"So the distance will not be a concern, correct?" I ask, in English, to the Thai male in his early 40s, slightly graying short black hair combed forward, thick black chin stubble, and a cleft chin, dressed in a dark blue and grey plaid buttoned shirt and light grey denim jeans. He replies in Thai accented English "I will need to be reimbursed for fuel, but no. I have experience with coast guards before, and Cambodia's is a joke. Personally, I recommend the Philippines, less dangerous for a tourist then Cambodia. And they speak much better English there."

The Thai male, Sutham Namwong, drinks greedily from his mug of Singha beer. The Drunken Elephant bar is a much more cramped locale, compared to the Yellow Flag. Hardly enough room for a bar counter and four tables. Our only source of light stems from the opened upper shutters by the entrance wall, rays of sunlight illuminating all in its path. I raise my mug of Sapporo beer to my lips, drink my share, wipe my lips with my left wrist, and ask "Which city do you suggest?" Sutham nods and says "Manila, my red haired friend. Manila would do."

I raise my mug in approval and say "Then perhaps we can draw up a contract." Sutham drinks from his mug, sets it down, and states "$17,500, plus reimbursement for fuel. American currency, in cash. I know you have unwanted attention, so I must be compensated accordingly. I not sure of how unwanted the attention, and I don't wish to learn." "What do you know of so far?" I ask, studying him meticulously. He sighs and says "A dispute with a local cop and a Hotel Moscow affiliate. They only harm independent contractors, such as myself, if I stand between you and them. A few days of hell, I can endure." "$15,000" I reply. To be frank, I have no interest in my share. Rather, I must not seem desperate, lest I tempt Sutham a chance to exploit. He sighs and says "I offered you $17,500 as I tire of haggling. And since you offer intelligent conversation, rare to find here." I say "You flatter me. Very well, your honeyed words strike gold. $17,500 it is." I would have agreed to $100,000, with some back and forth, had he started from such a usury price.

We set our mugs down and prepare to shake, a ritual with promise of safety and profit. Sutham suddenly cups our hands with his left, a queer act that oscillates from respect to deception. I conceal my frown, as a dark skinned South Asian woman, adorned in a blue and white polka dot collared, buttoned shirt, grey jeans stained in mud, black and white sneakers, her face peppered in pock marks, her eyes bloodshot, her long black hair tied in a ponytail, saunters inside, her arm movements highly animated in contrast to her stroll.

Sutham and myself turn to eye her, the bartender suddenly stepping into the rear of the bar. She props herself on the stool to the right of Sutham, rests her right shoulder on the counter, flashes an intoxicated, methamphetamine fueled smile, and yells "WHAT DOES THE FIVE FINGERS SAY TO THE FACE?!"

"Eh?!" Sutham exclaims, both of us out of our element.

"STAB!" the woman yells as she plunges a concealed serrated knife into Sutham's neck and what remained of my optimism. Sutham falls off the stool, knife still in his neck, as the lunatic claims his seat without a bat of an eye. "Yomi's horns, why did you do that?!" I yell, my left hand buried in my crimson mane.

Expecting the glint of serrated steel, I am confronted with her sweaty fingers rubbing against my exposed chest. You have got to be kidding me.

Her fingers and her wandering diluted pupils invading my personal space as she rapidly speaks in Thai-accented English "Hello my name is Ulagammal but you can call me sweet pea tetty zee and well I been hearing about a slim sexy Japanese guy who cooks yummy ice and I want to kiss the cook and think we can have many romantic walks with you and me and all the crystal you make for me cause I will fuck you till you will love me and we don't got to start strong now we can first do nothing weird just rub our toes and check out the farmer's market and then we move to second base which is the Das Vegas Casino run by the Chinese bigshot Zhang who thinks Amsterdam is a sex position and the casino is full of those god-awful Australian Tywin Lannister impersonators who rob that man of his dignity and that man died on the shitter so that ain't an easy task…" Dear God! Is that…are those herpes sores?!

The lunatic continues "Let's talk about formations I like the 3-5-2 formation let's talk about positions I like to say my Hail Marys do you want to see my chest tattoo I like my chest tattoo do you like Ajax Amsterdam I like Ajax Amsterdam yelelele de keeper van Den Haag van Den Haag van Den Haag. De keeper van Den Haag die heeft un dildo in z'n maag I mean c'mon I don't get apparently having season tickets to Ajax Amsterdam does not give me birthright to Israel that is a conundrum with no stigmata that I cannot decipher as to just WHEN I THOUGHT I WAS IN, THEY THREW ME BACK OUT!" I am very confused, and Sutham's corpse is starting to attract fruit flies.

'Ulagammal' continues "So what you say you be mine and I will call you precious and you will be my precious my precious my…" She suddenly coughs out a wad of brown flem onto Sutham's corpse. I lie "I…I…I am marr-I have gonorrhea!" She replies "Awesome, me too!"

I glance at Sutham's corpse, watching the blood pool around his neck. I sigh, having enjoyed his conversation. And so, I do what any reasonable man would do in this situation.

I climb off my stool and proceed to the exit.

I feel resistance and turn around. Ulagammal grabs my left ankle, crying out "Wait please I'll let you suck my cock!" !

I pull my foot out of her grasp as a ribbed red plastic device flashes horrifyingly in my Kitsune skull. I exit the front door, sighing. I turn right and let the cool breeze brush against my cheeks. Perhaps contacting Botan is the answer after all. Fool, I should have done so from the start. Oh well, there are other ship captains in this wretched port, pining for paper gold and a reputation for smuggling wanted men from the strangling grasp of violent narcotic cartels.

