by Russ Watts
When the buzz sounded from the desk behind him, he wished it hadn’t. Wished the sound was only in his head, wished it wasn’t reality. Reality meant giving voice to a decision no right mind would ever wish to make. Being the boss meant there was nobody else above him to make all the hard decisions. The responsibility was his alone.
Speaking of buzz, that’s what he needed right now. He slammed the rest of the Cristal down his throat, poured himself another. Wash down the bitter taste with more bitter taste. Get his head feeling warm. Back in the good old days, in San Fran, he would do a couple lines of coke before he hustled stiff-necked idiots in board rooms.
Boss Tanaka turned from the large window and pressed the button on his bare Mahogany desk. He adjusted his suit and ran his fingers over his bald scalp—an old habit from when he used to have a lot of hair.
Time changes people. It changes their hearts.
Like his wife, Izanami. She wanted to turn their empire into a reality television show. Maybe include all the activists who constantly protested his operation. “We could feed them to our jungle beasts!” she’d once said, smiling and rubbing her hands together in a way that could only be described as ‘diabolical.’
But it wasn’t just his wife who betrayed him, and he couldn’t blame her, anyway. She was pretty damn hot, but there were plenty of younger girls, and newer girls—black girls, Cambodian girls, Cuban, Texan, Alaskan—he had tasted pussy all over the world, and none of it was Canadian. For some reason, that idea cheered him, put a smile on his face.
He needed to smile. Right now, more than ever.
Dmitri Kresevich, the big, burly Russian, stalked into the room. The man couldn’t conceal his pride; he knew this day meant a promotion for him. Boss Tanaka thought of him as nothing more than a common ruffian, but the former KGB operative had been efficient. Always efficient.
A dozen men followed Dmitri into the room and divided into two squads, one against each side of the wall. He approached the desk, walking across the sparkling-clean floor that mirrored the light from the picture window, casting the room in a bright glow and rendering every man into the likeness of a shadow.
There was someone walking behind Dmitri.
Boss Tanaka did not want to look at this man.
“Sir,” Dmitri said.
Boss Tanaka nodded, and the Russian stepped aside.
The sight before him was unreal. Boss Tanaka did not recognize the person standing before him, and he knew he was supposed to. This was a man who had meant everything to him. Always impeccably dressed and well-groomed, Boss Tanaka’s childhood friend and chief of security had transformed into a living, walking joke.
“Kenshin Goya.” Boss Tanaka pronounced his old friend’s full name for the first time in decades. Back in California, when they were growing up together, Kenshin had always been known as “Ken.”
But the man wearing a long white robe and sash, hair in a top-knot with most of his scalp shaved off perfectly, samurai sword in a scabbard at his waist, looked nothing like Kenshin. Boss Tanaka had no idea what any of these items were called, but he saw a sword, a robe, and a shitty haircut. He recognized the sword. He’d given it to Kenshin as a gift many years ago, had its steel tempered with new technology that prevented the weapon from bending and breaking. The weapon itself was nearly invincible, and its cutting power was unprecedented. Like almost everything in Tanaka’s life, it was an experiment, bought and paid for, but it was never meant to be used.
Kenshin bowed. “Thank you for seeing me.”
Boss Tanaka could not show his displeasure; he had to remain cool and collected. He could not appear to be weak or emotionally unstable in any way. Or drunk.
Slung over Kenshin’s shoulder was a bulging cloth sack that seemed to weigh heavily upon the slender man’s back.
“I have always made time for you, Kenny my boy.” Boss Tanaka had rehearsed the conversation in his head several times, but he hesitated now. Any control he had over the situation was fading quickly. He thought he knew what was in the sack, and if he was right, then Kenshin was a real fucking idiot.
Kenshin gracefully dropped the sack in front of him on the floor and knelt on both knees, back rigid, hands placed on his thighs.
