At the Piku-Piku Bistro, Heat and Strike sat at a booth nestled in the corner. Strike had to fight the urge to nurse some drinks directly at the bar, but hell, he was still going to get his booze. Heat ordered some mozzarella sticks and fried Portobello mushrooms for an appetizer, and a Mai Tai to drink. Strike ordered the Spinach Dip with nachos, two chicken quesidillas, two orders of mozzarella sticks, and a tall margarita. (Yes, this was his appetizer as well.) He liked the bistro a lot because they served a great variety of food.
Strike lit a Newport with his gun-shaped windproof lighter and casually took a drag. He caught a glimpse of a female across the way staring at him… immediately an eyebrow went up. "'Ey… Heat," he whispered, smirking, "check this out."
Heat sipped on his water and focused his attention to the direction Strike had nodded his head. He was wearing shades, too; he believed in Strike's sermons about keeping one's eyes covered.
The tea-haired female giggled shyly and gingerly waved at Strike and Heat. Across from her table was an empty seat, with a plate of food; obviously she wasn't there alone.
Heat smiled. Not a at the girl, but because he had an idea that Strike wanted to mess with her, big time.
Strike eased back into his seat, resting his cigarette in the ashtray. He turned his head directly to the girl's direction, grabbed his crotch, and licked his lips… VERY S-L-O-W-L-Y…
The female's grin turned into a very blank, yet shocked expression… She went into some kind of spasms and then fainted, falling out of her chair in an undignified heap.
The two laughed incredulously as a waitress immediately ran to tend to the young lady. Seconds later, another female with black hair walked up to the same table and freaked immediately. She looked around frantically as other people began to crowd around the table. It just so happened that she looked in Heat's direction...
Knowingly, Strike looked at Heat, and they both nodded. Heat flashed the ebony-haired girl his killer smile, and puckered his lips sending her an air kiss. Immediately, she began to shake uncontrollably and passed out next to her inert friend. The people gathered around the girls gasped and had a fit.
It was all Strike and Heat could do keep from bursting out in loud, outrageous laughter…
"Damn, dude. You know it's gonna take longer for us to get our food now," laughed Heat softly.
"Tch," scoffed Strike, "it really doesn't matter; I have a strong feeling that Hiro has a shitty sense of time. There's no telling when he'll get here."
The two watched in amusement as the managers called for paramedics and tried to revive the females. Strike continued his leisurely smoke and Heat lit one for himself (using his finger of course, the show-off).
"How much you wanna bet that they'll come to before the meds get here?" asked Heat.
Strike looked firmly at all the bullshit going on at the other side of the restaurant, and smiled contemptuously. "Shit… I wanted to see them actually go to the hospital… damn, I'm at a crossroad… But the meds always look so pissed when everything's fine by time they get to the scene. I have a feeling you're right." He leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table.
After about twenty-five minutes, the meds still hadn't arrived, but the females were finally revived. Everyone in the restaurant was out of their seats and crowded around, (except you-know-who) and two minutes later the ambulance pulled in front of the bistro. Of course, the med team was pissed, but took the females outside to do whatever testing they needed to. The bistro's patrons were still milling around, trying to figure out just what the hell happened.
"Think they'll say something?" asked Strike, not the least bit plagued by guilt.
"I doubt it… if they remember what just happened, I think they'll be too embarrassed to admit the truth."
Suddenly, the doors of the bistro opened and none other than the disco-fabulous Hiro-kun made a dramatic pose as they closed slowly behind him. He was retro as ever in a tan leisure suit with a white and brown print button-down with large lapels, matching brown platform shoes, (yes, with a goldfish in each heel), and gold jewelry adorning his neck, fingers, and wrists. Everyone's attention focused on him, and when Hiro noticed the great deal of females staring at him, he blushed profusely and slowly eased himself from his pose.
Everyone went on about his or her business, like Hiro was completely irrelevant.
Strike turned his head to Heat. "Damn, that muthafuckah is SO lame…" he said, faking a valley accent on the last two words.
"Like, Oh…my…God… REAL-ly!" scoffed Heat, mimicking the same accent and staring into his glass of water, trying not to laugh.
As Hiro walked further into the bistro, past a large group of females, his posture spoke volumes about how he wished he could shrink and run away. He was too distracted with trying to be as small as possible instead of looking for his awaiting party.