"That's the fuckhead!" I hear from the back, American-accented English…no, possibly Canadian. I turn around and find a Western European seeming individual with bushy black hair, a golden Catholic cross, blue jeans, brown boat shoes, a short sleeved white t-shirt with a logo of the cast of the 'Full Metal Panic!' cartoon. He presses a stun gun to my neck. I feel the jolt of shock before I could react. Damn you…

I stir, my ears ringing from the sound of rotating fans…I feel a thin floor at my feet, moving rapidly. I am flying…no, a helicopter. My hands are bound by cable wire, my neck sore. I look up, staring at the rather short Western European looking male standing over me. He sports wavy, black hair, uncombed and sticking up as if due to electrical static. He has a rough moustache and chin hairs, flanked by flecks of black hair that survived a haphazard attempt at shaving. He is wearing dirty grey jeans and a ragged, yellow t-shirt that is written in black lettering 'Longshoreman of the Month, April. Fraser River Port Authority.' The man speaks in a harsh, nasally, Canadian-accented English "Check it out, Billy Cocksucking Joel's awake. What, not enough Maui bud to keep you napping, you stupid motherfucker?!"

Standing in front of the cockpit seats, the bearded man is armed with rope fastened into a noose. Flying the helicopter is a short haired Southeast Asian seeming male in his late 20s, with short black hair, sunglasses, a grey leisure shirt, and blue jeans. On my left, seated on a bench, is the cretin that stunned me unconscious. I sigh under my breath, and prepare to draw Koenma's ire.

The Southeast Asian pilot asks in Vietnamese-accented English "Hey Martin, this far enough?" The bearded man, Martin, replies "You want to give the fucking coast guard a free show? Further! I want Roanapur to look like a fucking dingle-berry on an elephant!" Charming. Martin turns to the cretin that stunned me and says "Orlandi, get this noose on Mr. Fahrenheit, I want a good view of when his fuckhead skull gets pulled out of his shitcan body. You ever watched Scarface, tie dye? I'm talking to you, you stupid fucking fuck! You know how much weed you burnt out, you and your menstruating twat of a haircut?!" It appears I came in contact with 10% of Italy's gross domestic product. Joy.

As Orlandi ties the noose around my neck, Martin kneels to me and speaks, spitting as he talks "I fucking asked if you ever watched Scarface! Cause if you did, you'd remember the part where that stupid red haired fuck that burnt all the weed gets thrown out of the a fucking helicopter with a noose on his neck and his legs dangling over the Gulf of Thailand! Cause that part happened! Director's cut, asshole!" Orlandi tightens the noose, how bothersome.

"This good now?!" the pilot asks. Martin turns to him and yells "I told you this is fucking good now!" "Uh, boss…" the Vietnamese pilot stampers. "Yeah?!" Martin asks. "Nothing," the pilot responds, weighing the possibility that his employer could execute the only one capable of flying this aircraft. Sigh, seems I must shift to Yoko the Bandit King on my own accord.

"The fuck…" Orlandi mutters and possibly soils himself, as I shift to Yoko himself. I calmly pull my hands apart and snap the cable bindings, and then reach for the rose in my mane. Martin stares at me and says "Okay, I think my blow got cut with shrooms or some shit…" "ROSE WHIP!" I lash the whip at the pilot, piercing through his neck and the front glass window. "Holy fuckballs!" Martin yells, as I pull the whip back, the helicopter losing control. Tearing the noose apart with my hands, I leap from the helicopter, fall rapidly toward the Gulf of Thailand. Mercifully I have gliding wings to soften my fall and avoid saltwater in my mane.

I slow my descent with my 'wings' as the helicopter spins under my falling body, the screams of Orlandi fading away in an amusing demonstration of the Doppler effect. I feel a heavy weight on my right leg…now both legs. I peer down…err…more so at my legs. Appears Martin is hanging on to dear life. Sigh, oh well. At least I can prove to Koenma that I lacked malicious intent.

I dip my head lower and yell "Grasp for my waist!" Martin does so, stabilizing his grasp, panting frantically. He yells "Oh Jesus! Thank you! Fucking fucking thank you! I'm so fucking sorry, man! I'm so sorry!" At least he is remorseful. And the view is rather lovely…I spot the docks where Yusuke sold that block of foul methamphetamine to that imbecilic Songxie Tong.

"Oh sweet holy fuck, thanks! I've been wrong. Jesus Christ I been wrong. Thank you!" the Italian-Canadian mobster cries out in amusing bliss. "Please, man, please forgive me man, holy fuck!" he continues, crossing into the dominion of annoyance. To quiet him down, I proceed to hum tunelessly as we glide at a leisurely pace. I drift to song…hmm…ahh those damned music videos.

"Skyway flew the danger zone…something flew the danger zone…" I think I got it close. "What? Jesus man!" Martin mutters. He is uncomfortable…good. I continue "Sailing into twilight, spreading out her legs…wings tonight, she has you skipping on the top deck, and…falling into rear drive…damn this…"

We land, rather roughly, Martin scrapping his knees on the concrete dock edge. I hum "Skyway flew the danger zone…" He turns to my person, as I retract my 'wings'. On his knees, he cries out "Oh Jesus Christ thank you, thank you! I'll reform, I'll be good!" Yes, yes, very well. His eyes wet with bliss, Martin declares "I'll be spreading the good word, J-C, I'll say my prayers and stop eating my vitamins! Tell the big man upstairs I'll be a new Martin Zappala Rzewski!" Oh. Oh dear.

This violent mobster believes I am Jesus Christ of Nazareth.

I say "Yes…yes, do so." I struggle to retain my laughter. I wonder, does impersonating Koenma counts as blasphemy? Martin asks "So it's true what they say in the good book, right?" I sigh and say "Yes, yes." I put on a façade of disinterest, masking my great amusement in this turn of events. Martin slightly calms down and says "Got to be honest, wasn't expecting you to be Asian. Kinda mind blowing really…no offense." I reply "Knowledge is ignorance's bane..." Martin's eyes light up as he asks "Is that in Romans? Matthew?" I stutter and recall to my days as a hedge knight in Medieval Eastern Europe…man is likely Catholic…so…Krakow's clergy then…

I speak "It belonged to a long lost verse in Athenians II." I mask my exhale of relief as he accepts the nonsense I spoke of. He says "Holy shit…my pardons Jesus. I did not know there was an Athenians II…or an Athenians I. So…Roman Catholic is cool?" I sigh and say "It is cool." "Latin Church?" he asks. I say "Fine." "The Archdiocese of Vancouver?" he pesters further. I say "Sure." "St. Cecilia's Cathedral in Mount Pleasant that's next to the Best Buy and the KFC, with Father Kincaid the priest with the missing leg and the eyes that went blind from chlamydia? That good?" I reply "Why not?" And with that, I proceed on my merry way, my silvery hair swaying in the breeze. Martin yells "Thank you J-C! I won't let you down, man!"

