The man narrowed his already small eyes and felt grief.
“A failure, after all,” he muttered under his breath, gazing upon that festering patch. “I might need to revise my plans.”
He impatiently rubbed at the discolored skin with all five fingers of his other hand. The flakes of dried skin mixed with the wet, sticky layer below to form gelatinous globs, which he wiped away with the cloth.
But even after the arm had been scrubbed clean, dots of a clear, oozy fluid reemerged from the wound. He pressed one with a firm finger, and yellowish pus spurted out.
The man’s eyes remained fixed on his sickly-colored forearm as he fought to bottle up the rage building in the pit of his stomach.
“Why? Why wouldn’t it take?” he shouted.
He threw the blood and pus-covered rag to the floor. “I went through so much effort to take that skin. I worked so hard for it—for Mima’s sake! Why? Why wouldn’t it stay on?”
He pounded a fist against his desk. He put his hands over his head and dropped to the floor, convulsing.
The skin must stay on. The skin must stay on. The skin must stay on…
He lifted his head.
Before him was a poster of Kirigoe Mima. Innocently smiling, she gazed at him. She spoke inside him. If you really care about me, don’t give up. Keep trying—just a little bit longer.
He felt like something had struck him on the head.
“That’s right, that’s right,” he said. He sat up in the middle of the small room. “This is for Mima’s sake. I can’t give up so easily.”
His face went red with self-reproachful embarrassment, and he slapped himself on the cheeks.
“Just because the skin didn’t stay on doesn’t mean I can let myself become discouraged. Positive thinking—that’s what I need.”
He grinned at the Mima on the poster.
“It was probably just a problem of materials. Even though I kept the skin in a freezer, it was still a month old. Plus, the girl was very young. Maybe there was some kind of cellular mismatch due to the difference in age.”
The man’s grin widened. “What good does worrying do when you can take action instead? Isn’t that right, Mima? I’m going to give it another try. I swear I am. Next time, I’ll experiment with a woman close to your age. And if I can, I probably should use another idol’s skin—don’t you think?”
The man caressed the poster-Mima’s face. “I’m all right now. Look, I’m not depressed at all.” To prove his point, he spun around once, an exaggerated, goofy display.
“Now, which idol will be my test subject?”
The man’s expression changed to that of a beast seeking its prey.
A single video cassette lay upon the desk. On its cardboard sleeve, written in a wriggling, worm-like scrawl were the words: FOR SELF-PLEASURE: IDOLS VOL. 3. The man removed the tape from its sleeve and carefully set it in his VCR.
He pressed the play button, and various idols—all in flashy costumes—began appearing on the screen. First was Izumi Haruna, then Kawano Keiko, and then Peach Pie, and so on. As was apparent from the tape’s title, the recordings featured were ones the man used when he fondled himself.
Never had he done so to images of Kirigoe Mima. Not once—not even to a fantasy of her. He didn’t want to stain her purity. He used other idols to handle his base desires.
Now he watched the tape not for pleasure, but in the hope of finding a suitable test subject.
One after another, pretty idols appeared on the cathode ray tube, but the man began to doubt this approach. Yes, he had pleasured himself to the sight of them, but their cuteness and innocence still stirred his emotions. Even in service to Mima, he couldn’t bear to take any of these spirited girls as a test subject—especially not when he intended to perform his next attempt on nearly the same scale as his final plan. He would not be merely removing a tiny patch of skin from her thigh, as he had with the little girl.
The man pressed the fast-forward button impatiently. Was there no idol he could use for his test without prickling his conscience?
As the tape approached its end, the recordings became more recent and featured newer idols.
The man’s finger lifted from the fast-forward button.
On the screen was an idol in a leotard—a leotard with quite high-cut legs at that, clinging to every curve and fold.
“Ochiai Eri,” the man whispered.
A dull feeling of pleasure came to life in his groin. He lowered his zipper and pulled himself out, taking himself gently in his right hand. He began stroking rhythmically.
