The Taste Of Ink
Mystic Shadow Wanderer

Disclaimer: It's 11.45 at night. I have school tomorrow. Do you think I'm in the mood for a disclaimer?

Chapter One: It is worth it? Can you even hear me?

Why do we do the things that we do? Why, in fact, are we living on this earth? I often wonder those things, and for all the years that I've been trying to understand, or find something that even resembles an answer, I still don't understand and I still don't have any answers.

If we're here for the betterment of mankind, I'm screwed. Someone who kills other people on contract certainly isn't helping better the totality of the human race, even though I'd like to think I make a difference. Somehow, though, I don't think that's what any of us are here for. Humans have been around for thousands of years, and quality of life, real quality of heart and strength of character, seem to be deteriorating. So it makes sense that we're put through this living hell for something other than "the good of mankind."

As I sip my coffee, I try to keep myself from snorting. 'The good of mankind, indeed. What the hell has mankind done that merits our doing anything to help them out?' Nothing comes to mind.

Some people call it inexcusable to have such a demeaning opinion of the sanctity of human life, but I've always believed that those people are ignorant. If they would step back from the silvery illusion that is their imitation of living and take a good hard look at the real world, they might think differently. But the day that happens will be the day that I convert to religion. Hell, I'll even let them choose which religion.

The ringing of my cell phone interrupts the course of my thoughts. I growl as I pull it out of my pocket and wait just a moment before answering; I hate being interrupted.

"What?"

"Gods, someone's in a bad mood today." It just has to be Iizuka, it always does.

"Do you have something constructive to tell me, or are you just wasting my time?"

"Just wasting your time."

I love the sound my phone makes when I snap it shut, it's almost as satisfying as the sound bones make when they crack under my katana. There's something about the finality of it that leaves me feeling as if I've accomplished something, that something being the elimination of an annoyance. Man, that sounds fucked up. Days like these make me wonder why I even bother fucking getting out of bed in the morning, besides for the fact that I despise sleep.

Yes, that's right ladies and gentleman, Himura Kenshin is a freak that hates what most people revel in, that being sleep. Maybe it's not so much that I hate sleep that I hate waking up. Or maybe it's the dreams. As I haven't yet mastered the technique of lucid dreaming, I have to accept whatever plays out before my closed eyes. Simply put, my dreams suck.

I overheard a conversation the other day, which is something I don't usually do, but this one caught my attention. This woman was talking to what appeared to be her boyfriend while I was, most unfortunately, standing behind her in line at a grocery store, of all places. Not the type of place you hear the most intelligent conversations, but I couldn't help but listen in to this one.

"I think dreams are what keep you sane," she said. "You know, you build up all this tension, and you get so angry, and maybe you feel like killing someone, but you just can't do anything about it. In dreams, you can do whatever you want. So maybe your subconscious sort of, you know, helps you out. When you're dreaming, you can kill people, or fly, or do whatever you want, you know, and nobody can stop you. So you kill people or do whatever and it helps you release pent-up frustrations, you know?"

She said "you know" too often, and that pissed me off, so I stopped listening, but at least I remember what she said. Thinking back on it, I decide she's wrong. If dreams keep you sane, I would make one terrifying psychopath. Already an assassin, what would I do if I went nuts? Maybe I already am nuts. Who knows? More importantly, who cares? No one, that's who.

Dreams are only so much bullshit. I have this one, where I'm running about the city, slaughtering people (how original). It's not that bad, I guess, until it starts raining organs. Is it normal to find amusement in spleens falling from the sky? I don't think so, but, then again, it doesn't really bother me. People put too much importance on normalcy, whatever that may be defined as. Another thing that perplexes me: What exactly is normal? Society looks at you and says "My God, he's not normal," but then they go to their respective homes and take pleasure in such things as beating their children, abusing their bodies with drugs and alcohol, or watching degrading television shows. I swear, I will never understand society.

Looking over at the clock on the microwave, I realize that it's far past time for me to at least make an appearance at the office. I groan as I sling my bag over my shoulder; it's not as if I need this job, it's so worthless to the fulfillment of life, but at least it's something to do all day. I don't have many hobbies.

"You're late Mr. Himura," the receptionist says as I attempt to make it to my office without being hassled. So much for that plan.

"You're quick," I snap as I continue on, not even sparing her a glance.

When I slam the door behind me, I hear her mutter something about how she'd thought the Japanese were supposed to be polite. That's almost enough to make me laugh. Almost. The stupidity of the stereotypical, conservative world never fails to be amusing. Everyone must be the same when they're all from one place, mustn't they? My breath hisses through my teeth as I throw my bag on the floor and sit heavily in the expensive leather chair behind my desk.

Another meaningless day at work is set to begin.

'Why don't I just stop coming?' I ask myself. 'I don't need the money, and I certainly don't need the irritation.' The simple fact of the matter is that I have nothing better to do with my time; I really need to learn how to have fun.

"Mr. Himura?" God her voice is annoying. "You have a new client here to see you."

"Send them in." I try to keep conversation with that pitiful waste of a brain to a minimum.