Exiting the docks proper, I take one step onto the sidewalk, and suddenly hear someone speak in a New Zealand accent "Oi, that ain't no fucking wharfie. That's that minger that rooted our grass." I turn around and come within inches of a large, overweight Maori dressed in a white sleeveless shirt, a black sleeveless leather vest peppered in various patches of bulldog heads in biker helmets, swastikas, and other round badges, blue jeans, and brown boots. He is sporting spiky, greyish white hair and a thick greying beard, no moustache, his skin a light brown, a scar over his left eyebrow. His face is canvased in dark blue colored tattoos. A patch above his heart reads 'Ngata, Chapter Vice President'. Another patch above the naval reads '7th Annual Auckland Necrophilia Orgy Champion'. He reeks of foul beer. The biker pockets the cellphone without speaking another word.

Very well, I will let him take the initiative. I ask "Who are you?" The biker replies "The bloke that's going to fuck up your sodding mug!" He reaches into his leather jacket and draws a…oh dear. I flee as he fires from a silvery colored pistol. I run across the street, toward an alleyway, how is this imbecile able to keep up with that glutinous mass? Must I kill him too?

I stumble over a bearded white Western European looking vagrant laughing hysterically at the sky. He is oblivious to the gunfire behind me…oh dear! A bullet sails over my head…I turn left…a dumpster to the left of a back alley door. I knock furiously on the door, preparing to kick it down. Damn this…well I'd imagine I've gotten past simple courtesies with this infernal city. I kick the door down, and immediately receive a wooden blow to the chin, knocking me to my feet.

I wake up, I'd imagine a second later…appears I awoke from the impact of my head against the concrete alley floor. I look up, head throbbing…an overweight Thai male in a police inspector uniform, with faint black stubble over his pointy chin. His chest badges and chevrons suggest a high rank, I can barely see his name tag…Watsup. He is armed with a shotgun adorned with a wooden stock.

I suddenly feel a boot on my chest. The Maori biker peers over me, argh…stomping my chest. He yells "Last time a shitface fucks with Morgan Ngata and the Aotearoa crew! Say goodnight, you sodding ranga!"

I hear 'Watsup' eject a perfectly fine shotgun shell and yell in Thai accented English "Put down your gun." Morgan Ngata yells "Go bugger yourself with that 12 gauge!" Watsup coolly replies "If you can recognize this uniform, you would change your tune, you fucking cannibal." Ngata's gaze switches to Watsup. The Maori frowns and says "Alright mate, we can work something out…" Watsup cracks the stock of the shotgun against Morgan Ngata's chin, sending the lumbering mass face forward through the doorway, landing painfully on my ankles.

Watsup walks over Morgan and approaches me, whispering "Let your weary eyes rest, my sweet Jap." Eh? The stock of the shotgun retracts, and then approa-oh stop! I blink…fading out of conscious…

I am in a tuxedo, my hands bound with rope. I am tied to a wooden chair, the walls around me bleach white. No windows, only a steel grey door in the far corner.

I blink, and Hiei is standing on a five meter wide stage, a microphone in his right hand. He is dressed in a denim shirt, a denim jacket, denim jeans, a denim tie, denim boots, and a denim bandana for his Jagan eye. He speaks "I was a caesarean-section boy, but it is difficult to tell. Though when I leave a building, I use the window." Eh? He continues, his tone quite listless and dry "My significant other sleeps on a queen-sized bed, I sleep on a tree branch-sized bed. It has plenty of foliage. When I stir awake, she asks if I slept well. I say 'No, I blundered twice.'" Heh, this reminds me of a Steven Wright stand up I once viewed on my computer.

The hall is completely silent, aside from my fidgeting, as I try to pull apart my bindings, and Hiei's emotionless parody of a balding, middle aged American with a caffeine deficit. Hiei speaks "I once passed through what you humans call airport security. They requested that I remove all metallic objects, so I crossed the checkpoint in my boxers." He yawns and continues "I was once asked if a male red-haired friend and myself were in love. I said 'Yes, we both love to dismember invasive humans with hacksaws'."

Oh dear, I snicker slightly. Hiei continues "I was disgusted by the rampant homeless, abundance of shitting crows, and dearth of quality meat in my neighborhood in Ueno, Tokyo, Japan. So I killed two birds and a South Korean war veteran with one sword." Oh…dear. Hiei sighs and says "Bicuriosity fucked the Kitsune, but for a while, I was the suspect. I was walking through Tokyo where I found a sign. It said 'Lost, two grandparents. If found dead in their apartment, just keep the deed'." Ha, I would not honestly put it past Hiei that that was what happened.

Argh, these bindings! It's as if they tighten as I struggle. Hiei dryly continues "Hermits have no peer pressure. It's a fine thing to know when solicited by a toothless hooker. '10,000 yen, 1 hour'. 'Hermits have no peer pressure'. 'What, are you gay?' 'If a fire demon falls off a tree branch, and no one is around to hear it, will you fuck off?' I was once flirted at by a schizophrenic. She said she loves me. I said 'No, your mind's just playing tricks on you'."

I blink, and I am on a small cruise ship, in the dining room, myself seated on the only chair by the only round table in the hall. I look behind and see the distant coast of Roanapur. I look in front and find Hiei and Kuwabara squatting next to a five meter wide stage, both dressed in black leather flat caps, dark blue Adidas tracksuits, and brown slippers, both having a cigarette in their mouths and a bag of sunflower seeds in their hands. On stage, is me, in my Yoko Kurama form. Except I seem to be wearing a Russian sea captain cap, a horizontally striped blue and white shirt, and black track pants. There is a bottle of Yamazaki whisky in Yoko Kurama's right hand, which he appears to be wielding as a microphone.

