A/N: I've reached a part in my first fiction where events portrayed in that story are based upon my invented back story. I was left with either leaving the reader in the dark or using flashbacks, but neither seemed a good way to handle this. So I've decided to write it into a separate story.

The story is set after the Mahora Festival arc. I am trying to stick to the facts in the manga, but since I've only read up to chapter 172, I may get some wrong. I will use English forms of address instead of the Japanese.

WARNING - This story represents a departure for me. The first chapter deserves the 'M' rating for language and violence.

The chapter title comes from the Guns N' Roses song 'Welcome to the Jungle.'

I do not own Negima, its characters or the setting. Like the rest of you, I enjoy reading about them.


It was two in the morning and the bars were closing. Customers walked or staggered outside. Those getting into their cars were quickly pounced upon by LA's finest and led away in cuffs to spend the rest of the morning in the drunk tank. Johnny Lee Coker chose to walk instead today.

Johnny Lee was a big, burly man with a reputation for using the most violent means to solve any problem. He had held several jobs over his 32 years including longshoreman, security guard, drug runner and a collector for loan sharks. He was currently self-employed as a carjacker.

Tonight had been a lousy one. Johnny had brought in a primo car, a Porsche, but the cheap-ass bastard only gave him a few hundred dollars for it. Too much blood to resell he said. They'd have to chop it up and part it out to make any money.

It wasn't Johnny's fault that the dumb son of a bitch didn't want to get out. Johnny had to pop him one and then drag his sorry, dead ass out of the car. And the bitch he was with wouldn't stop screaming, so the carjacker had to shut her up as well. All that effort and for only a few, measly bucks.

He continued walking east on Rosecrans Avenue, past the dark store fronts. His thoughts were interrupted by the pressure of too many beers. Normally, Johnny didn't care were he relieved himself, but he didn't feel like being hassled by the cops right now, so he ducked into an alleyway.

He unzipped his trousers and began to urinate against the wall. Johnny considered what his plans for the weekend should be. He had enough money on him to get a hooker. He could even afford one of the whores on Alameda Street. He decided against it. He was heading to TJ for a little while. The Mexican whores were cheaper and weren't as picky about when his last bath was.

Johnny heard a throat clear. "What the hell?" he thought as he looked up. He could make out a shape near the mouth of the alley.

"Mr. Coker?" a voice asked. 'Mr. Johnny Lee Coker?"

"Who the hell wants to know?" Johnny asked as he quickly zipped himself back up. It was too dark for him to clearly see the other person.

"I'm just an errand boy Mr. Coker," the unseen speaker replied. "Mind if I smoke?"

Without waiting for an answer, the other person pulled out a lighter and a cigarette. The flame revealed a young, Asian male, wearing a patch over his left eye. He looked to be a little over average height and skinny. He wore a dark jacket and jeans. The man lit his cigarette and closed the lid on the lighter. Johnny could see little now, except for the glowing cherry.

The stranger took a few drags and then asked, "Does the name Todd Voorhees mean anything to you?"

"It don't mean shit," Johnny replied.

"How about Darla Mathis?"

"Nope." The big man was getting annoyed by the game of twenty questions.

"Well, a few months ago, Todd borrowed his old man's black Mercedes to take his girlfriend Darla to the prom," the stranger said. "That was the Mercedes you ripped off wasn't it?"

Johnny's eyes narrowed. "I don't know nothing about that," he replied. "You some kind of cop?"

"No, like I said, I'm an errand boy," he answered. "Where was I … oh yeah, you pulled Todd out at gun point, beat the crap out of him, and then fired three shots into his chest for good measure."

"Then you raped his girlfriend and put a bullet between her eyes," he continued his narration. "You've got issues Mr. Coker."

"And what's a little punk like you going to do about it?"

The stranger dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his shoe. "The boy's father wants to collect on the debt you owe him."

The big man laughed in response. "And you're going to do it?" he asked. "Since you have a death wish, I guess I'll just have to smear your ugly, yellow ass all over this alley."

"That's pretty funny Mr. Coker," the man chuckled in response. "Because I've been hired to smear your ugly, white ass all over this alley."