The door swings open and a girl with long, black hair steps inside, seating herself on the other side of my desk with no hesitation. At least she wasn't the type to wait for me to ask her to sit, because I never would have. Seriously, if I didn't want these people to sit, there wouldn't be a chair for them. That's just another one of the things that makes me question the overall intelligence of the human race.

"What can I do for you Miss...?"

"Kamiya." She's Japanese? Lovely, my secretary is going to have a field day with this.

"Kamiya. Thank you." I'm not all that rude, really. Just to that bitch of a secretary. Perhaps I should fire her, I think momentarily.

"I need a lawyer," the girl, she can't be much older than eighteen, says.

"That does seem rather apparent, as this does happen to be a law firm. One would assume that you didn't wind up here by chance." I raise my eyebrows at her.

"And with that insult to my intelligence, I shall continue," she replies quickly. "I need an excellent lawyer, is what I should have said. I've heard that you're good, but I wanted to discover that for myself. Just how good are you?"

"Very good, considered by some the best." This is interesting. "It depends, however, on the gravity of your case."

"Can you get someone off for murder?"

"Did you murder someone?" Very interesting.

"That depends on if you can defend a murder case."

"Of course." Alright. She has my attention. "I've done it before."

"Then you can be my lawyer."

"I thank you for such a great honor." There is a very thin line between amusing and annoying, and she's dancing all over it.

Rolling her eyes, she stands and extends her hand to me. I take it and we shake; she has a firm grip. "Expect the full details of the case to be on your desk by tomorrow morning." And with that she leaves.

As the door clicks shut, I stand behind my desk, fighting the urge to scratch my head like a moron. That was extremely unorthodox, not to mention strange. But as I myself am extremely unorthodox and probably more than a little strange, I suppose it doesn't matter. A hired killer that moonlights as a lawyer. Or is it the other way around? Either way, it makes it more than a bit ironic that I'm going to be defending a murder case. I always love it when I get cases like that, simply because I know that whether my client is found guilty or not, I can commit the same crime over and over and get away with it. People really need to learn to be more careful.

I quickly decide that I'm done for the day, and pick up my bag, which I never even opened in the first place. As much as I hate working in this office, this prison without bars, I just keep coming back. At least I can set my own hours.

Today is the day I learn to lighten up, I resolve. Sure, I know I take things too seriously, but it's not as if I can stand the rest of the world enough to do anything else. Maybe going to see a movie is what I need to do. It's one place that people can't piss me off by trying to talk to me, and there might be something playing that can amuse me for a few hours, or perhaps at least give me food for thought.

Stopping briefly to drop my bag off at my apartment and change clothes from the suit and tie required by my office to more comfortable khakis and a black t-shirt, I head to the theater. I despise waiting in line, but at least here it gives me time to scan the posters of the movies that are now-playing. The choices are rather bleak, but I settled for Van Helsing, as it was rather long and had a good chance of having some death in it. I don't like happy movies.

Two hours and forty-five minutes later, I step out of the theater, blinking against the brightness of the sun, and wonder about what I've just seen. It gave me nothing but a completely stereotypical view of vampires, werewolves, and referred to Victor Frankenstein's monster as "Frankenstein," something that greatly irks me, but it wasn't entirely boring. I won't see it again, but at least I didn't fall asleep.

'I really don't have much of a life,' I remind myself, as if I need the reminder. 'Maybe I should take some kind of hallucinogen. It would be different.'

The thought was so ludicrous that I actually did chuckle to myself. How hypocritical I sound. As a rule, I abhor the idea of putting poisons like that in my body. Why the youth of the world find so much pleasure in pumping their blood systems full of shit is beyond me.

'Might as well go home. There's nothing for me here.'

Upper-middle-class America. Some days it's enough to make me want to go back to Japan, besides the fact that I bloody well can't, as I have a reputation there that would make any hardened criminal wince. Any leader of any underground ring would recognize me within three seconds of passing me on the street, and I've been informed that normal citizens are starting to tell stories about me, as if I'm some sort of legendary figure. That's what the world goes for these days. They complain about all the bad news they see on television, but in their hearts they know that good news doesn't get ratings. People don't want good news, they want to sit on the edge of their seats, guessing at what a serial killer or rapist is going to do next. They don't want the missing person to be found, shaken up but alive, they want to see the photographs of the dead body. But if you say that, they'll deny it.

Society is so hypocritical.

A/N: I shouldn't have started this. I really shouldn't. But I did, so that's that. I have too much to do as it is, but it's not like I'm going to do those things, so... yeah... have at it. This is a far cry from The Devil's Workshop or Night Stalker or any of that, so if you were expecting something like that, now you know. I'm writing this because I'm pissed off at how stupid the world is. If you don't like it, don't read it, but don't bother me about how you think it's so terrible and how all of my opinions are wrong. I REALLY don't want to hear it. You know why? I really don't care. If you do like it, then thank you, and I'd love it if you gave my opinions some thought, if you would be so kind. I'm not just some psychotic freak that's rambling and making shit up... I think... Oo Gah, it's late. Goodnight, self. And goodnight anyone else who happens to be reading this before bed (Gods, what kind of nightmares would I inspire?).