Man, Ken thought to himself, the whole talking to Omi thing pretty much sucked.
Their conversation had been bothering him all afternoon, particularly the unsatisfactory and vaguely creepy ending. It was one thing for dozens of hormone-ridden schoolgirls to theorize about the backdoor shenanigans they thought were going on in the flower shop, but it was a whole other animal entirely to have such scandalous talk coming from the inside. Even if it was joke.
Even if Ken hoped like hell it was a joke.
Ken didn't really think that Omi was into kicking balls at his own team's goal, but he couldn't help thinking that his "Sounds like you've got a crush on me" comment had just a tiny hint of innuendo do it.
"No way," he finally said aloud. "Omi's not gay. And neither am I." Something told him that he'd said that a little too loud.
Ken had been locked in his room ever since the shop closed because, damn it, he had succeeded in giving himself a colossal case of the creeps by the end of the day. Omi's insinuation that he was playing for the pink team had been rattling around in his brain for hours on end, and by the time the day was over he was in desperate need of some time in the Chamber of Masculinity. Being surrounded by motorcycle magazines, J-League paraphernalia, and a not inconsiderable amount of questionably clad young women represented in every recording format known to man was comforting to the ol' ego.
Somewhere in the course of the afternoon he had even decided to order the upcoming PRIDE event. Even though competitive martial arts was a sport which he usually followed only casually, he acknowledged it to be pretty damned manly and that was exactly what he needed right now.
The event had been on for nearly an hour now, but Ken hadn't been paying all that much attention to it. He'd actually just been sitting on his bed in a pile of magazines of either the smutty or sporting varieties, eyes glazed over but pointed generally at the TV, lost in some sort of nirvana centered around the male id. Nudity, sports, and violence poured into his senses, osmosizing into his wounded identity slowly but surely, even though he was dimly aware that osmosizing isn't a word. Gradually he began to sense that he was burning inside and out, that some sort of startling change was taken place within him, either on a chemical or, if one wished to indulge in the New Age, psychic level. He felt flushed, his body blazing as he inched closer to some incredible revelation.
Then he realized the air conditioner had gone out again.
Ken's air conditioner, a second hand window unit that for some reason exuded air that smelled vaguely of cheese, had been uncooperative for the past couple of months. He had a sneaking suspicion that it had to do with a power outage from around the same time which had also seen fit to claim the lives of the fridge, the fax machine, and half the settings on the microwave. Despite several attempts to repair it, the thing seemed to operate only in short spurts and even then under protest.
Normally he'd have just opened his door and let the air from the hallway circulate in, but that didn't seem like a good idea tonight. First of all, his bed with covered with a vast collection of pornography and three years worth of Sports Illustrated Japan, a combination that only Yohji would possibly condone. Secondly, Omi might come by and…look at him or something.
After a brief internal debate in which Practicality, Laziness, and Apathy teamed up with Rationalization to overcome a potential filibuster by Common Sense and his buddy Dignity, a simple yet effective course of action became readily apparent. Ken stripped down to his bare ass and went on about his business.
There was something to be said for Naked Time, a commodity which Ken vaguely figured women somehow got to indulge in more than men. Swayin' in the breeze had its comfortable side, provided one remembered to keep away from vinyl and/or leather surfaces, plus it always made him feel like he was getting away with something.
Besides, he thought, this is how the cavemen did it, and cavemen were real men. Those bastards ate dirt, wrestled bears, and wiped their asses with gravel. One step closer to cavemen is one step closer to macho.
Ken's ruminations on cavemen were cut short when he caught a glimpse of the clock and realized how late it was. He hurriedly gathered up his magazines and stuffed them under the bed, then, using his ultimate caveman grunt to accentuate the sheer manliness of it, leapt over the bed and flicked off the light. Although it wouldn't seem like it at first glance, the flick was really damned manly too.
He was just about to turn off the TV when the PRIDE announcer informed him that the main event was about to commence. The famous pro wrestler Nobuhiko Takada was about to face an old rival in Kiyoshi Tamura. Takada wasn't that great of a legitimate fighter, but Ken had been a big fan when was growing up, so he just had to watch this one. Plus he distantly remembered that Tamura had been a foil to Takada back in pro wrestling, so he figured it would be interesting to see them go toe to toe for real.
He sat back down on the edge of the bed and lost himself in the fight. Takada and Tamura actually seem pretty evenly matched. The first round was blur of takedown attempts by Tamura, punctuated by Nobuhiko Takada's famous kicks. There was something unquestionably exciting about watching his childhood hero lock up with an old nemesis in mortal combat. The two men grappled and wheeled, throwing punches and kicks in rapid succession. Just as the battle began to reach a near impossible level of fury, the bell rang and the round ended. Ken watched with clenched fists, laboring through the instant replays as the break between rounds inched by. Finally the announcer called for the trainers to leave the ring and the match commenced once more.
The two combatants squared off for what seemed like forever. Something in Ken's heart told him that the next move would probably be the last. Ken's fingernails bit deeply into his palm as he psychically channeled all of his energy into Nobuhiko Takada, trying to push him to victory through sheer force of will. Sure enough, Takada sprang forward like a hungry lion moving in to finish off a wounded dikdik. Only in this case the lion would have impaled itself on a jaw-shattering right straight from the dikdik and gone down like a sack of dirty laundry. In a matter of seconds the referee was pulling Kiyoshi Tamura away from the defeated, possibly slain, Takada and holding his hand in victory.
Son of a bitch, Ken thought, lowering his head in defeat. What he saw next made his stomach twist in horror, his eyes bulging from their sockets in abject terror and revulsion. His flag was flying at full staff. His mind reeled as the circumstances all fell into place, all rushing towards the inevitable realization that was sitting in bed, naked as a jay, watching musculature men crawl on each other…and he had chub.
Chub. The word echoed in his mind. Naked. Chub. Lights off. Chub. Men in Speedos. Chub. It suddenly dawned on him that he was concentrating on chub. Not only that, but somehow his hand and slipped and now he was touching it. Something already frayed in his mind finally snapped. Crazily he remembered his caveman train of thought and angrily tried to dismiss it.
Cavemen? Fuck cavemen, he thought bitterly before his eyes widened in renewed anguish. Holy shit, I just thought about fucking cavemen!
*****
Of everyone in the flower shop, only Aya, who was prowling the kitchen in search of Pop-tarts, was awake to hear it. By his estimation, the scream reverberated through the building for at least a good five seconds, echoing through the halls and, he later swore on his honor during several retellings of the tale, visibly flexing the kitchen windows. Noting that his katana was upstairs and that it was mighty hard to feel brave in a bathrobe and "Azumanga Daioh" boxers, he didn't dare go see what was going on.