was growing up to resemble her mother reminded him of the slasher.
Maybe…
Just maybe, if he continued wandering the boundary line between hell and heaven like a jack-o’-lantern, he might one day run into that slasher again.
That’s stupid. I must be reading too much manga.
He smirked at himself again, rapped his walking stick, and continued on his way.
“But if the girls say they prefer the night…well, it ain’t my place to stop them.”
And so, the man began to walk as the sun set,
Following the boundary line between the light side of town and the dark.
With the scar of his first-sight love burned permanently into one eye,
The man once more vanished into the depths of the city, smiling easily.
Ordinary C: Collection Rhapsody
At first, the rumors were absolutely true.
“Hey, did you hear?”
“You mean Shizuo Heiwajima?” “It’s Shizuo.” “Him.”
“Walking around with a girl.” “Shizuo Heiwajima.”
“Maybe nine years old.”
“Heard he fought with yakuza.”
“Climbed a building with his bare hands.”
“Heard he kicked a car.” “Got stabbed by a girl.”
“But the knife wouldn’t sink in; it just clattered onto the ground!”
“They saw him jump from the car carrying a girl.”
“He threw a bike one-handed.”
“Dude’s crazy.”
&n
bsp; The rumors spread through the Internet, phone calls, and even word of mouth.
Of all the events taking place during May’s weeklong holiday, there was a clear, odd pattern.
The topic of one man’s extraordinary feats stood out from the others, as though he were rampaging here and there throughout Ikebukuro without rest.
By default, he was a notable sight in Ikebukuro by virtue of being the “man around town in the bartender’s outfit.” Normally, that could also apply to street barkers and the like, but because he also featured blond hair, sunglasses, and a dreadlocked partner, he was always immediately identified as a man to stay away from.
However, the more someone got to know him, the more their approach and assessment of his character changed.
“Shouldn’t be approached” could turn into “Do not approach at any cost,” “Nicer than I thought,” “Run at first sight,” “Get down and beg,” “Give up,” or any number of other options—varied but always extreme.
In the same way someone might describe a monster that no one else had ever seen, these extreme opinions led to equally extreme rumors, placing severe stress upon the actual facts of the matter.
“Hey, did you hear?”
“You know that Shizuo Heiwajima guy?”“That monster.”
“I heard he died.”
“Got smashed by a car.”“Trying to protect a girl.”
“Hit by a dump truck.”“Shizuo.”“It was him.”
“Ran into a motorcycle.”“The yakuza pushed him off a rooftop.”
“He died from getting stabbed by a woman.”“No shit.”
“He has a kid.”
“Isn’t that crazy?”
All of it was nonsense.
And in terms of extremes, the one phrase—“Shizuo died”—was so shocking to most that it spread with incredible speed.
As that message outpaced the rest, the rumors underwent corrections.
Would Shizuo Heiwajima die from being hit by a car?
Clearly not, according to the people who knew Shizuo best or followed rumors about him the most.
Shizuo Heiwajima would not die from something like that, they knew, which necessitated a correction to the rumor.
Through the logic, biases, and desires of a great many people, the rumors were buffeted and sanded down to one unified form.
A rumor that has spread too far can become an urban legend.
And when an urban legend gains the clarity of form, it spreads even further and deeper.
For example, among young delinquents at a club.
“…Hey, you hear?”
“’Bout what?”
“Shizuo Heiwajima.”
“…What about that monster?”
“He…got hit by a truck, and he’s really hurt.”
“…For real?”
“Yeah. He was on the run from the yakuza, jumped off a building, and then…wham.”
“So…he’s all torn up right now, huh?”
For example, among drug dealers hoping to eliminate Shizuo and gain notoriety for themselves.
“But I heard he’s still up and walking around like normal.”
“I don’t care how hurt he is—I ain’t gonna pick a fight with him while he’s still got all his limbs.”
“I ain’t afraid, I’m just sayin’, you gotta be sure you can kill him…”
“In that case, I got something else for ya.”
“What’s that?”
“He got himself a girl.”
“No way?!”
“I hear he’s been walking around the city with a girl.”
For example, among the remnants of a street gang Shizuo once crushed.
“…If you ask me, Shizuo being weakened is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity…”
“You don’t know, he might have just been showing that girl around town…”
“No, get this! Turns out that chick is damaged goods.”
“Huh?”
“I’m serious—Shizuo’s got a kid! A kid old enough to be in school!”
“Are you crazy?!”
“I mean, how old is that guy?!”
“I bet he went out with her back in high school, when he was the biggest player. Then she shows up after a few years and goes, ‘The kid is yours!’”
All of it was nonsense, but in the end, they’d all believe the rumors.
And that was because those rumors stimulated a desire deep within their hearts. It was less that they firmly believed the stories than that they clung to them, in their wish for them to be true.
