POISON SPIRAL
1
It goes almost without saying that Daigo Shimura is not a good man. There are those in the world whose basic appearance stuns the senses with its utter lack of guile—whose exteriors reflect perfectly their inner lives.
Consider, then, Daigo: Fifty-two years old, fat as a sake keg and no taller than the same. Sallow of skin, runny of eyes, weak of chin, and with a mouth so wide he was taunted with, "Frog!" for most of his childhood. A fungus-like button of a nose—webbed over with broken blood vessels and scaly growths. Hands as mottled as an old woman's. Teeth the color of tea that's been left to steep for far too long.
Daigo does not bathe. Or, rather, he bathes so infrequently that each instance remains in him a singular and crystalline memory. He consistently trails a wave of dry, dusty stench—though often mixed with a sour-sweet mist of whatever cologne he's come across in his trade.
In short: A small, shabby, pestilent man with all the mien of something found squirming beneath a rock. Unlike all those whose rough appearances belie a soft heart, Daigo is exactly as he appears—just as repellant inside as out.
However: Though he may be ugly and crass and essentially false-natured in every way possible, Daigo Shimura is not stupid. Daigo is as successful a man as can be found within almost ten square kilometers. Even in the city just over the rocky horizon, men speak of Daigo with respect and admiration.
A little over twenty years ago, Daigo staked out a prime parcel of land on the Chiba Hills footpath, right before it merges onto the highway to Tokusei. Within a few months, he threw together a rambling structure where the lot met the road. Not quite a hut and not quite a shack, the place became a well-visited stop on the way into the city.
On paper, Daigo is a restaurateur, pawnbroker, and "seller of curiosities." In reality, this means: serving cold beer and sake on the porch of his establishment; dealing in stolen and illicit goods; and slinging dope. To his credit, Daigo is known for providing the highest-quality opiates around Tokusei. Though small, his land is one of the most important hubs of the region's booming drug trade.
Yes. Quite booming.
Daigo has killed four men over the winding course of his life. Not an especially high number in times like these, but in his heart Shimura knows that three of the men did not deserve to die. The fourth died when he attempted to put a knife through Daigo's ribs, only to get a broken sake bottle in the throat as recompense. Daigo still bears the jagged scars.
On the few occasions he has pored back over his life with any seriousness, Daigo has come to realize just how far he has drifted from polite and normal society. There is no returning there, even if he never really belonged in the first place. He cannot deny that there is something about him that has become innately monstrous.
No. Daigo Shimura may be abhorrent to behold, but he's no idiot. One can't be, if one is to survive in the game as long as he has. He's picked up quite a few skills over the years. Even as his body has betrayed him, Daigo's memory is as sharp as ever. His cleverness remains.
For instance, he knows trouble the moment he sees it. He can smell the winds shifting as readily as any slick-backed rat, ready to bail from a sinking ship ten minutes before the leaks even begin to spring.
And on this hot, still, stagnant afternoon, Daigo Shimura begins to smell trouble something fierce. It comes wafting off a towheaded silhouette as it ambles down the footpath in the distance.