AN: Was originally going to be part of a larger chapter. Decided to split it up. Alcohol continues to be involved in the creation of this monstrosity. As such, tread lightly, and enjoy.

Ah crap, I'm floating over my body again…wait, why am I wearing military fatigues? And why am I in a jungle? I see Kuwabara, Hiei, and Kurama step out of the bushes, all three carrying M4 carbines and all dressed in military fatigues. The three are also wearing helmets covered in foliage and crap like that.

Kuwabara yells "Report, you maggots!" Hiei yells "Captain! Lance Corporal Smuckameshi passed out from heat exhaustion." What? Kuwabara yells "I see! Then devil dogs, there is only one thing we can do!" Kuwabara takes a dramatic pause, and then yells "Administer the silver bullet!" Eh? Hiei suddenly says "Captain, if you are the gun, then I am the bullet. A silver one, once lead, packed with gunpowder, waiting to be detonated." Kuwabara just stares at Hiei and yells "What the fuck does that even mean?!" Hiei says "Sir, I have no fathomable idea. I just thought it would seem stoic and intellectual, sir." Kuwabara yells "Stow it devil dog! Corporal Minamino! You are on silver bullet duty!" Kurama yells "Aye aye sir!" He then crouches behind my body and pulls down my pants. And boxers.

Oh crap.

I float down and yell at my body to wake the fuck up. My ass gets a free suntan as…wait…what the hell?! Kurama! Why are you removing your belt?! And your…oh no. Not that, man. C'mon, man, not that.

His red pubic haired penis starts to zero in on my ass like a scud missile. I yell like I'm drowning in horse piss for my body to wake up. "Wake up! WAKE UP!"

I wake up and find myself face to crotch with a barely adult looking Cambodian guy, my duffle bag on his shoulders and the smell of piss in the air. I quickly roll under his legs and drive an uppercut with such force into his crotch that I think his sperm cells divided. He pisses like a leaking water balloon and falls face first into his urine. I pull the duffle bag off his convulsing back and check the contents. Yep…still got the almost 100 grand.

It's bright outside and a group of Cambodian guys run away from me, screaming. I see a bunch of passed out dudes, mostly Vietnamese, Thai, and Western European/American/Australian, soaked in piss. Like this is some perverse morning ritual the deranged and the drunk all suffer through every single day. Like a baptism every day, reborn to reduce themselves into some wild, desperate animal. And then the next morning, the cycle repeats, until their adrenaline glands get chopped out or their only remaining useful organs get pulled out and sold on the black market. This is some strange shit.

I pat my back to make sure no one cut out my kidneys…all good. Hangovers from whisky are something. Hangovers from whisky, yayo, and mescaline all combined, are something else. My skull feels like there is a tiny green man on my forehead drilling through it with the world's tiniest jackhammer. I run up to a pile of garbage bags and spare the rest of the freaks the golden shower. Woah, my piss smells like something else. Something I'd usually find under my shoe after exiting a dive bar bathroom.

Somewhere in this city, Kurama is out there, sobering up. The fact that I don't see any smoking craters or hundred foot tall trees means he somehow kept his craziness to a minimum. Maybe we aren't fucking doomed.

Damn I'm hungry. Lost, hungry, and hungover. With a duffle bag full of Grants and Jacksons, in a city where possession is ten tenths of the law and gun control is a bold strategy. Unless I Spirit Gun this city to dirt, I'm fucked. And I don't think Koenma would like it if a half-human half-Mazoku wiped a city off the map, even if it's Sodom and Gomorrah. Shit, that's actually pretty ironic.

I walk out onto the sidewalk, on the prowl, looking for something to eat and something nonalcoholic to drink not called piss. Seeing nothing but motels, I cross the street and enter another wide alleyway full of the backyards of shit motels, trying to keep as low a profile as a hungover Japanese tourist can be with 100 grand in American dollars stashed in a duffle bag around his shoulders in a city that would make demons shit their pants. It's one thing to fight an S-class demon king. It's another thing to fight a bad mescaline trip and a mob of psychos wanting nothing more than to stick their real or plastic dicks into every hole in your body. I suddenly feel guilty for all the train grope porn I used to jerk off to.

