Disclaimer: I do not own anything.

I'm stomping the living shit out of a tall, drunk bleach haired guy who had the effrontery to call me a faggot and then tried to beat me up to prove his point.

We are in an alley next to a night club I don't remember seeing before. I can hear a foreign but familiar song leaking out of the back door as I systematically smash this idiot's nose and go to work on his ribs.

I'm having a rotten evening, and this fool is taking the brunt of my frustration.

"Hey, Hikitani." I turn from my groaning clothed trash to find a blonde pretty boy leaning against a dumpster, looking grim.

"Hayama." I step back from the guy I've been bashing, who slides gratefully to the pavement, doubled up. "How goes it?"

I'm very relieved to see Hayama: delighted, actually. But he doesn't seem to share my pleasure.

"Gee, ah, I don't want to disturb you or anything, but that's a friend of mine you're dismembering, there."

Oh, surely not. "Well, he requested it. Just walked right up to me and said, 'Sir, I urgently need to be firmly macerated.'"

"Oh. Well, hey, well done. Fucking artistic, actually."

"Thank you."

"Do you mind if I just scoop up Tobe here and take him to the hospital?"

"Be my guest." Damn. This bastard here is Tobe? I'm having a hard time imagining this lump of meat as that loudmouth back in high school. Also, I wanted to appropriate at least his pair of shoes. "Hayama."

"Yeah?" He stoops to lift his friend, who spits a tooth into his own lap.

"Where am I?"

"Japan."

"Where in Japan?"

He looks up at me like a man who has better things to do than humor lunatics and lifts Tobe in a fireman's carry that must be excruciating. Tobe begins to whimper.

"Nishinomiya. A bit farther from the university I'm in." He walks up the alley and disappears in the direction of the bar's entrance. I calculate rapidly. Nishinomiya; not far from my dorm, but I can't walk there— not less in this state.

He reappears unencumbered. "I made Yamato deal with it. You remember him, right? He wasn't best pleased." We start walking east, down the alley. "Forgive me for asking, Hikitani, but why on earth are you dressed like that?"

I'm wearing blue jeans, blue jeans and nothing but blue jeans. Also, I'm on barefoot. Really, it's not surprising that someone would feel they needed to hit me.

"It was the best I could do at the time." I send a prayer of gratitude to that guy who hung this pair outside his house. This jeans at least postponed my supposed frostbite. It's about twenty degrees out here. "Why are you consorting with frat boys?"

"Oh, because we went to high school together; and Tobe and I have been friends there, in case you forgot." We are walking by the back door of a surplus store and I experience a deep desire to be wearing normal clothing. I decide to risk appalling Hayama; I know he'll get over it. I stop.

"Buddy. This will only take a moment; I just need to take care of something. Could you wait at the end of the alley?"

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Breaking and entering. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain."

"Mind if I come along?"

"Yes." He looks crestfallen. "Goddammit, all right. If you must." I step into the niche which shelters the back door. This is the third time I've broken into a surplus store, although the other two occasions are both just for the fun of it. I've got it down to a science. First I open the insignificant combination lock that secures the security grate, slide the grate back, pick the Yale lock with the inside of an old pen and a safety pin found on the desk nearby, and use a piece of aluminum between the double doors to lift the inside bolt. Voila! Altogether, it takes about three minutes.

My audience regards me with almost religious awe. "Where did you learn to do that?"

"It's a knack," I reply modestly. We step inside. There is a panel of blinking red lights trying to look like a burglar alarm system, but I know better. It's very dark in here. I mentally review the layout and the merchandise. "Don't touch anything, Hayama."

I want to be warm, and inconspicuous. I step carefully through the aisles, and my eyes adjust to the dark. I start with pants: black. I select a dark blue flannel shirt, a heavy black wool overcoat with an industrial-strength lining,
wool socks, boxers, heavy mountain-climbing gloves, and a hat with ear flaps. In the shoe department I pick up something black and fits my size.

Hayama, meanwhile, is poking around behind the counter. "Don't bother," I tell him. "I'm sure this place doesn't leave cash in the register at night. Let's go."

We leave the way we came. I close the door gently and pull the grate across. I have my previous set of clothing in a shopping bag. Hayama looks at me expectantly, like a large dog who's waiting to see if I have any more lunch meat.

Which reminds me. "I'm ravenous. Let's go to Saize."

"Saize? I was expecting you to propose bank robbery, or manslaughter, at the very least. You're on a roll, man, don't stop now!"

"I must pause in my labors to refuel. Come on." We cross from the alley and I find, with great satisfaction, my dear ol' Saizeriya.

