Rokura Okajima was a simple man with simple rules. Among these rules, he avoided drinking, clubbing, smoking any substances, or even seeking the company of a woman, let alone for a single night. So what the hell happened?
The answer seemed obvious, but how he allowed that specific chain of events to unfold as they did and change them as they had was a mystery he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to solve. But it didn't matter anymore. That man was dead, a fading memory of what seemed like a lifetime ago. He was Rock now, a hardened criminal. He had been ever since that fateful moment, the moment he met her.
Since then, each and every one of those rules had gone right out the proverbial window and he indulged in whatever lustful sin struck him at that moment. Ocassionally, he'd even gratify himself with all of them in one night the moment his "work" was finished. From the neon lights of Roanapur making his head spin with the brilliant, flashing colors and swirling patterns to the comfortably burning sensation of alcoholic beverages settling in his otherwise empty stomach and the acrid aftertaste of countless cigarettes smoked right down to their filters. Last night had been one of those nights when he had booked a penthouse suite in one of the most notoriously expensive and pretentious hotels in the city for two.
Lifting himself from the bed with some reluctance, Rock made the token effort to dispel the alarm on the clock that had been set for later. He had already been awake for some time, just basking in the comfort while dealing with less than pleasant thoughts from his past self. A sunbeam had pierced through the drawn curtains, slowly tanning his exposed leg with a single vertical line of warm light during that time. With a forceful bout of willpower, Rock banished the reminscience of his lifestyle from his mind and instead focused on the here and now. This had been his reward after all, a job well done, a smooth operation without a single shot having to be released, and he and his partner had been payed handsomely for it. All thanks to his sharp wits and attention to detail.
"Let's have a great fuckin' time," a mental echo came to him. She had said that to him last night, he remembered. It always came back to her, the whole reason he lived the way he did these days and the reason he was staying in this tasteless imitation of an British upscale establishment.
Rebecca "Revy" Lee. The woman hellbent on dragiing him through every dark corner, every shady alley, and every cesspool of depravity the city had to offer, yet somehow still expected him to present himself as the clean-shaven, white-bread salaryman if only to poke fun at his boring existence. If he had been even an ounce less competent, that crazy woman probably would've gotten him killed at least twenty times over if not more. Despite that, despite it all, he couldn't shake the growing sense of demented love he has for her.
That in on itself had been another chain of events he couldn't explain. When they had first met, it had been nothing but vague threats and scarcely concealed contempt in every word they spoke to each other, and even after that initial hostility had dissipated, they had kept the exchanges of verbal venom going perhaps solely to keep the status quo. But at some point, they had begun drinking together before going separate ways to mutter to themselves about how ugly and repulsive they found the other to be to having impulsive, sweaty, and largely unpleasant sex inside a portable toilet left at a random construction site in the wee hours of the morning.
Closing his eyes and trying to recall the sights, sounds, and motions of the night before did little more than muddle the issue even worse than before. He recalled the half-Chinese woman asking him to book the room. He remembered the clothes slipping off her body and leaving her exposed to him. He remembered his hands caressing the rough texture of her tanned skin, the heat of his desire intensifying the pleasure derived from both parties, and the feeling of his teeth nibbling on her shoulder tattoo, along with the slap he had received for it.
Opening his eyes again, he managed to find his discarded pants on the floor and proceeded to pick them up, causing the belt to jangle noisily. Behind his back, the scrawny Japanese man could hear his partner in crim squirming and grunting in the sheets. Risen from her slumber, she turned to him, getting the rumpled and stained sheets tangled around her otherwise bare legs, every joint in her body crackling in response. Whether she intended to pop the stiffness so loud or not, she'd never admit.
"You're really annoying," she grunted throatily, the distinct sound of grogginess betraying the fact that she was still half-asleep.
"I was going to go down to the lobby. Grab some breakfast for both of us," he responded slowly, trying to sound as indifferent as possible.
"Screw that. Get me some cigarettes while you're down there."
"You need to eat, Revy."
"Fuck off," was her only response.