I hear footsteps and Vietnamese behind me. I look for a dumpster, found one, big and green. I lift the lid up and hide my meal ticket before the three Vietnamese guys could see it. The mescaline might now be on a pile of garbage bags, but it looks like it took most of my Spirit Energy along for the ride. I can't even summon a weak shotgun energy blast, and if it comes to fists, one submachine gun or one hatchet and I'm fucked.

They're approaching me…shit. All three in their early 20s, one has a shaved head, another has long black hippie hair, the third one is Hiei sized and got a black buzzcut haircut. Baldie is wearing a white sleeveless shirt, a gold chain, black track pants, and an unzipped red and blue striped track jacket. Hippie got a sky blue leisure shirt and brown cargo pants. Viet-Hiei got a black sleeveless shirt, almost see through, and sky blue jeans. All three have some weird plastic thing on their heads and are holding machetes…great, time to defend my kidneys.

"Ey you!" Viet-Hiei yells. The three get close and I think those plastic hats are Halloween masks of some guy. "Yeah you!" Hippie guy yells, pointing his machete at me. I say "What you want? Can't a guy whiz in peace?" Baldie says "We need a fourth guy for a hold-up, you in?" What? Who the fuck recruits random people off the street for a hold up? I say "Piss off."

I didn't see Viet-Hiei stick his machete between my thighs. Oh crap. Viet-Hiei hisses "I got this machete sharped up so nice, I can shave your balls clean off if I just accidently sneeze. You in. That wasn't a question." "Relax guys, relax…" I say. Looks like someone here got pissed off that I went straight to drug dealing and skipped the tutorial armed robbery level.

Hippie guy pats me down for weapons, finds my pack of cigs, takes them out, opens the pack, closes it and sticks the pack back in my pocket, and then says "He ain't packing." Baldie pulls some kind of mask out of his jacket and tosses it to me. I catch it and take a look at the plastic face of Astro Boy. They want me to rob a shop…as Astro Boy. The three Vietnamese guys pull down their masks, looks like the Prime Minister of Thailand, that guy that I saw in the papers. Thaksin I think…Thaksin Shinawatra, yeah him.

Viet-Hiei says "We taking down the liquor store round the back. You work the register, we raid the place. Take this switchblade." He tosses me a switchblade and I flick the blade out. Hippie laughs and says "Ours are bigger." Yeah very funny, asshole. If I only got some food in me, I could floor these pricks.

Viet-Hiei finally lowers his machete and pulls it away from my balls. Phew, that was close. Baldie forces the Astro Boy mask on my face as hippie pushes my back. I take a quick look at the dumpster and try to remember the run down windows of the motel right above it. This is happening, I'm about to take down my first liquor store. Here's hoping the owner is the only guy in Roanapur stupid enough to not carry heat.

The awning over the place says "Suparman's Fortress." Good thing that's a common Indonesian name, otherwise I'd be in for a real showdown. Here it goes, Astromeshi versus Suparman, battle for the cash register. With Thaksin Shinawatra in my corner. And I'm barely an hour awake. Okay, I got an idea.

I walk through the front door, probably looking like a doofus in my mask, and yell "Alright this is a raid! Move and I'll cut your neck!" No one here but the old Indonesian man in the blue t-shirt and the black cargo shorts. Please don't be packing, please don't be packing. Good, he raises his hands, reeling back. Away from the counter. Phew.

The three shades of Thaksin Shinawatra funnel in and yell "We got machetes!" I hear them go to work on the shelves as I eye at the rack of cigarette cases behind the old man. Nice, they got Parliaments. Oh wait, robbery, yeah. I say "Register man, you know the drill." He yells "Please don't stab! I have a family!" Then you are a dumbass for opening a liquor store here.

He starts emptying bhat onto the counter as Hippie Shinawatra walks past me. Hippie got glass handles of Bacardi rum in his left hand, his machete in his right. Please don't be packing, old man.