Johnny Lee Coker charged, but the stranger wasn't there any more. He stopped, confused as to what had happened, and felt the other man's foot slam into his back. Johnny staggered forward a few steps, then spun around and lunged.

He missed his opponent again, but felt a hand grab his right arm. The enraged man was swung forward and slammed into a brick wall. He could taste the blood in his mouth where his face had struck the brick. "The little bastard," Johnny thought and then the other man's foot smashed just below his knee. Bone broke and tendons tore under the impact. He screamed from the pain.

His unseen assailant struck him at will for the next several minutes, breaking ribs and shattering the man's jaw. Finally, the beating stopped. Johnny lay on his back, unable to move. Through a bloody mouth he tried to mutter "No more, no more."

The stranger unzipped his coat and took out his pistol and silencer. He twisted the silencer onto the end of the barrel. "As I said Mr. Coker, I'm just an errand boy." He fired three shots. Johnny's body jerked as each slug tore into his chest. He was still alive as the stranger took aim and fired once more, hitting him cleanly between the eyes.


The first, grey streaks of light were visible from the kitchen window, but Randall Voorhees didn't care. Randall was a successful businessman, forty years old, with a receding hairline. Normally, he was up before dawn, reading the daily newspaper. Today's paper lay untouched on the table. His coffee and toast had grown cold as well. He focused his attention solely on the black, cell phone that lay in the center of the table.

He had bought the phone last week from a convenience store. It was the kind that you bought minutes for as you needed them. He waited for a call to come in. Randall Voorhees wasn't a patient man. He would never have gotten as far in life had he been. But in the ten weeks since the brutal murder of his son and the boy's girlfriend, Randall had learned patience.

The phone rang and the middle-aged businessman grabbed it. "Hello?"

"Mr. Voorhees?" he heard the voice on the distant end ask.

"Yes," he replied.

"The debt has been collected."

"How can I be sure of that?"

"Check the Compton Police blotter over the next few days," the voice responded. "I'll give you ten days to deposit the rest of my fee."

"Did . . . did you follow my instructions completely?" he asked.

"To the letter."

"It didn't end too quickly then?"

"No, he felt everything your son did," the voice said. "Will there be anything else?"

"No, nothing," the businessman answered.

The voice bid him goodbye and then hung up. Randall set the phone down; he'd dispose of it later. He was surprised to see a drop of water on the table. Another followed and then another. After ten weeks, the man's grief finally broke through. He put his head on his arms and wept. He was still weeping when his wife come into the kitchen 30 minutes later. Randall knew that what he had done would never bring his son back, but in his heart, he couldn't think of what else a father could have done.


The plane trip from Los Angeles to Tokyo took nearly eleven hours. As he finished retrieving his luggage, Hiro received an email with a new job offer. The proposed meeting site wasn't too far out of his way, so he hailed a cab.

Saint Ignacious Catholic Church had been built during the occupation, but copied the style of European churches. The mid-day mass had ended and Hiro made his way through the milling parishioners to the confessional. He slipped inside and sat down on the hard, wooden chair. The hatch between the two sides slid back.

"Father forgive me for I have sinned," the young man said.

"I can well believe that Mr. Sasuki," the man on the other side replied. "You'll find an envelope under your seat."

Hiro reached down and pulled out a sealed envelope. Inside was a girl's school photo. He gave a low whistle. "She's pretty," he thought to himself.

"Is something wrong?" the other man asked.

"She seems young to have pissed off somebody enough to want her dead," the assassin answered. "What is she? High school?"

"Third year middle school actually," his prospective employer replied. "As to why . . . what does it matter?"

"Any bodyguards?"

"None, but the school does have above average security," the man noted. "It's a conglomeration of many schools from elementary to university level."

"My fee is …" Hiro started to say, but the other man cut him off.

"One million up front and another afterwards," he said. "I've taken the liberty to make the initial payment."

"There's just one thing," he continued. "You need to complete this by the 17th of August."

"And that's the only condition?"

"That's it."

"I accept the job," Hiro told him. "Where is this school Mister ah?"

"Mister Yoshi will do," the man replied. "The school is in a place called Mahora."