He appears like a Ukrainian sailor on shore leave. Yoko speaks in Russian "Moi imeni Yoko Kurama (My name is Yoko Kurama), e ya alkogolik iz Makai (and I am an alcoholic from Makai)." I turn left and Kuwabara is leaning against the open bar with an accordion, while Hiei flicks the strings of a balalaika. Yusuke, dressed in a navy tuxedo, plays a soprano saxophone as Yoko Kurama signs "Lyubil ya zverih raznih (I loved beasts of all sorts). Krasiveh y zaraznih (Beautiful and diseased)." I suddenly feel the burning sensation in my penis that I felt all those centuries ago, when that bastard kitchen hand shared his 'little gift' with me. "Nu zhopa ni otihskal (But ass was not found), alkogolik ya stahl (alcoholic I became)!"

"Bil u menya dehvki (In my possession were ladies). Bil u menya patsani (In my possession were gentlemen)." I had enough of this motley fever dream. "Mama, nalivaih (Mother, pour), a ya uzhe ni malchik (as I'm no longer a boy). Netu shashteh, na zemlei (There's no pleasure on this earth), e lyubvi vehd tozhe…net (and love also not, it seems)." I hop with the chair I'm bound to as I approach the deck. "Ah v lemoni y skazki (And in the lemons and stories), tolko yeble e pidarih (only fucking and faggots)."

I toss myself off the railing, prepared for the next set of dreams that are supposed to probe my inner psyche and emotional depth and are in no shape or form a collection of random nonsense.

I open my eyes, my hands are bound by rope to a chair.

There is a ball gag in my mouth.

And one in Morgan Ngata's mouth as well, also tied to a chair.

Oh for fuck's sake!

We are in a basement, a flickering lightbulb above our heads. The walls seem wooden, brown. Leaning against the desk, this rotund constable, apparently named 'Watsup', exchanges glances with a Cantonese-seeming male sporting long black hair parted at the forehead and stretching to just above the shoulders, clean-shaven and thin-headed, with a square chin. The Cantonese man is dressed in a charcoal suit with a white undershirt, also sporting a charcoal tie and brown alligator skin shoes. His aviator sunglasses rest on his forehead. Officer Watsup speaks in Thai-accented English "I did promise you that I have a live catch."

The Cantonese man replies in Chinese-accented English "Watsup, the last four times I arrived, they were either dead or dying. Forgive me if I didn't feel optimistic." Watsup growls and then says "That's because that asshole Praiyachat kept selling off buckshot rounds as 'less-then-lethal' rock salt. Less-then-lethal my ass. Good thing a buttstock is only lethal if you want it to be, ain't that right Biu?" Ngata mumbles under his ball-gag as saliva pools in my mouth. This is humiliating and foul.

Biu gestures at us and says "So, Watsup, who should we start with? I always fancied the rounder ones. More resistance, possibly with all the grease. A joke, a joke." What? Watsup growls and says "I finally keep them alive enough for you to get here and you start speaking philosophy? Pick one, they all look the same from behind. Sort of." Oh damn this.

Ngata turns to me, his eyes bulging in fear. He understands as well. I see him fidgeting and kicking about, to no end. Watsup and Biu just ignore us as they decide which of us to rape first. I believe I seen this scene before. Which means…oh dear. Biu sighs and gestures with his right hand "Shall we flip for it?"

Damn this place. Very well, I still have enough strength to tear free of my bindings, may as well see how they proceed. I look down and find lines of saliva that have landed on my 'vest'. I must look like a complete idiot in this costume and bindings. A coin is flipped. "Heads the cannibal, tails the Jap," Watsup announces. The coin lands. "Heads it is," Biu declares as Morgan Ngata throttles violently in his chair. A backhanded strike from Watsup dazes the Maori. The Thai constable lifts the legs of the Maori's chair as Biu brandishes a charcoal colored pistol with the word 'Glock' written along the side. He aims the pistol at Morgan's head and approaches a wooden door. Opening it, Biu waves Watsup and the captive Morgan inside, and then turns to me.

He is staring behind me. I tighten my wrists, prepared to snap apart my rope bindings and strangle the life out of these psychotic dregs of this foul, wretched city. Biu suddenly whistles. And announces "I'm leaving the ginger to you. Have fun." I hear grunting from behind. So Biu has brought his own little gimp as well, I see. Very well, I will delight in shattering his jaw as…

Sadiq Al-Khazouk?! With a severally swollen jaw, but in the flesh nonetheless. So in the flesh, that he stands shirtless and in black cargo pants, armed with another Vaseline smeared spear. Sadiq grins in ravenous delight and speaks "I only cried twice in my life. The first was when my sergeant put me in the camel clutch and fucked me in the ass. The second was when you shattered my spear." And I'm unsure if that even scratches the surface of the soup of psychological trauma that turned you into what you are today. In fact, I do not wish to know.

I simply stand silently, for I have already won this battle from the moment I woke up. Also, the ball gag rather hinders my ability to form coherent sentences. Very well, for all the venom that my tongue could spew, my mind is much more dangerous. Aside from that one instance in Tourin when I…err…perhaps a tale for another occasion.

Biu shifts his back leg into the doorway that Watsup and Ngata walked through. I hear muffled grunting and swearing, and I suddenly hear Watsup yell "Who the fuck shaves designs out of their ass hair?!" We only lack for a donkey, a court jester, and a pregnant blacksmith chasing after a stray dog with a military pick, and we would have a perfect recreation of that one night in…nevermind.

Eying me with a vile, smug grin, Biu proclaims "Keep him warm for us, Sadiq. We will be require some time to finish with the biker." As he closes the door, Sadiq strides a step forward and says "Oh I will do more than keep you warm, I promise you that." Yes, most likely dying. Such a strenuous activity, I'd imagine.