I drive my switchblade into the back of Hippie's neck, the guy getting a scream out before he gurgles and bleeds all over my right hand. Rum shatters and splashes on my boat shoes. I leave the switchblade buried in Hippie's neck and quickly grab his falling machete. Okay, now we're talking.

Viet-Hiei yells "You fucking bastard! Hao, cut this shithead!" Baldie tosses a handle of vodka at my head, I dodge it and hear it smash against the cigarette rack. Suparman yells "Stop smashing up my store! Just take the money!" Hao runs up to me and swings his machete at my head. I easily duck down and let him slash apart cases of John Dewars. I use my chance to drive my machete into his upper chest, plant my right foot back, lean back, and uppercut him with such force that he flies across the aisle and tips over a shelf, creating a loud crash full of expensive spilt liquor and broken glass.

"My store! This is even worse!" Suparman yells, pulling out the few remaining grey hairs he woke up with. Given that these idiots could only carry, what, two cases each, plus the, what, 1,000 bhat in the register, this is probably worse. But, too bad, tough, these dickheads have pissed me off. This city has pissed me off. And Suparman can go pound sand for all I care.

Viet-Hiei glares at me like he just shit his pants and doesn't want to admit it. He drops the glass bottle of Johnny Walker and yells "You win! Let me go!" He runs to the front entrance, opens the door, and gets side-kicked in the chest by someone wearing jeans and cowboy boots, going flying and…yep, smashes the tequila rack. I turn to see the new guy.

Kurama! You're sober! And you still got the backpack with our passports! Why the fuck are you wearing a sleeveless, sideless leather vest with fake flashy diamond squares glued onto it?! With no shirt underneath?! Why do you still have that flat cap?! Why do you look like Shawn Michaels?!

S.M. Shuichi Minamino. My brain just blew up.

"OUT! EVERYONE OUT!" Suparman yells. Astro Boy just kicked your ass. Like Inoki and Ali. Score one for Japan. I say "Kurama, I'd say thanks for the assist, but I gotta first say, nice vest, very…eh…interesting. Not going to help us convince the people here that we ain't fucking." Kurama sighs and says "Follow me, I will explain." One thing first, Heartbreak Kitsune.

As we exit the store, I say to HBK "I stashed the money in a dumpster when these assholes were shadowing me. It's just behind the alley." Kurama sighs as we turn left and walk to the corner. Turning left again, passing a few stores, and then taking one more left into the back alley, I hear Kurama say "That money has caused us more grief then anything." I say "I ain't leaving more than 99 grand in the garbage, c'mon before someone dumpster dives."

I find the dumpster, open the lid, and there we go! Still there, still in good shape, just smells like hot garbage, smell should go away. I pull the bag out of the dumpster, okay at least it ain't got rotten eggs glued to it. I unzip and start counting…good, it's all here. I sling the duffle bag around my shoulders and turn to Kurama, saying "I'm starving, man. The mescaline and whisky hangover hit me hard. Saw a place to eat?" Kurama nods and says "A Mexican restaurant two streets toward the coast. After yesterday's experiment, I normally would not consider, but the restaurant openly assured in signage that their food is 'free of illicit chemicals, vermin, and human flesh'." I nod and say "Alright sounds good."

We exit the alleyway and turn left, heading in the direction of the docks again. Crossing the first of two streets, I ask "Alright, why you looking like Shawn Michaels from WWF?" "Who? Where?" Kurama asks, giving me a raised eyebrow. I rephrase "Where you got the outfit?" Kurama sighs and says "A long and very bizarre tale. Perhaps we can discuss it over breakfast, yes? Needless to say, I found myself suffering from horrifically bizarre hallucinations. And you said something about mescaline?" I say "That crazy blonde bitch spiked our whisky with mescaline. I call bets on that being the bottle that Bao gave for your 'civic duty'." Kurama grimaces and says "Of course, I should have known. I apologize for my behavior last night." Heh. "Not your fault," I say.