Because the ultimate desire of all those who believed the rumors was…
“…Do you think…right now…”
“…we might have a shot at Shizuo Heiwajima?”
The rumors had only been around for a single day.
But they succeeded at spurring certain people into action.
Action that could only lead to their downfall, according to those who knew the truth.
May 5, day, Ikebukuro, old apartment
Loud rapping upon the front door disturbed the quiet of the apartment, a shabby place at least thirty years old.
“Mr. Sugawa? I know you’re there, Sandayuu Sugawa,” came a young man’s voice between the rhythmic pounding of the fist. After a brief pause, the door opened up, revealing a very sickly face.
“Good afternoon. I think you know why I’m here,” said the man with dreadlocks, grimacing, running through his protocol. Behind him, a man in a bartender’s uniform yawned. He had blond hair and sunglasses, making him look just like a bodyguard.
As the terrified young man stared out at them, the one who knocked said, “Well, let’s get that money, shall we?”
Tom Tanaka was a debt collector.
But it wasn’t for shady black market lenders. He belonged to a company that had contracts with a wide variety of slightly more reputable businesses: brothels, sex hotlines, singles websites, rental video shops.
Such businesses sometimes needed to collect late fees or unpaid bills from their customers, and so Tom’s company was called on to perform this step—all within legal boundaries.
Of course, some types of debt collection could only be performed through a lawyer, and as far as the video rentals went, they didn’t know if the shops actually had the permits required to do that business. So Tom operated in a kind of gray zone that was actually not that ambiguous in the least, much like the unsavory loopholes exploited by pachinko parlors to function as gambling dens.
If it was the type of job where they took money from seniors without families, Tom and the bartender-looking man with him, Shizuo Heiwajima, would have quit ages ago. But there was no common sympathy for those who failed to pay for their sex hotlines and porn tape rentals.
Perhaps if someone tried the hackneyed, old “I’m trying to find my long-lost sister” excuse for calling the hotlines, they would at least do their due diligence in trying to determine the truth, but Tom had never run across someone attempting to use that line.
They didn’t try to pretend that it was a social good they were performing, but otherwise, it was like pretty much any other job.
On the other hand, some of those late on their payments never intended to pay up, and out of that group, there was always a percentage engaging in illegal activities, so the job was not without its risks. Therefore, Tom regularly performed his duties with his bodyguard-slash-assistant, Shizuo Heiwajima.
“Listen, if you want, we can take this to court and have the whole matter cleared up. But neither of us have time for that, do we? We’re not ripping you off; we didn’t charge more than was explained to you. And come on, man—the money’s one thing, but at least return the tape, yeah? It’s two hundred yen per day, so how many tapes did you borrow to rack up one hundred fifty thousand in debt?!”
“W-w-wait, wait! I never said I wouldn’t pay up! I have the tapes I copied up in an online auction now! Once I get the money for that, I can pay you back!”
“Are you dubbing our�
�? All right, cut the shit and stop messing with the business model. Listen, I’ll ignore that for today, but I need one or the other: money or tapes.”
Tom got tired of arguing and tried to wrap up the process, realizing that he was dealing with a more miserable scumbag than he figured. He started to step inside, but the man pushed him back and wheedled, “W-w-wait, please! All right! I’ll pay, I’ll pay!”
“That’s better. And if you’re short, you can take out a high-interest loan to make up the difference.”
Wow, he sure broke quickly, Tom thought. But then the creep smirked over Tom’s shoulder toward the man standing out in the apartment hallway.
“Hey, what about you? Why don’t you pay the late fee for me, Shizuo Heiwajima?”
“Wait, don’t—” Tom panicked.
“What?” Shizuo asked icily, turning his head with an eyebrow raised.
Oh, shit. This can’t be good, Tom thought, sensing that Shizuo could explode in mere seconds. He stepped away from the door, sidling up to his partner and asking, “Let me just ask…do you know this guy?”
“Nope…never seen him before in my life,” Shizuo replied brusquely.
The man inside smirked. “You’re a famous guy—everyone knows you. I could tell immediately from the outfit.”
“Oh yeah…?” Shizuo said, clearly getting angrier. Tom inched farther away from the two.
The oblivious debtor was paving his own path to hell. “You’re Yuuhei Hanejima’s brother, isn’t that right?”
“…!”
Don’t—! Tom nearly screamed. …Wait a second, why have I never heard that?
“Oh yeah…? And what if I am his brother?”
“He’s superrich, isn’t he? I bet you get a little tiny cut of that fortune. You must have a little chump change lying around.”
Damn, if I knew this guy was suicidal, I would’ve had Shizuo wait farther away!
Tom retreated down the apartment steps until he had evacuated to the ground level—right around the time the man delivered his clinching remark.
Durarara!!, Vol. 7 Page 12