He has the idiocy to kneel to my level, that ridiculous spear in his hands. Sadiq glares into my eyes and promises "Once I have this spear through your spine, I will take your arms and legs and your legs and arms and I wouldn't even attempt to match them back correctly when I…" Loud music blasts from inside Biu's and Watsup's rape cellar. Sadiq looks to the door as I snap the rope bindings around my wrist. I quickly rub my fingers together, materializing a few choice seeds. As Sadiq turns to face me again, I silently pepper his naked torso with the seeds. He says "Now where was I…" Sadiq notices my freed hands.

I smirk, remove that inferno ball gag, and whisper "And now, you are already dead." With a snap of my right finger, the death plants spawn from his chest, shredding his internal organs to fine pellets. Blood streaks out of Sadiq's mouth as his face glares in confusion at the garden feeding on his flesh and muscle. He drops the spear and falls backwards, thudding against the wooden floor. And now, a gift for the rest.

I whisper 'Agron tentagram bicheon sabbat adonai'. A single Ojigi sprouts from the garden. I use my Ki to stunt the Ojigi's growth until it spans the size of a small horse. Should be enough for the purpose, without wiping out an entire city block. Oh the surprise these cretins will find once they return from their…'fun'.

I hear muffled screams and phrases in I assume Cantonese, Thai, and Kiwi-accented English. And today's soundtrack for that lovely spectacle is "I Wear My Sunglasses at Night" by Corey Hart. Just in case I began to consider that this island isn't a live action reiteration of that hilarious 'Vice City' computer game that Yusuke loves to indulge in. I spot my pink rucksack by the doorway and I grab it, putting it on. Inspecting inside, yes, our passports remain. I hurriedly approach the door opposite from the one Biu entered through. More of Morgan's grunting and that new wave 80s pop song as I step through the doorway.

Alas, I was expecting a pawn shop. Instead, it seems I have stumbled into 'Big Chief Watsup's Second Hand Guns'. A used-gun dealer, for those deep discount self-defense needs. "When's the last time this man showered?!" I hear Biu yell in the distance.

Sigh.

I approach the front entrance, put my right hand against the lock, and slightly push, slowly tearing the door off the hinges. I push the door open and let the setting sunlight glaze against my flesh…and I suddenly find myself stepping back inside the store. I step behind the counter. Let us see here. "Fhin sthp! Phls!" "Biu, get the fucking pliers!" A Glock 17…hm, what is this? "I wear my sunglasses at night, so I can…so I can…" I set aside the Glock and lift up a…Walther PPK. Just like in the James Bond films that I have come to enjoy as of late. "Shut this fucker up, it's killing the mood!" Hm…fascinating…a Desert Eagle. I put the Walther down and lift the tinted chrome pistol, weighing it in my right hand. It's rather heavy. I pull the slide back, as I saw on the television. It's even loaded, Watsup is a bigger fool then I thought. Yes this will do, this will…

"Don't switch the blade with the guy in shades, oh no!" It glints in my green human eyes. I lift it off the wall stand, pushing the cylinder aside. Fully loaded, six shots. I push it back in and read the long side of the barrel. 'Smith & Wesson Model 29'. "You got it made with the guy in shades, oh no!" "STOP! FUCKING! STRUGGLING!" A black, felt cowboy hat rests idly by the counter. I take it and put it on. I see a leather holster that can be worn around the waist. I put it on, tightening the leather belt until it locks in place, seems the prior owner was rather large. Or Watsup. I place the revolver in the holster. "WHY CAN"T YOU JUST FUCKING STAY QUIET?!"

"I cry to you! I wear my sunglasses at night, I wear my sunglasses at night…" I approach the door and step outside, proceeding toward the park that I earlier spoke of.

It is ten minutes past nine and Yusuke just now appears in view, walking through the north side entrance of the park. Resting my back against the exterior wall of the men's room, I unzip the pink rucksack and stare at that our passports inside. The delinquent spirit detective and occasional methamphetamine salesman and blackmailer of friends nods at my direction and approaches, appearing as he was earlier, when we parted ways. His duffle bag is still in his possession. At least we may buy our way home. Hopefully. Possibly.

As Yusuke comes within earshot, I growl "You are late. Pray tell you found us a way home." Yusuke smiles and says "Nah but I snagged some nice Buddha bud and a silver elephant. Check it out." He unzips his duffle bag and casually displays a silver mold of a roaring elephant the size of a baseball, and around a kilogram of marijuana.

I will cause you injury. I say "So I take it that we have no means of returning home." Yusuke grows sullen and replies "I...uh…thought you were taking care of that."

I turn around and turn the corner around the men's room. Another turn, and I step inside, Yusuke following suit.

Sadly, it is in the same condition as it was two hours ago. With blood, shit, and urine smeared on the walls, and syringes and used condoms littering the stalls, toilet bowls, urinals, and sinks. The stench is choking. Clearly, men were here.

"And I thought the air in Demon World was fucked…" Yusuke quips. He turns his attention to me and asks "So…uh…about that…"

"About that? You wish to learn about…that? I will gladly explain this 'that' to you!" I yell, my anger surfacing. I expected better from you Yusuke. Much, much better. I begin "I had a perfectly pleasant conversation with a contractor, and even negotiated a deal with this very same individual, a learned and quite amiable character out of place in this wretched cesspit! So out of place, that this same city sought to correct that, BY SENDING AN ADDICT TO STAB HIM IN THE NECK FOR NO REASON EXCEPT TO COURT ME! And court me this Indian methamphetamine addict attempted, with promises of long walks, and chemistry play dates, and HER FLESHY SHAFT PENETRATING MY GULLET!" Yusuke takes a step back. Let us see where he goes, where the exit is cut off by a furious Kitsune, and the walls are smeared in hepatitis!