I ask "You familiar with mescaline, right? It being plants and shit." Kurama frowns and says "Hallucinogenic cacti juice, that is the extent of my knowledge. Until last night, at the least." Approaching the next intersection, I start chuckling. Laughing, I say and try to copy his voice "Hello, I'm Shuichi Minamino. I enjoy baseball, gardening, and occasional cocaine." Fox boy immediately says "Please do not tell anyone. I beg of you, not Shiori, not Kuwabara, not Keiko. I already have much to be embarrassed of in the past 24 hours." I say "Yeah, like I really want to tell Keiko that I sold crank, wrecked a Russian mobster's ride, tripped on mescaline, and almost got sodomized by Sadiq the Freak. Don't worry, Heartbreak Kitsune, what happens in Roanapur stays in Roanapur. It's like Vegas or the gym showers." "What?" Kurama blurts out. "A joke, man. Just bringing some levity. Wait, is this the place?"

I look up and see the name of the restaurant. 'Oaxaca!' Alright, from my experience with Puto!, the exclamation mark is getting me worried. Ah fuck it, can't be worse than street food.

We step in, and damn, place looks pretty nice. Rocking some photos of guys in ponchos with guns, got some Aztec statues hanging around, some lucha libre masks, almost like a collection on the wall, and giant photos of Mexican soccer players in action. I see a few green jerseys hanging on the ceiling, yeah this place would do nice. Nice enough not to give me rat meat.

I approach the wooden counter and see an old balding Mexican guy in a white sleeveless shirt and grey pants lifted up with suspenders. Guy has a thick white moustache and is standing in front of a giant chalkboard with the menu scribbled on.

Mexican guy turns to us and says "Welcome to Oaxaca! Nice vest, hombre. What can I get you?" I look up and down the menu. I look at the side of the menu titled 'Especiales De Hoy.' I ask "Run me through…that part of the menu."

Old guy says "First, we got the 'No Me Llames Cerdo', for $11 even. A jumbo burrito, with standard rice, black beans, crema, lettuce, tomatoes, and then eight strips of bacon, three slices of ham, three slices of capocollo, and three slices of German speck." So it's back to my community college cafeteria days. I ask "What's…the one below that?" The old guy laughs and says "Oh that? That's called 'Échale Más Fruta a la Piñata' for $17 even. Two jumbo burritos, each with standard rice, refried beans, crema, guacamole, Cheese Whiz, mayo, two fried buffalo chicken tenders, three strips of bacon, French fries, and one slab of Spam. Very popular with local Bob Marley fans and tourists from America, Polynesia, and Saudi Arabia."

Okay I am not fucking eating that. I ask "And next?" Old guy says "The Oaxaca Mystery Special. Where I give you a mystery of choice and you give me an answer. This year's mystery is: 'Who murdered Enrique Salinas?' If you say pass, it will be the standard chicken burrito at the same $9 price. If you say 'Enrique Salinas', you will get the standard chicken burrito at the price of $12. If you get creative, I will give you a meat ranging from carnitas to filet mignon and lobster tail. I track the answers and rank them. Best answer at the end of the month wins three free burritos."

"Who the hell is Enrique Salinas? And who the fuck would play this kind of game?" I ask. Seriously, this is some twilight zone crap. Old guy says "You would be surprised what kind of answers I get from people entering at 3 A.M. in the morning high off peyote and Russian Krokodil heroin. And Enrique Salinas is a Mexican businessman found strangled in his car outside Mexico City, brother of the Mexican president from 12 years ago. Last year we did 'Who shot JFK?' Winning prize went to a local meth head who legitimately thought I was accusing him, who then later cried and confessed on this very floor, and then proceeded to slowly disembowel himself with a plastic knife all while singing 'Surfing Bird' by the Trashman in a poorly attempted Samoan accent. He then bled to death just by that array of luchador masks. I just had to give him the award."

Okay. Moving on. Yeah.

I ask "And that last one for $40?" Old man laughs and says "That's 'El Presidente'. El Cubano sandwich with ham, smoked turkey, roasted pork, double layer of Swiss cheese, pickles, stone ground mustard, and a mostly fresh Presidente cigar straight from Santiago de Cuba. One of the local power brokers here, she loves to order that one." Okay, I like that. "Yesterday didn't exactly go as planned, so I think I'll live it up today. The El Presidente, with a glass of water, trying to dry up today." Old guy snaps his fingers, smiles, and yells "You got it, El Presidente!" Okay, gotta admit, that feels pretty badass. For the first time since I tried the local street meat, I feel good and in charge. I like this shit, yeah.