This type of exchange was not unlike any other conversation they had ever made when waking up beside each other. It was from these experiences that Rock had discovered she was not a morning person, to put it gently. He would've liked to just stay in bed like her, but the salaryman buried deep within himself still managed to compel him to have some sort of respectable sleep schedule.
With his pants on, the man stood up, crossed the room to the door and found the light switch along the way. Below the light switch, there was a second lever for what would've been a ceiling fan in any other room like this, but this one didn't have any such thing. Flicking it, he, and Revy as well more than likely, weren't prepared for the roaring sound that quickly flooded the room. In truth, it might not have been quite that noisy, but between just waking up and working through some hangover symptoms, it may as well been a B-17 Bomber from the World War era taking off in the room.
"Turn that fuckin' shit off!" snapped Revy, her voice managing to rise above the mechanical clamor.
"It was getting a little warm in here," he responded, "Any hotter and we may as well melt." He wondered how much a father he sounded like at that moment. Sighing, he ignored her order and cast his gaze about for his shirt and socks.
"Hey, Rock."
"Hm?"
Finding his shirt under the bed, his bones protested against the perilous journey of reaching underneath for it, but he did it anyways.
"You ever fucked someone before me?"
His attention snapped from the shirt in his hand to her, he studied her expression for a moment. To his surprise, she seemed to actually be expecting an answer in return. He felt a flush of body heat rising to his cheeks as he responded.
"Uh, yeah..." he paused, "Back in Japan. Just once though."
Her expression soured. "Don't lie," she growled.
"No, I'm being honest," he replied as he slipped his shirt back on and began fastening the buttons. He spotted his shoes tossed carelessly in one corner of the room and headed for them. "It was a colleague's bachelor party, they got me horribly drunk and brought over a prostitute." He paused again and frowned as he grabbed the black shoes with no socks in sight. "I don't remember doing it," he continued, "only paying her later."
"Must have been some shitty friends," Revy offered with a scornful sniff.
"I wouldn't call them 'friends'," he countered, "They did laugh at me a lot." He smiled to himself. "They have a lot in common with you, come to think of it."
Revy didn't respond. The two sat in silence as Rock finally decided to just slip on the shoes, socks be damned for now. When she did speak, it almost caught him off-guard.
"Bring me somethin' to eat too. I need something that goes down easy to get rid of this damn headache."
The casual, almost noncommital but all too telling change of heart brought another smile to his face. She sounded like she was making a conscious effort to act romantic over something as simple as breakfast. That didn't sound like her at all.
"Even the whore wasn't this demanding," he commented wryly, realizing only a split second too late that he had just made a damning mistake.
The next thing he knew, his eardrums were nearly shattered by the explosive pop of a pistol firing inches from his head. In front of him, in a tucked away corner, an innocent standing lamp snapped in half and fell to pieces on the floor. Adrenaline kicking in right away, Rock reflexively covered his head and curled defensively for a moment, before he regained an awareness of his surroundings and casted a frightened look at Revy.
The woman was propped up one elbow staring at him with her other arm holding the pistol directly at him, the barrel emitting wispy tendrils of gunsmoke. In the rooms near theirs, muffled cries of alarm and angry voices spouting unanswered questions could be heard bleeding through the walls.
"Wanna say that again?" she asked simply.
"I think I'd rather apologize."
"That's better." She dropped the pistol and eased back onto the bed.
"So," he began cautiously, "Breakfast and smokes?"
"Yes."
Not wishing to risk provoking her once more, the man, a hardened criminal, hastened out of the room and into the hall leading to the elevator. In his rush, he had ran directly into the hotel manager in the process who was already marching on the warpath with a gun of his own. With as much coolness as he could muster, Rokuro managed to convince the burly man that the sound had been the television and an accident. Crisis averted, Rock made his way down to the lobby for that breakfast and non-menthols he had promised her, totally forgetting he hadn't even put on his undergarments.
The whole final incident reminded him of one more thing: He, Rokuro, and everyone else he might be would always be weaker than a single woman. Rebecca Lee, whom he loves and hates with equal passion.
Inspired by the tales of a true man of excess.
[Originally Written: March 21 / 2020]
Editor and contributor (And friend): UnusualParadox