On the TV screen, Eri grinded her exposed hips. For just a moment, the fabric of her leotard pulled up tighter between her legs.
The man let out a short grunt, and a thick, sticky mess spilled out into his hand. He touched his hand to Eri’s face and shouted, overcome by deep emotion, “You whore! You seducer of men. You’re no idol. You’re nothing! You bring nothing but grief to your innocent fans. That’s it. I’ve decided. I’m taking you as my test subject. Just you wait!”
IV
Excitement lifted Rumi’s voice nearly to a squeal. “This is incredible! It’s fantastic!”
Rumi, Mima, Tadokoro, and Murano Yuji were all seated on the sofa in the Moon Kids Agency’s reception area. On the table before them was a freshly printed copy of Mima’s photo album, Sexy Valley.
Clapping his hands, Tadokoro said, “It came out even better than I had hoped.”
Indeed, after flipping through the pages, Mima felt more confident in the photos than she might have expected.
To Mima, Tadokoro said, “You’re satisfied, aren’t you? I can tell.”
The singer nodded and smiled. “Y-yes. I like it.”
“It’s great,” Rumi said. “I just know it. It’s got that shock value, but it’s not obscene. Mima’s charm and Murano’s talent with a camera delivered a win for sure.” Rumi glanced to the photographer, then quickly looked away, her cheeks flushing a little.
With an embarrassed twitch of the nose, Yuji said, “I’m flattered, but for this collection, any success is entirely owed to the subject. She’s the one who made it work, not me.”
Mima said, “No, Rumi-chan is right. If you weren’t such a skilled photographer, these pictures wouldn’t have been so tasteful. Look at this page,” she said, opening the book. “If this photograph hadn’t been taken just right, it would have ended up trashy.”
The picture was of Mima wearing a little apron, and nothing else. A slash of light obscured her nipples from view but still left the picture remarkably risqué.
Rumi turned to another page and said, “This one is incredible, too.”
Mima was standing fully nude behind a pane of glass. Here and there the glass was slightly clouded over, the hazy patches conveniently obscuring only the most vital parts. But the rest of her was captured in perfect clarity. A quick glance might have given the impression she was on full display.
The collection was packed with pictures sexier than Ochiai Eri had ever managed, and Tadokoro felt sure that even people who weren’t Mima’s fans would want a copy.
The manager said, “These will be lined up at the front of the stores starting tomorrow, and Mima’s CD single comes out the same day. That cross-promotion effect will be like nothing else. And since we haven’t leaked any of the photos, I can’t wait to see the looks on everyone’s faces when they pick up the book.”
He loosed a heartfelt belly laugh, then added, “All right, listen well, because I’m about to make a promise. Mima has put her heart and soul into this, and I won’t let her efforts be wasted.” With conviction in his voice, he stood. “‘Sexy Valley’ will take number one. You hear that, Mima? Number one. I guarantee it!”
Swept up by Tadokoro’s impassioned vow, Mima found herself standing with him. “I’ll promise, too,” she said. “I’m taking number one! Say goodbye to the Charming Rose and say hello to the bombshell!”
V
As night fell outside, the man
sat in deep thought in his newly darkened room. With a furrowed brow, his mind fixated on one single thing—how to obtain his test subject, Ochiai Eri.
He had some measure of confidence in his physical strength, but no matter how strong he was, he was still human. Abducting her alone was a near impossibility. Rather than relying on his strength, perhaps he could devise some maneuver to lure her to his room?
He picked up the knife with Kirigoe Mima’s relief in the handle. Whenever he held the weapon, an uncanny calm settled over him. Now it provided him with a spark of hope, the confidence that the right idea was somewhere inside him, waiting to be found.
He stared into the weapon’s blade. His reflection looked back at him from the sharpened and polished metal. His own face unnerved him—those fierce eyes reminded him of the evil cat-spirits in old ghost stories.
He attributed the look to the depth of his conviction.