Kurama steps up to the plate. Old man asks "And you, Mr. Vest?" Kurama sighs and says "Do you serve any actual breakfast?" Old man nods and says "Huevos rancheros, classic style, and a huevos rancheros enchilada. Both $7." Kurama says "Huevos rancheros, classic variant, and a glass of water." Old man says "That's $47 dollars total."

I reach into my duffle bag and pull out a $50 bill, and I give the old man a look that screams 'Don't ask any unnecessary questions'. Old man says "Órale, a $50. One second." He takes a marker and draws a line on the $50. Probably everyone in this crap-hole has to do that, one hand on a counterfeit bill marker and another on a sawed off.

Getting a little nervous, I reach into my duffle bag and pull out another Grant. I hand it to him and say "Here, a tip. Keep the other three bucks too." Old man stares at the first Grant, scans the marks he left, frowns, nods as if he is impressed, and says 'Gracias, my friends. I will have the food right up. Vitor! Huevos rancheros clásico y EL PRESIDENTE!" A guy from the back whistles and goes to work, as Kurama and I take a seat near the counter, sitting on dark wooden chairs and a dark laminated wooden table. I like this place.

Turning to Kurama, who's resting his left arm on the table and pressing his chin on his right hand, like that statue of that guy pondering the mysteries of the universe while taking a shit, I ask in Japanese "So, fox boy, give me the rundown of what a drunk, coked out, mescaline tripping Kitsune does at night?" Kurama sighs and says "Following my escape from that insane blonde woman, I suddenly realized that something was not quite…proper. My vision…strained, and altered, I suddenly was set upon by a swarm of bats with Hiei's head on them. I immediately elongated my rose whip while I was set upon by the bats, screeching into my ears, I was certain my ear drums would burst."

Pfft, what? I laugh with a stupid look on my face as Kurama continues "I proceeded to drive the bats away, and then was suddenly set upon by four Chinese men in pinstripe suits, complaining about a drunk causing a commotion in the back of their brothel. It was at this point that I realized, that I shredded two dumpsters, a fire escape, and a hatchback sedan into pieces with my rose whip. As they realized the source of the disturbance, they suddenly morphed into members of the Spirit Defense Force, and in my state, I morphed into my pure Kitsune form, scurrying off as a fox. I eventually, through the poisons in my veins, stumbled into a…of all places…a costume store. I reverted to a bipedal form, this instance as Yoko Kurama. In my high and intoxicated stupor, I saw fit to adorn myself with cowboy boots, replacing my earlier shoes, a plastic black armor breastplate over my bare chest, black elbow pads, and a black diamond shaped eye mask for both eyes, essentially becoming The Comedian from the Watchman comic books."

What the fuck man?! Kurama continues, and I ain't planning on stopping him "I then discovered a false wall, knocked it down, and found an array of crossbows, longbows, and Chiquita bananas of various states of decay pinned to a wall. I noticed a large vacuum cleaner on the floor, and I draped the heavy vacuum canisters around my back. I exited the false wall, switched the vacuum on, and suddenly the entire store was engulfed by a burning, caustic haze. I immediately fled, still adorned in my attire, still armed with my vacuum cleaner. I stumbled forward in a haze, as ogres and bird demons flocked away in fear of my approach. Eventually, I reached a pier, in which I came to witness two ogres and two ice demons worshiping the largest snake I have even seen in my life, at least in Human World. A thirty meter long and three meter wide behemoth capable of swallowing every man in its wake. I attempted to have the snake swallowed by my vacuum cleaner in turn, triggering another haze of smoke, this one creating a skunk-like odor. The ogres and ice demons approached and fired crossbows at my vicinity, bursting a canister and causing great discomfort on my back. I removed the vacuum cleaner and the plastic breastplate, fleeing the scene as a loud retort thundered behind me. Eventually, I stumbled into an alleyway and hear a beating, thundering noise from behind a back door. I pushed through the door and collapsed, falling asleep."