“What is this?” Boss Tanaka asked. There was no point in playing games; best just to move forward and do what must be done. “You disappear on me for three weeks, then come out the jungle dressed in this…this ridiculous costume? You asked to see me, but you already knew that as soon as you showed up, we’d bring you in. What the hell happen to you? Don’t tell me you were smoking opium without me.”
“Revelation.”
“What?”
“Revelation. I have discovered something new about myself, and about the world.”
“You have gone completely insane!”
“You are my master, and I owe you an explanation. I owe you an explanation, just as I owe you my life.”
Boss Tanaka’s face grew redder by the second, and perspiration made his starched shirt collar uncomfortable and tight on his throat. “I’m not your master. Stop talking like that, and stand up. You’re acting foolish.”
“I know how this may seem to you. I understand why you brought so many of our men to this meeting. I have trained several of them myself, and they are worthy to defend you. But Dmitri Kresevich is not worthy.”
The big Russian didn’t seem to hear anything Kenshin said.
“Ah fuck, man, you’re really trying my patience,” Boss Tanaka said. “How long have we known each other? You’ve never pulled a stunt like this. Is it the project? We’ve talked about this before. You promised you would remain with me, work for me. I trusted you, gave you a job. You got handjobs too, and I got that shit on video to prove it!”
“I have always remained loyal, and I am loyal now. Which is why I have come to tell you that Dmitri Kresevich must die.”
Boss Tanaka shook his head. “No. No. No. Nobody is going to die. Come on now, Kenshin. Start from the beginning. Explain yourself. We’ve been brothers to each other, and I’ve treated you like a partner, even when you didn’t want in. I told you before that I didn’t want to force you into coming here and working for me. You’ve always worked hard for me. You could be on your own. Maybe that’s what you need.”
Kenshin remained poised, hands on his thighs, back perfectly straight, eyes focused on the sack on the floor. “I have learned about the conspiracy that will tear apart everything we have worked for. Our dream has been destroyed. The investors have decided that our goals are no longer integral to the project.”
“Our goals,” Tanaka said, tasting the words.
“Our dream.”
“I have not forgotten, Kenshin. You insult me by coming here, dressed like a…like a clown! You insult our past, and shame what we have accomplished.”
“I defend what we have accomplished. The investors have blinded you. It is not your fault, George.”
Boss Tanaka couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Kenshin was an honorable man, his actions dictated by reason and calculation. Somewhere along the way, Kenshin had lost control. This man was not the man he could have called brother.
“I know why our ancestors fought them,” Kenshin said.
This caught Tanaka completely by surprise. “Huh?”
“The dragons. The dragons our ancestors killed. That is what we have returned to this world. They are everything that is wrong and evil in man, and we have brought them back. We have lost our way.”
“Wait. Just hold on one minute.”
“I know it is hard to understand. I know it is hard to believe. But it is true. And your wife, Izanami—”
“That’s enough!” Boss Tanaka slammed his fist onto the table. “Dragons. Goddamn dragons. Like with big whiskers and shit. Big ass snakes. All that Japanese mythology garbage. You a monk now? You Shinto? No? Ah, Kenny, ah, Kenny…” Tanaka paced in front of his desk.
Kenshin’s eyes remained lowered.
“Look at me, damm
it!”
Kenshin obeyed.
“You’ve gone nuts! You’re not a…you’re not a samurai! You’re playing some dirty goddamn joke, and I don’t appreciate it. I know Izanami sleeps around. What does any of this have to do with Kresevich? And you really need to take that stupid outfit off. You’re going to take a long vacation. You need a break. Read some Bushido books and drink warm sake. Spend money at a casino. More handjobs from barely-eighteen Vietnamese girls.”
Kenshin bowed his head deeply, nearly touching the ground with his forehead. “Please. Forgive me.”
“What’s in the bag?”
Kenshin rose, his back rigid once again.
“Ken, what’s in the bag? It better be a brick of something good. I’m not in the mood for bad news. Not in the mood at all, Kenny.”