He considered his options. What if I soaked a rag with chloroform and hauled her in a taxi? The man placed the knife back on his desk and folded his arms. No, that won’t work. Obtaining the drug would be difficult and getting caught with her unconscious body isn’t something I could talk my way out of. Under his breath, he muttered, “That won’t do.”
No matter how he went about it, abducting her carried too high a risk. The best way would be for Eri to come to his room of her own volition.
But how could he make her want to do it?
First, he imagined himself in her position. If he could put himself in her shoes, he might be able to understand the way she ticked. If he pulled that off, he might just be able to devise a scheme to get her here.
And so he pondered.
Eri had no morals. She lusted after men and had no reservations against taking them. The sooner the world was rid of her, the better. But promiscuous or not, she was still an idol.
Even a tramp like her still had to appeal to her fans as an idol. No matter what her character, she was no porno actress. That made her vulnerable to scandals. One that involved sex would be fatal even to her.
By holding the threat of such a scandal over her, the man reasoned, he could manipulate her freely. Getting her to come to his room would be easy.
The man picked up an idol magazine from the floor beside him. He turned through the pages and found the listing for the phone number of her managing agency, New Clear Vision. His plan was to call the office and ask for her fan club’s contact number. Once they got to talking, fan club members tended to divulge an idol’s schedule in much greater detail than their agency ever would.
Once he had her complete schedule, he would work backwards to find her free time—that’s when he’d sleuth out the scandal he needed. He was prepared to follow her for days, if that’s what it took.
But still, he needed to hurry. Time was running out; he couldn’t afford to waste it. Every hour and every minute counted.
To save the Charming Rose, he needed to know the feel of an idol’s skin.
Chapter 6
EXPERIMENT
I
The television show Nighttime Hit Parade carried incredible influence. Artists who sang their new songs on the show saw a dramatic increase in CD sales the following week. On average, the program pulled in more than one in five households. Its continued success, despite the public’s generally flagging interest in music shows, was nothing short of a miracle.
Securing an appearance on Hit Parade would be absolutely critical for Kirigoe Mima’s new single to top the charts. For the best results, the performance had to come within the first three days of its release.
With those ends in mind, Tadokoro had personally visited the producer’s home so many times that he’d lost track of the exact number, but it was definitely more than ten. The manager had championed Mima’s star power to the producer, particularly stressing his desire to use the venue to unlock the singer’s hidden
potential.
The producer had thought of Mima as merely a run-of-the-mill idol, but Tadokoro’s passion began to soften the man’s opinion. Then, on one particular visit, the producer finally gave the okay. Tadokoro was so elated he nearly cried.
The show was scheduled for four days after Mima’s single hit the shelves, but the appearance could still provide the boost they needed to propel the song to the top of the charts. As he explained his success to Mima back at the office, he was again struck by his conviction that “Sexy Valley” would be a major hit.
Tadokoro said, “Mima, there’s no better venue to launch a new song. I need you to give it your all!”
Mima nodded deeply. “Thank you, Bon-chan. I never dreamed I’d be able to perform on Hit Parade. I’ll give them a real show. Everybody’s going to see the new me!”
II
The Roppongi sidewalks were as crowded as they were every other night. A fashionable woman walked arm-in-arm with a black man, stumbling occasionally as she went. A group of girls took in the nightlife, their caked-on makeup failing to hide the fact they were underaged. Young men put on their best Yakuza act, swaggering with puffed-out chests. There were heavy metal boys and punk girls alike. Most would probably still be present come morning, having tested their endurance through a sleepless night of revelry.
Cities have long been known as lonesome places. The more people get packed in together, the more individuals feel a paradoxical isolation. To distract themselves from loneliness, people seek each other out in bustling commercial districts like these.
In that sense, perhaps the gaudy neon lights, the towering cabinet signs, the marquee bulbs flashing in sequence—perhaps they all acted as a kind of bait to entice such lonely souls, much as carnivorous plants lure in insects with their brightly colored leaves and flowers.