"That explains the boots. Where the hell you got that vest, Edward Blake?" I say. Old man shows up with glasses of water for both of us. I sip, damn feels good to rehydrate. Old man asks "What language is that?" Kurama says "Japanese." Old man says "Ah, okay." He returns to the counter and starts tapping his fingers on the counter to some beat I don't know. The Shibuya Tokyo Kid says in Japanese "I awoke on the floor of a dimly lit underground arena. I found myself shirtless, in my new boots, with my jeans and my flat cap, surrounded by intoxicated locals, intoxicated African tourists, and intoxicated Western European tourists, all around me in a crude circle. An Australian individual spoke into a microphone and announced me as 'Weird Drunk From Outside with Pink Backpack'. Then, a tall Japanese male with a black mullet, thick black eyebrows, and an unusually muscular body entered the circle, announced as 'Asian Schwarzenegger'. He walked up to me, pointed his right index finger, and stated in Japanese that I was already deceased. I snapped my left leg into his abdomen and ruptured his liver, sending him into convulsions."

So the Comedian Break Kid took out Kenshiro. Astro Boy took out Suparman. Score is 1-1.

Kurama continues "Then, as I prepared to leave, I was unceremoniously shoved back into the circle by a Caucasian man with spiky black hair, an Italian accent, and an orange gi. I snapped my left leg into his abdomen and ruptured his liver, sending him into convulsions." And Goku. 2-1 Uncle Sam. Fox boy's on a roll here. Kurama continues "And then a blond Caucasian male with a scruffy chin and sunglasses, dressed in a green leisure shirt and beige slacks, wandered drunkenly into the circle, swearing in Irish accented English. I mistook him for a combatant, snapped my left leg into his abdomen, and ruptured his liver, tore his solar plexus, and hemorrhaged his diaphragm, sending him into convulsions. Then I finally was given leave to exit the circle."

I'll rule that a DQ and give Japan the W. I wave my right hand so Kurama could continue. He says "I approached the Australian man for the location of my rucksack with our passports. He directed me to a tall, bald, and admittedly rather handsome Western European looking individual, whom I later learned secured my rucksack from the elderly female Thai racketeer that owned the business. Apparently he gambled on my name and won quite a fortune, and thus sought to return his gratitude. At first I assumed he was one of the racketeer's henchmen, and thus approached with an aggressive posture. He then smiled, beckoned me to lower my guard, and returned the rucksack with our passports. He then clarified his lack of association with the racketeer and his newfound profits from gambling on myself, speaking in either German or Dutch accented English. Lastly, he complemented me on the form and execution of my liver kicks and wished me a good day. Charming fellow."

"And that still doesn't explain the vest," I say. Kurama looks at me in surprise and says "Oh, yes. My apologies. I found it outside a bar alleyway and claimed it for myself. It was either that or the urine-stained U.S. Marine Corp combat vest lying nearby." Wait what? Okay…

The old man yells out "We are out of ham! Is grilled chicken breast okay?!" I say "Yeah, sure, I'm cool. What happened, the Bob Marley fans got the munchies?" Old man laughs, turns to the kitchen and yells "Pollo es bueno, Vitor!" He turns back to us and says "Oh and they had company. Half of Roanapur, because some crazy Asian guy with long white hair and a flamethrower interrupted a weed deal between the 'Ndrangheta and a group of Maori bikers."

"What?!" Kurama freaks out as I start to put the pieces to…oh damn. The old man says "Yeah, no kidding. This crazy Asian comes out with a flamethrower, like U.S. military grade from the Viet Civil War. He jumps into this deal between the 'Ndrangheta and the Maori bikies, freaks out at the giant carpet and cellophane wrapped tube of marijuana, and sets the chingada on fire, man. Everyone from the docks to the downtown got more stoned then a biblical execution."

Kurama's facial expression says it all. And it seems that fox boy is barely a dozen hours removed from lighting the world's largest blunt. And I was sleeping through that, that blonde bitch.