"What's the deal with this cat??" asked Heat in disbelief. "As soon as some chicks started staring at him, it's like he just… put his tail in between his legs…"
"Damn, is he pussy or what?" joked Strike. "Shit. I thought he was supposed to be the 'Natural Playboy' or something…"
"If it's like that, then he's the 'Natural Gay-boy'," chuckled Heat.
As Hiro finally made it past the females, he regained his composure and looked around. In the booth, he saw a hand wave him down. He clutched the handle of his small briefcase a little tighter as he realized the hand belonged to none other than Strike. Hiro gulped… he hadn't forgotten his last encounter with Strike. His flesh almost crawled at the thought of it… How the hell did Strike know he was in Osaka?? He gulped again and slowly approached the booth…
Strike slid over and patted the seat. "Yeeeeah, stop actin' like a punk. Come on and have a seat." Heat laughed at the 'punk' statement.
Slowly, Hiro sat down, and it was beyond obvious that he was uncomfortable."
"What's wrong, homes?" asked Heat, cocking up an eyebrow, knowingly. He took another drag off his cigarette.
Hiro looked at the two with an expression of nervousness. "Hello," he said in Japanese.
Strike looked at Heat, and dragged on his cigarette with a slightly pissed expression. "Nani??? Sumimasen?"
"You don't speak English anymore, ese?" said Heat, with the same facial expression Strike had.
Hiro looked down nervously. The last time he'd seen these two, the music was extremely loud, but Strike would be damned if he wasn't an excellent lip-reader. No one had to hear what he'd said, but the black-haired man knew when someone was talking shit to him…
"No… not really…" replied Hiro-kun nervously.
"… Are you bullshittin' me?" asked Strike. His temper was short as it was… it didn't take much to light his fuse. The only person who rivaled if not outdid his temper was Heat.
"NO, NO!" answered Hiro, waving his hands like, 'please don't hurt me'.
"So what's your glitch?" asked Heat.
Hiro was sweating profusely. Damn, talk about third degree…
"You spoke English when you were mouthing off at that club about kicking my ass," growled Strike. He was obviously growing more pissed by the moment.
"Please… I just feel more comfortable speaking Japanese… I mean, after all, I DO live in Japan," said Hiro carefully.
"I spent a good chunk of my life in Japan, and I'm country as hell," retorted Strike.
"Same here," agreed Heat, sipping his water like a southern mama sitting on her porch.
"Please, don't be angry with me… I just want to be comfortable…"
"Fuck you and your comfort! I think you're trying to fuck with me!" snarled Strike in English. He was seconds away from pulling one of his guns out, but remembered his initial plan. That's why they were in the bistro in the first place…
Hiro stared at Strike quietly, as if he was trying not to piss his pants. "Please…" he tried again.
Strike pulled down his shades, and revealed to Hiro the deadliest pair of slanted jade-green eyes he'd ever seen in his life. "Don't think you won't get your muthafuckin' neck snapped fuckin' with me bitch," hissed Strike, his words as venomous as any snake's poison. "You can talk English to threaten me, but you can't act civil in a decent conversation. That makes me think you're wearing a wire or something. You're not that fucking stupid, are you?" Immediately, he returned his shades to their previous position, but Hiro could still feel Strike's eyes burning through him.
Hiro shook his head, his eyes wide with absolute fear. He quickly glanced at Heat like 'please help me', to which Heat responded by creating a flame in his right palm. "Hey homes… I'm no mediator… I feel just as OFFENDED as he does."
Strike balled his fists tightly, cracking his knuckles. "If you ain't wired, you'll speak plain fuckin' English. If you keep playing this game with me, I'll make you strip down to your tire-streaked boxer-draws up in this bitch. I gives not a fuck about a restaurant. DO NOT FUCK WITH ME." His nostrils were flaring. Even Heat was turning red; his suspicions were aroused as well.
Hiro gulped.
"If any of your piss touches my clothes, you're as good as dead," snarled Strike.
"Okei, okei," said Hiro. "I'm sorrei!"
"WHAT?!" said Strike and Heat simultaneously.
Hiro hung his head. "I dun't speek gud Engleesh," he wailed.