But get away from Roppongi’s main streets, and the crowds fall off quickly. There, the sleepless district feels more like a ghost town.
Her face hidden behind large sunglasses, Ochiai Eri walked down a narrow back street. She nearly had the place to herself. Distant car horns echoed between the buildings, but the cars themselves stayed well away. Flanking the road were rowhouses whose façades had remained largely unchanged since postwar times. In their shadow, it was easy to forget one was in Roppongi.
At the end of the shabby street stood a small, two-story building with cracked and crumbling concrete walls—stores below, apartments above. Eri stopped in front of the building and looked up and down the street to make sure no one was watching. Seeing no spying eyes, she hurried into the entrance, as if she’d been sucked inside.
The musty hallway within gave no suggestion of recent activity. But that was only natural, since out of the ten units, only one was a business—and that was an office on the second floor.
Eri ascended the staircase, the familiar sound of her footsteps echoing about her.
Murky light spilled out from a windowed door at the end of the second-floor walkway. A sign next to the door read SHINKO MUSIC PUBLISHING, INC. Officially, the company handled the publishing rights for Eri’s CDs, but in truth, the company only existed as a tax dodge. It had only one employee, a female phone receptionist.
Eri unlocked the door with a key and stepped inside. The office was outfitted with a small couch and coffee table set along with two office desks. A sink in the corner was filled with haphazard stacks of dirty coffee cups.
Eri sat on the sofa and removed her sunglasses. She reached down to a mini fridge tucked in beside the couch, retrieved a can of beer, and drank it with satisfaction.
When the beer was gone, she glanced at her watch. It was after nine. Aran Naoto would be arriving any moment.
The rocker was a complete junkie and a womanizer, but when it came to his looks and physique, he was a perfect ten. But the best thing about him was his dick. Not only was it huge, but—maybe on account of all the drugs—it possessed unrivaled stamina.
Eri’s thoughts wandered toward his muscular chest, and the warmth of anticipation spread below her waist. Hurry up, Naoto, she thought. I want you now
. She pressed her hand between her legs, right as the door creaked open, and Naoto stepped inside.
“Eri,” he said, “for the last time, you’ve got to stop telling me to meet you with so little notice—”
Before he could finish complaining, her fingers were on his zipper.
Naoto got up from the sofa, stretched his arms, then reached over to put on his T-shirt. As he watched Eri, lingering on the couch in nothing but her slip, he put a light to a Caster Mild.
Somewhat exasperated, he said, “You’re as rough as always.”
Eri pouted like a spoiled child. “I can’t help it. I’m in love.”
“You’re in love with me?”
“No.”
“But you’re in love.”
“With sex!” Eri said, then she sprang to her feet. With her milky skin, ample breasts, narrowed waist, and plump, firm bottom, she made a near eye-dazzling picture.
Naoto said, “I still can’t believe you’re doing the idol thing. You know, some of your fans would kill themselves if they saw us like this.” He put on his leather jacket and turned to leave. “But what’s that matter to me, anyway? See you later, Eri.”
Eri shouted, “Wait!” She thrust out her hands and said, “Naoto, you promised.”
“Oh, that’s right.” He thrust a hand into his jacket pocket and retrieved a photograph.
“Don’t you go forgetting on me. I didn’t call you here for the sex, you know.”
She snatched the photograph and stared at it intensely.
In the photo, Naoto had an arm around a woman’s shoulders, holding two fingers up in the V-sign.
The woman was, without a shred of doubt, Kirigoe Mima.
Eri’s expression twisted. The edges of her mouth shot up as she laughed, the sound gleeful and ominous in equal measure. “This is it,” she said. “This is all I need.”
Her smile was not that of an idol, but of a wild beast that had caught sight of its prey. For a second, the sight gave Naoto a start. “What are you going to do with that? It’s from two years ago.”
Perfect Blue: Complete Metamorphosis Page 7