Kurama asks "Maori…bikers?" Old man chuckles and says "Oh yeah, one of those street gangs from New Zealand. They even got swastikas tattooed on their necks, don't ask why. Scary people." "What is the 'Ndrangheta? Just wondering," I say, trying to keep the old guy from suspecting Kurama for that crap. Old man says "An Italian mafia organization, from Southern Italy. Calabria, I think." I ask "So, they, what, like the Cosa Nostra?" Old man laughs and says "They make the Cosa Nostra look like a small town police department in Western Germany. Carajo, I think the 'Ndrangheta even make up, what…10 percent of Italy's GDP? Something like that."

So I now got a beef with the underboss of the Russian mafia over fucking up his Lexus. Fox boy here got a beef with…the old man continues "I heard that the burnt weed was worth over 12 million dollars. No wait…euros."

Kurama got a beef with 10% of Italy's GDP, the unfriendly 10%, and a gang of Maori bikers. A beef over 12 million euros worth of lit up weed.

We got problems.

"Food's almost ready boys. You want your cigar now?" old man asks. I say "Yeah, sure." I sound like I just ordered my last meal. Nah, wait a minute Yusuke. You're half Mazoku. Okay, sounds like I just ordered my last meal before I blow up half of Southeast Asia and King Yama sends every single asshole he has under his command to kill me, again. Much better.

I turn to Kurama, whose face is so blank that his lips are parallel to the table. I say in Japanese "12 million euros, not bad. I usually light up, what, 3000 yen worth of the stuff? A month, by the way. Well, I hope it was the Buddha bud, man."

I think his eyebrows twitched. I continue "So, the 'Ndrangheta and swastika wearing Maori bikers. And Russian mobsters slash ex. Russian Special Forces guys. Let's see who else we get to piss off before we leave. Oh yeah, King Yama and Koenma. God him-fucking-self." "Yusuke," Kurama blankly says. "Yeah?" I reply.

"Shut up."

Sounds like a struck a few nerves there. Alright, I'll lay off.

Cuban sandwich arrives. I look at it. Looks good. Smell it. Smells good. Taste it. Yep, at least it pretends to taste like the real thing. Ah Cuba, you and your rum, baseball players, and pressed sandwiches. Almost makes me forget about all that communism.

Kurama slowly goes through his huevos rancheros. I watch him sop up the refried beans with a piece of tortilla. He goes to work on his water. Wiping his lips, he says in Japanese "So, I believe I have a pl-hiccup!" I start snickering as he tightens his grip on the glass of water so hard that it's about to shatter, hiccupping every few seconds. I say "Now didn't Shiori teach you not to eat so fast?"

Okay, I'm backing off. Kurama gave me the death glare. I don't like the death glare. No me gusta death glare.

We get a few meters away from the restaurant, Kurama hiccupping all quietly, like a squirrel drowning in a bathtub. Or a sea louse, if those antenna fuckers can speak.

Kurama says "I propose that hic we part ways and find a means to escape by hic sea." He's boiling alright. I say "So you giving up on the Botan call?" Kurama says "No. I am placating you-hic. If it was myself, I would hic not have even set foot in the airport. As for that, may hic I take the watch? In case I encounter trouble." He's pointing at my Spirit Detective watch, which I slipped on in the toilet. Comes with a pager for the grim reaper herself. If only it got Tetris.

I say "Nice try, fox boy. I'm keeping the watch." Kurama groans and says "Then I will hold on hic to our passports, if you wish to play that hic. Damn this." Heartbreak Kurama snarls and adds "I will seek out the bars for a hic contractor with a vessel. At 7 P.M., we will converge at the hic park with the water fountain, in Downtown. Roanapur Park, plainly titled. There is a public restroom where we may speak in hic private."

A public fucking restroom, ey? I say "Kurama, man, a park shitter? Not sure that's going to help with the whole 'we ain't gay' shtick." I do the finger air quotes on the 'we ain't gay' part. He growls and turns around, saying "7 P.M. Please do not cause any trouble." "Here's looking at you, Heartbreak Kid. Haha," I reply, as Kurama just growls and then hiccups, causing him to yell "DAMN THIS!"