Dmitri Kresevich stepped forward, his old-world Russian accent prominent in his speech, his tongue flickering for a moment along the edges of the bright white beard around his lips. More than one man called Dmitri “Santa Claus” behind his back, because they would never say it in his presence. He was a jovial man, but he had a reputation for cruelty that followed him wherever he went, even though nobody could claim to have seen him do anything horrible.
“Sir, allow me to assist.”
“There is no need,” Kenshin said. “I came here to deliver this sign of my loyalty. It is mine to share.”
Boss Tanaka held his breath. He did not want to see what Kenshin had in the bag. He desperately wished Doctor Israel could engineer a device allowing him to travel back in time and stop Kenshin from his mad path he was travelling down now. He wanted—and needed—his friend.
But there were billions of dollars on the line, and his life’s work.
Kenshin carefully removed a large, fleshy object from the sack. The sack was wet, and dark stains discolored the fabric’s original color. An awful smell that reminded Boss Tanaka of vomit in a sauna swept into his nose, and though he already knew—deep down, he knew, and he feared—the reality was far worse.
The severed head of a Velociraptor now lay upon the bag.
That head was worth several million dollars. The head of a dead dinosaur. A dinosaur spawned from years of genetic research. A dinosaur made possible by Ken and George’s hard work. A dinosaur that attracted thousands of people to their island resort. A dinosaur that represented the future of genetic research and military weaponry.
And don’t forget Kim Kardashian clones. Or at least, the ability to pump enough hormones into a woman to enhance her bust and ass to make her look just that perfect. Kim K. had refused to talk to him on two occasions when he tried to meet her. His reputation has preceded him.
No way he could completely take his mind off what he was looking at now.
“This,” Boss Tanaka barely said. His face was flushed with the shame that he had trusted his friend for far too long and had ignored the signs. Like a man who pretended his spouse wasn’t always coming home late or spending far too much time texting. Like a father too ignorant to recognize track marks on his son’s arms. He had ignored Kenshin’s descent into madness. He had allowed friendship to get in the way of the future.
“I know you are displeased,” Kenshin said, still bowing his head. “I wish for an opportunity to explain. I wish for an opportunity to expose the traitors among us.”
“I’m looking at one!” Tanaka shouted. Spittle flew from his lips.
The security men moved for their guns. They were quick, efficient men. They were some of the finest mercenaries money could buy.
And they weren’t quick enough.
Boss Tanaka didn’t realize Kenshin had drawn the katana until it was far late to react.
It was a white robe that flipped through the air toward one of the walls, but it wasn’t just a white robe. It looked like a frail thing as it flew through the air, but it was filled with a graceful man. A man who landed on his bare feet. A dark spray of blood exploded like a depressurized fire hydrant as the katana sliced into the middle of the man’s skull. Ken twisted his wrists and moved the sword through the side of the man’s face, and flipped into the air again—a red robe this time.
A robe red with blood.
Later, George would think about how quiet it was. Nobody had a chance to shout, or scream.
In a blur of motion, the robe landed behind another man, and sunlight that poured through the large window caught the edge of the katana as it flashed through a man’s neck, the head toppling backward over the body as it took a moment to realize it was dead.
Nobody could see Ken.
Boss Tanaka couldn’t see him, either.
The scientifically-engineered sword could cut through flesh and bone. Impossible.
Unless you spent a couple mil on a sword nobody else had, then it was possible.
George stared at the floor, his mouth wide open. He stared at the limbs that seemed to be dropping from the ceiling. The spreading blood pools. The limp bodies from which blood leaked as if those bodies had been nothing more than bags of liquid that had been popped by Kenshin’s sword.
In a matter of seconds, Kenshin had managed to flip to the other side of the room. Paint on the walls. Paint everywhere. Red paint.
Not red paint. Blood.
George could see the meaty brain chunks from one of his dead men and he thought of ground beef. Why did all this death remind him of meat? Why did dead bodies look like meat? How could something so important—life—be reduced to nothing in the instant flash of light upon a sword’s edge?