I continue "And so I pried myself from this foul creature, only to find myself subdued with a stun gun and propped on board a helicopter with A NOOSE AROUND MY NECK! And my gracious hosts? Oh, you know, 10% of Italy's gross domestic product. That 10%. Naturally I disposed of the cretins with ease, and in the process, turned their leader into a born-again Christian." "What…?" Yusuke mutters, dumbfounded, shocked, stunned, I am too angry to speculate. He simply does not speak, which is FINE BY ME!

I yell "And just when I naively thought I reached a reprieve, I was chased by a Maori biker with a medal for championship necrophilia into the loving embrace of a rapist police officer and a rapist Triad who TIED BOTH ME AND THE BIKER TO WOODEN CHAIRS AND FLIPPED A COIN TO SEE WHO WILL GET TO RAPE US FIRST! And when the Maori 'won' the coin toss, I was left to greet their own personal gimp, whom we have known informally as Sadiq Al-does not matter. My plants will eat well, suffice to say." Calming down, satisfied with my outburst, I say "At least I found this revolver. Might be enough to deter further hostiles and their apparent lust for our orifices."

I look up and realize that I backed Yusuke within an inch of the wall. I take a few steps backwards before he contracts every sexually transmitted disease at the same time. Yusuke quickly takes a few steps forward and frowns. He says "Hey man…sorry." "What's done is done," I say. Yusuke nods and says "And hey, never know, maybe the city offers a few reach-arounds for us tourists, haha!" I suddenly realize that he is slightly high.

I sigh and say "Perhaps we should contact Botan." "Fuck that, I'm still holding on to hope that Koenma won't notice a few ghosts showing up to Spirit World complaining of getting eaten by some fox plants," Yusuke replies, shaking his head to emphasis. "Then what do you suggest?" I ask.

Yusuke rubs his chin and replies "I got a lead, sketchy but it got some teeth. I met this American named Leroy who pointed me to this strip club, run by this other American named Rowan Pigeon. Says he's a good guy for a tourist here to find and get stuff done. I got the address."

I sigh heavily and say "Fine, perhaps we will find this reach-around you speak of." Oh does Yusuke proceed to laugh, to my annoyance. You will have yours when we return to Japan. I do not even care if Hiei and Kuwabara learn of my drunken escapades and dabbles into cocaine and mescaline, I will gladly give them every savory detail.

As we exit the men's room, Yusuke says "So, that's probably the third most pissed off I ever seen you." "Congratulations," I sarcastically reply. He turns to me and nudges at the duffle bag. "So…spliff? Or that's not hard enough for you?" he asks. I growl and ask "Are you intentionally trying to anger me? Everything I suffered through here has ultimately been your doing." I stop and turn around, facing him. I warn "One chance. If all fails, I will wrestle that Spirit World watch out of your possession and personally regale every detail to Koenma. I'm sure that would make for a pleasant bedtime story." I add a wry smile at the end, as Yusuke stares to the ground. Do not corner a fox, my dear friend.

As we approach the exit of the park, Yusuke asks "So, gotta ask. What the fuck?" Well put Yusuke. "Where should I begin in detail?" I reply. He starts chuckling to himself and then adds "Let's start with the meth head and work our way until we get to Pulp Fiction."

We enter the 'GoofFest' strip club, and the stench of strawberry lubricant, cigarette smoke, and erectile dysfunction immediately assault my nasal orifices. Rows of dances rub themselves against the crotches of a rogue's gallery of Western divorcees on midlife crises and barely adult men adorned in every type of body piercing and tattoo, so long as the metal is department store brass and the color is vomit green. A 80s sounding pop song sung in Thai flanks my ears. I find myself preferring the men's room. At least no one attempts to pass it off as anything but a magnet for flies.

A pair of Filipina dancers pass by us and cover their mouths as they snicker. Why on earth did I collect this revolver and cowboy hat? I should reduce my internet consumption when I return. At least there is a lesson learned from this. That, and never taking Yusuke's threats seriously.

Yusuke suddenly points toward a bar and asks "What's the over-under that the drinks aren't spiked with Enzyte?" I ignore that question and approach the barkeep. Despite Yusuke's jabs over my drinking habits, I keep nearly all of my drinking to the confines of my apartment. I haven't spoken to a barkeep for information since my days as Kurama the Bandit King. Nevertheless, I lean against the counter and speak "I wish to speak to Rowan."

The Thai bartender lifts his weary eyes at my direction, and suddenly erupts into laughter. After an infuriating minute of chuckling and random hand gestures, the bartender asks in Thai-accented English "Why?" I reveal shades of my annoyance, stare upward at the flash lights gleaming against the ceiling, and casually say "Because that would be the one thing I desire more, then squeezing your neck until your eyeballs slide out. Shall I settle for the latter?" Yusuke whistles and says "Woah, fox boy with that Yakuza talk." I growl. If I have to draw from the persona of Yoko Kurama for a spell or too, if it would mean escape from this city, so be it.

"One second," the barkeep replies, as I press my right hand on the grip of my new revolver. I turn to Yusuke, who glares at the revolver in confusion. I speak in Japanese "When in Sodom, do as the Sodomites do." I turn back to the bar and anticipate. Either this Rowan individual arrives or I keep adding corpses to the pile until Yusuke relents, and Botan arrives to drag us to civilization. While we still have pants and what remains of our self-respect.

I hear a whistle and I continue to watch a door leading from behind the bar. Suddenly, a dark-skinned male of African descent appears, sporting a large afro, a wiry black goatee and moustache with the middle of the moustache shaved off, and an oddly shaped head reminiscent of a light bulb. He is wearing, inexplicably, purple star-shaped sunglasses in a dimly lit 'gentleman's' club. He is wearing a leisure shirt that is bizarrely yellow all around except around the row of buttons running the length of the shirt, which is salmon colored. His pants follow a similar pattern, and his left ear sports a gold earring. He has several gold rings on his fingers, at least two with precious gems. He is either very brave, very foolish, or very well protected.