"You don't what?" asked Heat, making a face like, 'what'd you just say?'
Strike's head tilted to one side in disbelief, his facial expression was priceless.
"Meh Engleesh is vehry bad… *sniffle*"
The other two men turned red as their cheeks puffed up, trying to hold in their laughter. Suddenly they burst out and started slapping their knees and holding their stomachs. Heat literally fell to the floor, rolling around and wiping tears from his eyes. Strike was all over the table.
Hiro sat there with sweatdrops overhead, turning red as a beet. Everyone in the bistro looked in the direction of the booth to see what was going on.
The two were chuckling, guffawing, and snorting, even. An Asian manager walked over to see what the hell the problem was.
"Excuse me, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you fellows to leave if you can't monitor the noise," tried the manager.
Strike tried to gain composure. When he caught his breath, he gasped, "First of all, fuck you… second of all… have you heard this man talk???" He pointed at Hiro.
The manager looked amazed. "What?"
"Talk bitch!" spat Strike, elbowing Hiro-kun.
"Pleese… stop piikeeng at mee!" howled Hiro.
The manager stared at the leisure-suited man, disbelief etched onto his face. "What'd you say?"
"Stop piikeeng at mee!!!" Hiro looked like he was near tears.
The manager looked like someone just knocked the wind out of him, and doubled over in laughter—as much as he tried to fight it.
Hiro sat there like he wanted to shrink again, with three men around him almost dying in laughter.
In between hearty laughs, the manager waved his hand like 'fuck it', and said, "I am… so sorry… for the interference, gentlemen… I haven't laughed… like this in… MONTHS!!!" He walked away from the table, wiping tears from his eyes.
"Damn it to hell!!!" roared Strike, slapping Hiro on the back (and no doubt leaving a hand print). "You'd better be glad… you made me laugh, muthafuckah!! Just… keep your pissy ass… away… from my threads… and you'll get another cool point…" He was still laughing. "'Stop piikeeng at meee!'" he mocked in a high-pitched, squeaky tone.
Heat was still rolling on the floor; he was of no use to anyone…
Ten minutes later, the two finally calmed down, and Strike tried to remember why he'd even asked Hiro to come there in the first place.
"Do you speak another language?" asked Heat. His eyes were almost as red as his shirt.
"Italiano…" squeaked Hiro, like he just lost his voice.
"Hell, we'll speak in Italian, then, 'cuz at this rate we won't get shit done!" tittered Strike. Heat was fluent in ten different languages, and Strike had a good eight under his belt as well.
Hiro almost looked relieved, but he was still embarrassed as shit. He looked around as the rest of the patrons returned to their food and conversation.
The waitress brought their drinks and took Hiro's drink order. (Hiro made sure to speak Japanese, too).
"Alright, damn it. Let's get down to business. You're a hacker right?" asked Strike in Italian.
"Yes," replied Hiro, a little more comfortable speaking his native tongue.
"Good. I have a deal for you. You're gonna do a job for me. Don't worry, you'll get paid richly for your time, providing you do this right," said Strike, flashing a handful of yen. "And if American currency is your flavor…" he reached in his trench coat lining pocket and pulled out fat wad of hundred dollar bills, "I got you covered there, too."
Hero's eyes turned into dollar signs. He opened his briefcase and pulled out his laptop immediately.
Strike popped him on the back of the head. "Don't get online here!"
"Why not?" asked Hiro.
"Idiot, don't you know that will leave a trail?" hissed Heat. "I don't care what kind of set-up you have… SOMEBODY can trace you."
Hiro shook his head. "Not with my setup. I programmed this myself. Even I can't hack into my own system from elsewhere."
Heat looked at him, turning red. His eye jumped, like he had a nervous tic. "What??" he said in quiet anger. He got up to look at Hero's laptop, and observed as much as he could from the programs on the desktop.
"Uh-oh…" thought Strike. "The tech-rats unite…" Out loud he said, "Yeah, you two do that. I just want my food, and as soon as we finish eating, I'll tell you the more intricate details of the plan. Just make sure, for my peace of mind, that you do your hacking elsewhere."
Hiro nodded, as Heat was stuck on his comp screen.
Strike lit another cigarette and smiled, easing himself as far away from Hiro in the booth Things were coming together nicer than he expected…
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