We cut over to Marinpia. It's only nine o'clock, and the street is teeming with its usual mix of runaways, homeless mental cases, clubbers, and suburban thrill seekers. Saize stands out as an island of normalcy amid the closed parlors and boutiques. We enter, and wait by the counter to be seated. My stomach gurgles. The mild decor is comforting, all wood paneling and swirling white marbling.

We are seated in the smoking section, right in front of the windows. Things are looking up. We remove our coats, settle in, read the menus; even though, as lifelong Japanese, I could probably sing them from memory in two-part harmony.

Hayama lays all his smoking paraphernalia next to his silverware.

"Do you mind?"

"Yes. But go ahead." The price of the former poster boy of Sobu's company is marinating in the constant stream of cigarette smoke that flows from his nostrils. His fingers are a deep ochre color; they flutter delicately over the thin papers as he rolls Drum tobacco into a thick cylinder, licks the paper, twists it, sticks it between his lips, and lights it.

"Ahh." Hayama exhales, and I suddenly find my still unmarried Modern Japanese instructor in him. After a breath, he regards me, "You don't smoke? Anything?"

"I run."

"Oh. Yeah, shit, you're in great shape. I thought you had about killed Tobe, and you weren't even winded."

"He was too drunk to fight. Just a big sodden punching bag."

"Why'd you lay into him like that?"

"It was just stupidity." I tell him how I got mugged on my way home, how I voyeur the streets naked and how I snatched my previously worn blue jeans from a random apartment window; second floor. "Dear intoxicated Tobe saw how I was dressed, concluded that I was easy meat, got obnoxious, wanted to beat me up, wouldn't take no for an answer, and got a surprise. I was minding my own business, really I was."

Hayama looks thoughtful. "Which is what, exactly?"

"Pardon?"

"Hikigaya. I may look surprised— which I am, in some way. But in fact your buddy here is not completely clueless. I have been paying attention to you for some time: before our little Yukinoshita-san said you two are dating, as a matter of fact. I mean, I don't know if you are aware of it, but you are moderately notorious in certain circles. I know a lot of people who know you. People; well, mostly women. Women who know you." He squints at me through the haze of his smoke. "They say some pretty strange things, you know?"

The waiter arrives with my coffee and Hayama's milk. We order: a cheeseburger and fries for Hayama, split pea soup, the salmon, sweet potatoes, and mixed fruit for me. I feel like I'm going to keel over right this minute if I don't get a lot of calories fast.

Mr. Waiter departs swiftly. I'm having trouble caring very much about the misdeeds of my past self, much less justifying them to this guy here. None of his business, anyway. But he's waiting for my answer. I stir cream into my coffee, watching the slight white scum on the top dissipate in swirls. I throw caution to the winds. It doesn't matter, after all.

"What would you like to know, buddy?"

"Everything. I want to know why a seemingly mild-mannered college guy beats someone larger than him into a coma while wearing nothing but jeans. I want to know why Iroha tried to kill herself eight days ago. I want to know why you can pick a Yale lock. I want to know why my father's closest enemies are hunting you down."

A yakuza is hunting me? I didn't know that. Oops. "Your old man's part of the tree?"

Hayama regards me. "More involved than you think, I dunno why but he's trying to keep you alive." No big deal. I can stay alive on my own. "It seems like you've pissed a pretty nasty character. They're angry." The food arrives, and we pause to arrange it on our little table. I start eating as though there's no tomorrow.

Hayama sits, watching me eating, his food untouched. I've seen lawyers do this thing on court with hostile witnesses, just like this. They simply wills them to spill the beans. I don't mind telling all, I just want to eat first. In fact, I need Hayama to know the truth, because his dad is probably going to save my ass repeatedly in the years to come.

I'm halfway through the salmon and he's still sitting. "Eat, eat," I say in my best imitation of Hiratsuka-sensei. He dips a fry in ketchup and munches it. "Don't worry, I'll confess. Just let me have my last meal in peace."

He capitulates, and starts to eat his burger. Neither of us says a word until I've finished consuming my fruit. Mr. Waiter brings me more coffee. I doctor it, stir it. Hayama is looking at me as though he wants to shake me. I resolve to amuse myself at his expense.

"Okay. Here it is: I kill people— or used to, at least."

Hayama rolls his eyes and grimaces, but says nothing.