"Now what could Rowan Pigeon do to help out a couple of brothers such as yourselves?" The man speaks in an accent reminiscent of that Alabaster Jones character from that American 'King of the Hill' cartoon. He is dressed worse than me, and he willingly did so. This should be eventful.

I stare the man down and speak "We have a business proposition. We will pay you handsomely." "Handsome as a motherfucker, that's my bottom line. Alright boys, come with me. And…leave the heater with old Winai here. He'll have that six shooter shining like the Pope-mobile." Argh, fine. I slowly relinquish my revolver and walk around a gap between the bar and the wall. Yusuke follows, as I follow this Rowan character. We approach a staircase and move upwards, the top of the staircase revealing doorways on the left and right. A scantily-clad Southeast Asian dancer descends the steps. Rowan turns to her and says "Why don't you be a dear and bring these two lovely gentlemen a Mai Tai? Chop chop." He gives her a slap on the buttocks as she hides her cringing.

Reaching the top of the stairs, we turn left to a 'VIP' lounge, dubbed so by the neon sign on the wall that says 'VIP lounge'. I glance at the opposite doorway and see the dancers' changing and makeup room. I do not sense any threats aside from hepatitis and a dozen fire safety code violation.

The two of us sit down on a soft red leather sofa. I scan the room…nude photographs dot the walls. On the far left, a desk with small clusters of files and papers, a few VHS tapes. There are posters of various American films from the 50s, and I believe I recognize one poster as Muhammed Ali. Rowan seats himself on a massage chair and splays his fingers, opening his legs to the delight of no one. He yawns and asks "So, handsome job for a handsome motherfucker, what you got for me?"

Yusuke interrupts before I could speak "You get us out of this place, we pay you some lunch money. Deal?" Rowan laughs and says "Ain't no brother gonna call lunch money handsome now, you dig? Sheet." I rephrase "By lunch money, my friend here is referring to $15,000, American." Rowan leans forward and says "Now you two must be some high roller nine-finger brothers to be calling 15 gees 'lunch money'. All up in that caviar and what not. Now why should a pimp such as myself put my neck on the line for you? What trouble you two cats got yourself into?"

I growl in annoyance and say "Plenty, and each threat has been dealt with in turn." Nodding to myself in approval, I add "The Gulf of Thailand seems to attract quite many sharks, and we find ourselves bleeding. I believe that is self-explanatory." "Sheet, you don't have to tell me twice. Say what, I got a couple of them Vietnamese types working the shipping over in Pattaya. I get you two in a shipping container…with food and booze and what not, and you slip your friendly neighborhood pimp some of that lunch lady special you been offering. You dig?" I turn to Yusuke, who pouts at the prospect of being hauled as cargo. He speaks in Japanese "Better then explaining shit to Botan, I guess." I nod in agreement and turn to Rowan, saying "Agreed. $7,500 up front. And the rest once we arrive in Japan."

Rowan waves his hands up and says "Hold on. The rest? Japan?! I ain't shipping no goddamn booze to Japan, you know what I'm saying? $15,000, up front, and I'll get you two to Hong Kong. After that, you're on your own."

Must I play this game again? "$7,500 up front. $7,500 via money order when we arrive in Hong Kong. After that, our association ends." Rowan creases his eyebrows, and then says "Alright dog, works with me. But you better play straight cause I ain't no pimp to be trifled with, you know what I am saying?" Suddenly, the voice of Hank Hill echoes in my head, and I find myself thinking 'And I am the mack daddy, of Shibuya Ward!'

I turn to Yusuke, who nods in agreement. I turn back to Rowan and say "Then it is settled. What is your strategy in carrying us to Pattaya?" Rowan smirks and says "Got a few crates that need some return to sender, you dig? No one expects an inside job. One of my trucks will haul you two cats like it's some special forces shit." Somehow, I doubt it would be so dramatic, but unless another random lunatic waltzes in and forces a knife into Rowan's throat, I am quite pleased with this arrangement. Rowan suddenly snaps his fingers and says "Yo Mango, where the fuck are those Mai Tais?"

The Southeast Asian dancer enters the lounge half a minute later, with a tray and three cocktail glasses of what I assume is Mai Tai and possibly other chemicals, likely more potent then 'Enzyte'. She hands one to Yusuke, one to myself, and then one to Rowan. I sniff the concoction and eye it suspiciously. Rowan notices my apprehension and says "I make love, brother, not war. Only thing we got in that is rum, curaçao, a little lime juice, and the GoofFest special: codeine. You allergic?"

Makai poisons are likely the one contraband not found in Roanapur's black market. I drink greedily, for I am quite thirsty. Yusuke drinks as well, as Rowan says "What I say? Rowan gives his clients the Midas touch. Say, Mango, give these two bachelors a little dance for me, sugar."

!

I stamper and say "Apologies I err…" Yusuke mercifully speaks for me "Look Rowan, thanks, but hey, we're taken men. You dig?" I let out a slight laugh at that little jab by Yusuke. Rowan leans forward, raises an eyebrow, and suddenly puts his right hand on his forehead, an understanding look on his face. He says "Oh I get it now." "What's not to get?" Yusuke asks. Rowan nods and says "I forgot you Japanese types are the forward thinking kind. Hey, I don't judge, find love where you find it, you know what I'm saying?" Grr.

Yusuke does not even attempt to waste his breath. Very well, I won't say anything. We'll be gone from this city within a day regardless.

Our near empty glasses of Mai Tai in our hands, Yusuke and myself meander inside the 'VIP' lounge. Rowan has disappeared downstairs, supposedly to contact someone to package us into crates and smuggle us onto a boat in Pattaya. What Yusuke termed as an American 'R&B' song obnoxiously plays through this fine establishment. "Up in da club! Can a playa spend his double life? Up in da club! Before she shanks me with a butter knife. Up in da club!"

Yusuke yawns, his duffle bag on his back. He points at a plastic card on the desk and laughs. I look over. An American driver's license, displaying Rowan Pigeon with short hair and a chin strap beard, aged at least fifteen years younger. An Idaho license. I silently read the name on the license.