He looked up in time to witness his old friend easily insert the katana into a man’s belly. Kenshin’s stature was low, his knees bent, legs evenly spaced, so that his head was level with the man’s chest. The sword made a ripping sound as Ken twisted it inside the man’s gut, and then slid it out horizontally, Ken’s hands positioned on the sword’s handle as if he were rowing a paddle. A snake-like trail of viscera was dug out of the man’s stomach by the sword, flopping wetly onto the ground with a spray of blood.
The sudden urge to vomit compelled George to turn his head and double over, retching hot, searing bile through his mouth.
His body weak from the effort, he placed his hand on the desk and looked up to see that only one man was left standing against Ken, and Tanaka found himself wondering why he didn’t not want to see Dmitri Kresevich lose.
Ken had betrayed him. Had gone insane. Had killed several of his men. Had murdered a Velociraptor.
Kresevich and Ken circled each other, both men careful not to slip on the blood. The big Russian had drawn two large knives instead of his gun. What was his problem? Why didn’t he just shoot Ken and end it?
The Russian laughed. “I have waited years for this.”
Both men met in a clash of steel that rang through the gore-spattered room. The big Russian moved surprisingly fast, and Tanaka couldn’t tell which man was on the offensive.
Finally, he snapped back to reality and pushed a button on the underside of his desk. A silent alarm. Kenshin had thrown everything away, and had to pay the price. The boss opened a drawer and withdrew a 9mm handgun.
The doors opened, and men flooded into the room, many of them caught by surprise at the sight of the massacre. No matter how disciplined they were, nothing had prepared them for such a ridiculous scene, and many of them slipped on blood and shouted obscenities in confusion.
Boss Tanaka fired at the two men who danced the dance of death.
Both of them moved out of the way, and the bullets struck other men behind them in the chest. Kenshin flipped toward Tanaka. The boss thought of a swooping bird. It was the only reaction he could possibly have. Instead of firing again, he watched in awe as his old friend came for him, and moved behind him, and pinned his arm behind his back, and held the katana’s cold edge against his throat.
Boss Tanaka’s honor would not allow him to beg for his life.
The men in the room hesitated, unsure what they should do. Boss Tanaka signed their paychecks, but there was no wa
y they were getting in close.
Sweat dripped down his neck. His heart pounded in his chest. The blood of his men stung his eyes and soured his tongue. He was powerless. All his money could do nothing against Ken. This was shameful. Absolutely shameful, and unacceptable. Better to die now than live with the embarrassment. He had been blinded by the idea of loyalty.
Loyalty was an idea fit for slaves.
“It’s over,” Tanaka said. “You’re a dead man.”
“I have been your friend since we were children,” Kenshin said, his voice calm and smooth, “you know that I do not fear death. But I will always serve the man I swore to protect, even if that man no longer lives in you.”
Tanaka closed his eyes. His bladder let go and warm urine filled his pants.
A rush of air met his face and he felt his body go forward. He was dead. Any second, there would be pain. His body felt light in that brief moment, because it had been unburdened by life.
But he opened his eyes. He was not dead. The traitorous bastard had leapt onto the desk. The fool wanted to commit suicide to prove a point.
Let him.
“Kill him, goddammit!” Boss Tanaka screamed, and then ducked beneath the desk.
Kenshin seemed to move in slow motion, floating backward through the air as the storm of bullets shattered the window into a million thin cracks. Kenshin’s feet were directed at the window, and he soared through the window with a crash and soared downward, feet directed at the earth.
The fall was 110 stories.
George believed the gunfire had stopped, though the roar in his ears remained. The window was completely gone, leaving only the sprinkles of glass shards to glow in the sunshine. Several shards were caked in blood. A cool gust of wind blew into George’s face.
Proudly, Boss Tanaka rose from beneath the desk and approached the edge of the window. Dmitri Kresevich stood next to him, a long vertical slash through the fabric of the shirt, blood trickling over his bulging belly.