"I was a serial killer. Remember that killing outbreak when we were in third year? Eight murders every eight day? That's me. Right now I'm just some nasty bastard using university as a cover. This afternoon I was having some nice break outside the dorms when three cowards took me inside their van, smacked me in the gut, did some other things I couldn't remember and threw me into a random alley, naked. I suddenly had the unusual problem of needing something to wear, so I hid under somebody's porch for a while. I was cold, and nobody was coming along, and I had no choice and take this— well, you saw how I was dressed. Anyway, I had clothes— or rather, pants. Okay. But in this neighborhood you can't dress like that without having certain misunderstandings arise. So I've been taking shit all evening from various people, and your friend just happened to be the last straw. I'm sorry if he's very damaged. I very much wanted clothes, especially his shoes." Hayama glances under the table at my feet. "I find myself in situations like that all the time. No pun intended. I never regret what I've done in the past, it's fun. But the aftershock is too much to handle. I already got kidnapped thrice this month; gangs playing shits on me, asserting their damn superiority. So in order to cope, I learn to pick locks, shoplift, pick pockets, mug people, panhandle, break and enter, steal cars, lie, fold, spindle, and mutilate. You name it, I've done it."

"Rape."

"No, not that. I will never raped anybody." I look at him as I speak. He's poker-faced. "Iroha. Do you actually still speak with Iroha?"

"I keep tabs with her father."

"Dear me. You do keep strange company. How did Iroha try to kill herself?"

"An overdose of Valium."

"Yeah, okay. That would be her fourth suicide attempt."

"What?"

"Ah, you didn't know that? Her father is only selectively informative. Iroha actually tried three times before. I never know that bitch's so artistic in terms of suicide."

"Hikigaya—"

"You know, it began a year ago, and I'm still angry at her. What a waste. But she was severely depressed, for a long time, and she just sunk down into it. I couldn't do anything for her. It was one of the things we used to fight about."

"This is a pretty sick joke, Hikigaya."

"You want proof?"

He just smiles.

"How about the pests? They're looking for me?"

The smile vanishes. "Yeah, that's all I know. I admit that I am a wee bit befuddled by that."

"If you used to be good at killing people at age seventeen without getting caught, some people would want to recruit you, and if you refuse, they get angry. I stop when I graduated, right before I start going out with Yukino; but the ghost of the past is persistent, and still chasing me. By the way, you should ask Yukino all this stuff. She'll tell you."

"I already did. She told me."

"Well, hell, Hayama. You're taking up valuable time, here, making me tell you all over again. You didn't believe her?"

"No."

"Sure. But Yukino is very truthful. It's that complicated upbringing that does it." Mr. Waiter comes by with more coffee. I'm already highly caffeinated, but more can't hurt. "So? What kind of proof are you looking for?"

"Yukinoshita-san said you can beat up five grown up men and not break a sweat."

"Well shit, it's one of my more dramatic parlor tricks. But I promised Yukino not to do it again. Tobe's an exception, though, I'm sure she'll understand."

"Is she really okay with this? With what you are?"

"Yeah." I grin at him. "As long as I don't break my promise."

"Alright. Tell me something useful."

Yeah, why not? I happen to saw this guy hanging out with a girl I know. "So you're with Sagami at the moment?"

He nods then looks down. I bet he's feeling guilty for doing shit behind Miura. How righteous.

"Try to stay away from that chick. But if you can't help and end up making out, make sure you wear metal speedos unless you want to have your nuts crushed."

Hayama's genuinely scared. "Have my what crushed?"

"That nutcracker bitch loves to step on testicles— in heels." I smile, forlorn. "If not for a nearby flower vase she would've done me in."

"...so that's why she looked so eager about it."

"Yeah, hit on her and you're in for a Nutcracker Deluxe. Beware."

"That's one disaster avoided." He holds out a hand. I shook it. "Thanks."

I see a group of unpleasant looking fellows in suit walking toward us. "Follow me." I say, running for the men's room, Hayama close behind me. I burst into the miraculously empty stall, broke the tiny window and make my way outside. "What the fuck?," says Hayama. "Damn it, hey Hikigaya—" but I lose the rest of whatever he's about to say, because I jumped on the back alley of Saize, sprinting on pitch blackness.

I ride a taxi using Hayama's money. My tricks allowed me to steal his wallet on his back pocket while walking on the way to the restrooms. Dear me, I'm awesome.

"Stop there." The taxi halts and I pay him, four times the amount shown on the meter. Mr. Driver grins from ear to ear and thanks me warmly. I enter the superfluous apartment complex and press at the intercom. "It's me."

"What's the password?" says the sweet, seductive voice on the line.

"Let me fuck you," I say and the doors widely slide open.

Note: So here's the deal with this: I read a breathtakingly hilarious scene at my current novel and decided to make a parody out of it. I doctored the whole scene and fit the oregairu characters in it. I know it's OOC. I wrote it that way for the fun of it. To those who noticed where I took the scene, keep quiet, or I'll be slitting dem throats in the middle of the night.