The March sun was shining bright in the sky. It was one of those spring days where the sun was blazing, there were no traces of clouds and they would also remain in your faded octogenarian memories.
The driver of that hearse, however, wasn't of the same idea.
He hated that job, he hated it like poison. There was nothing more boring than driving that sort of limousine for deceased ones. Yet, he had no choice: the family business had passed from one generation to the other and after his granpa retired, while his dad and his brother went to open branches in different cities, Takao had to take his place. The only thing that relieved his spirit was the fact that he nicknamed himself as "The Undertaker", like the famous wrestler: every time he put his bottom on that oblong car, he pictured himself in a ring, under the spotlights and with the audience screaming his name, triumphant and creepy, feared and respected by everyone. He had to put a lot of effort trying to not sneer for self-satisfaction like an idiot, during funerals.
That day the Japanese was driving on a desert road, window down to let the crisp spring air in (since his granpa had scared the shit out of him when he was a child, telling him about the perils of naphthalene and formaldehyde fumes, Takao always kept at least one of the windows down, at the cost of wearing three coats during winter), with the only company of the one behind him.
The driver gave a quick glance back at the corpse: his companion for that day had been a Russian mafioso, died for unknown reasons during a grilling at the Tokyo Police Department. He was blissfully laying in his bed of flowers, joined hands on his chest, an angel smile on his lips and his mortal remains addressed to the afternoon flight headed to Moscow. Takao took the folder with all the information, trying to remember his name.
"Boris Kust…Huzt..Krust…aaaaargh" he moaned, tossing the clipboard on the passenger seat "whatever."
"Well, Boris…" started the driver, immediately regretting the fact that, for the umpteenth time, he indulged in the peculiar tiny-winy bad habit of him. He was oh so fond of talking with his passengers.
"So, what have you done to end up in this…situation?"
Takao chuckled and picked up the corpse's folder again.
…
*criminal activity of the mafia type*
*abduction with ransom request*
*illegal arms trafficking, drug dealing and corruption*
*homicide and torture, hitman activity*
…
"My dear Boris, you surely have been a bad boy, uh?"
The Japanese swallowed noisily: in those cases, he was so happy to deal with dead people instead of living ones. That Russian must have been a really dangerous one.
The journey was proceeding well, Takao had chatted a bit with his guest, laughing at his own jokes and pretending Kuznetsov was a big fan of The Undertaker.
"You know man – he was saying, excited like a child on Christmas morning – he has this total-badass style, with his long leather coat, his awesome hat… I should wear more like him…yeah I surely should do it…
and his friggin' entrances….oh god, that's a real show! The sound of the bells in the dark, the fire games, the artificial mist, his slow walk…jeez, he's the best, believe me!"
Suddenly he realized that inside of the hearse was a bit darker than before. He turned to discover that the curtains were closed. He was sure about leaving the obituary with them open.
"Maybe I'm too tired – he stated to himself, with a squeaking voice – I've worked so much this month, sure enough."
He was tightening his grip on the steering wheel and staring at the road, when a hand laid on his left shoulder and a growling voice whispered in his ear: "Do you ever shut the fuck up?"
Takao froze for a moment, then started screaming as loud as hell. He slammed on the brakes and abruptly turned right, making the car do a few about-turns.
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING YOU IDIOT?!" yelled his aggressor, being thrown on the passenger seat, near Takao. With crescent horror in his eyes, he recognized the man as no more less than his silver-haired Russian mafioso, supposed to be dead.
The Japanese jumped off of the car screaming and trying to run away as fast as he could.
"WHO'S THE FUCKING PROSTAK THAT LANDED YOU YOUR BLOODY DRIVING LICENSE?!" screamed the other man again, while trying to regain a decent position inside that damn hearse. He sat down on the passenger seat, fixed his suit and checked if his gun was still in its place. He took a quick look of the nearby environment, looking for possible witnesses, but no one was around so he dared to exit the car to look for his driver.
"Glupyy yaponskiy" murmured, starting to walk.
Takao had stopped several meters away, muscles burning and lungs craving for air. Attracted by a strange feeling, he looked down at his pants: a stain was widening on his crotch. Oh God…
Someone bursted into an harsh laughter beside him.
"AHAHAHAHAH you pissed yourself! – the Russian was really amazed by that fact – Chto takoye kiska!"
The pride overcame the fear inside the japanese's heart, burning his cheeks to flames.
"Hey, that's your fault, you know?! Sorry if I thought you were dead, since you were put inside an hearse after your funeral!"
"Ahahahah ah da – replied Boris, starting to control his laughter – that was a magnificent trick, one of my best if I may say so myself."
"YOU SCARED THE SHIT OUT OF ME!"
Takao suddenly found himself staring inside a dark deep gun barrel.
"Do you want to die right now – said the Russian with a sharp voice and a deadly glare- or should I wait for you to spread to the four winds that I'm here, safe and sound?"
The japanese's voice died in his throat.
"By the way, do you have a cigarette, kiska?"
The road was still desert, the hearse now decently parked on the side of the street. The smoke rings were floating in the breeze, the two men sipping soda under the shadows of some trees.
"So, uhm…you're alive…"
"Are you really tupoy?! Jeez…do you want a practical demonstration?"
"Uh, n-no no thanks" the smelling stain on his pants was good enough for Takao. His flatmate would have made fun of him from the exact moment he would cross the door to…well, eternity he guessed.
"Can I…ehm, can I just ask you why?" he was a bit pissed off about no one telling him.
"Well, you know kiska…as you've read on my report, I'm quite an…active guy. Maybe way too much active.
I have some connection inside the Japanese police force, but being here was starting to be too dangerous for me. So, I'm leaving…I'm returning home."
"And you, kiska – while saying that, Boris lazily pointed his gun to the Japanese, making another two or three drops to be added at his almost dry stain – are the one helping me in the last bit."
…
*body repatriation for cremation heavily requested*
…
Takao felt like an idiot. Not only he was made a fool of himself by one of his passengers, but he was also helping in the escape of the mentioned supposed-to-be-dead-russian-killer.
"Oi! My flight will not wait for me, you know." Boris put the cigarette out and muttered something in his native language, Takao 100% sure it was some swearing against him.
The both of them got into the car, in the initial designed position they've had.
The sun was still shining and the Tokyo airport was just one hour and an half away
…
Prostak = simpleton, muggings
Glupyy yaponskiy = stupid Japanese
Chto takoye kiska = what a pussy
Tupoy = dumb
(I used Google translator, so I'm really sorry if there are mistakes in the Russian spelling/meaning!)