"Eustace Wyatt…Weinerhold. Weinerhold …" Yusuke speaks, his laughter growing. "If you're looking for a man with a bulge in his pants, who really ain't trippin about a one night stand…" He turns to stare at me and suddenly erupts into hysterical laughter. I cannot help but laugh with him. I say "Perhaps his contact is an old, Italian friend of his. Biggus Dickus." Yusuke struggles to breathe as I laugh earnestly. Never combined codeine and spirits before. Now I understand why it isn't recommended.

Yusuke points with his glass holding hand at a smattering of photographs. He sets them upright as I mutter "Yusuke, those are his personal…" Why on earth is this man collecting photographs of him performing oral sex on random women? "And they call him the Weinerhold …" Yusuke mutters, returning to his laughter. He turns to me and shakes his head in amusement.

I ask Yusuke "So, my forward thinking Japanese compatriot, how exactly did you come across this Leroy individual?" "When I was shopping for the elephant. He bumped into me and got into my face. At one point, I let it slip that I'm trying to get out of the city, and he's in the way. He then got less assholish and started asking questions. I didn't tell him any real details, just that I wanted to get out with a friend and that I couldn't take the roads. He pointed me to this place, said Rowan is a fixer. Well, as long as the Weinerhold doesn't fix us up for something out of left field, I'm good." "At the very least, we can rule out the possibility of a Vaseline smeared spear," I add, shuddering at the memory of Sadiq. Yusuke laughs and says "Very, very true there, fox boy." "In my car or on my dubs? A straight fuckin' while we buckin', baby."

"Hey y'all, your express limo is inbound…now what kind of jive-ass cat pokes around a brother's personal effects?!" Rowan exclaims in embarrassment. "Up in da club!" He quickly shuts the door as Yusuke blurts out "Hey it's the Weinerhold. When you see Biggus Dickus, tell him I said hi." Rowan stomps his feet toward desk and growls "Now that ain't cool, you dig? I taken ten years of my life cultivating my executive brand." Yusuke laughs and says "No offense but you're a strip club boss dressed like a Scooby Do villain and living in the ass-end of the world. Your brand is like a locked porta john, nobody gives a crap."

Rowan turns to Yusuke and snarls "Easy for you to say. Out here, image is the only shit that matters, and what kind of a playa pimp comes from Idaho? And what kind of an executive high roller cat walks around with a name like 'Eustace Wyatt Weinerhold'? Man, even those old time pimps from back when grandma was churning butter and people took craps in holes, that stone age shit, even those old time pimps didn't have no names like Weinerhold neither. And what kind of a wheeling, dealing cat goes around eating the sushi, you know what I'm saying?"

No, I have absolutely no idea what you are saying. Yusuke takes a step back and mutters "Okay…" Rowan continues "And I mean yeah I know, what kind of a pimp listens to Bing Crosby and is down with bestiality shit. Might as well be eating deviled eggs and molesting little kids." Yes, I believe I have heard enough as well. Mercifully, I hear a car honking, which apparently caught Rowan's attention. He approaches a window, with Yusuke and myself following. We look down and spot a red sedan. A Chinese woman with mauve hair and black tattoos on her left arm, dressed in a black tank top, sits at the wheel. An East Asian man dressed in a black and white striped leisure shirt and black dress pants sits in the front passenger seat. Rowan gives Yusuke a pat on the shoulders and says "That's them. They'll be getting you through the front lines. Gimme a sec."

As he walks out of the room, Yusuke mutters "Son of a…that's the bitch that pistol whipped me last night! In alley, when I was tripping on whatever that Eda bitch gave me. They're supposed to transport us? Screw it, I'm giving her payback for last night." "After we arrive at our destination," I request of Yusuke. "Yeah, sure. Fine. As long as she doesn't give me a reason," Yusuke grumbles. And yawns. And I do so as well.

I suddenly find myself uncomfortable. "Yusuke," I ask "when this Leroy character…interacted with you, did you tell him that we were hunted by a Russian criminal?" "No, why?" he asks. My gaze not leaving the window, I say "Because a certain damaged Lexus sedan is currently parked across the street."

I overhear Rowan yell "I don't what's taking them so long. No sucka that skinny lasts that long." A woman speaks in a NYC accent "Did your shit-for-brains barkeep confuse the horse tranqs for those dick pills again?" "No, I had them labelled this time, you dig?" Rowan asks. "You'll be digging your grave for Balalaika if this shit goes sideways," the woman's voice replies. I find my vision blurring. Yusuke mutters "Kurama, I ain't feeling so good." "Is your heart beating fast?" I ask, anxious. "It doesn't beat, fox boy. Shit…I feel tired…" he replies, yawning. Not a lethal poison. Sedatives.

Damn this.

Rowan, the Chinese woman, and the East Asian man who appears to be a fellow Japanese, the three stare as Yusuke rests on his stomach, subdued. They turn to me, and the two new characters proceed to laugh at my appearance. I grit my teeth, barely standing, my left hand supporting me against the wall. I have mere seconds of consciousness left. "Revy, you might want to take a step back," the Japanese man says. "Fuck that, Rock. If this faggot wants a piece of me, I'll send him to Boris in the express mail. Not like he's going to give a fuck," this Revy individual replies. I will give you hell. I will give you all hell!

I toss my glass of Mai Tai at Revy. She steps back and to the right, dodging the toss, muttering "Wrong move, asshole." Oh I could say the same for you.

Revy and Rock are too far from my reach. I find my knees buckling. I have one chance. Rowan. Rowan will do. You will suffer for this.

I step forward with all my might, and I wind my right arm until it is perfectly outstretched. And with as much force as my body permits, I drive my opened right hand right to left, slapping Rowan with such strength, that at least four of his golden teeth bounce against the wooden floor. And as I lose my balance, and as I am pulled into a subdued sleep, I yell "His name is Eustace Wyatt Weinerhold! And he hails from Idaho!"

AN: Writing this chapter has changed me in a very deep and profound way, from this day forward.