Musical notes: The first song that Key sings isn't that Eiffel 65 song from like five years ago; it's one that the 5-6-7-8's are actually singing in the film.
His second song is the theme from KB's closing credits.
Finally, a good companion to this chapter is Ennio Morricone's Death Rides a Horse, which is of course where the title comes from, but it isn't on either of the soundtracks – it's the music that plays when the Bride calls out O-Ren and lops off Sophie's arm. Track it down if you can; it's a really damn cool arrangement.
4. "Tear the b&# apart!"
K-san, or K.K., or the Tin Man, leaned against the door of the limousine, looking out at the Tokyo night. The bottom of the sea must look something like this, he thought: darkness and gaudy lights, coming and going in the distance, danger under the guise of obscene amusement; the wriggling arms and legs, the dripping fluids, the clash of change from a slot machine.
His new employer paid well, but K-san felt an attachment to him beyond the bounds of duty. It was something the man had said: This world is corrupt. It was a sentiment K-san appreciated. People lived and died without a single thought. It was abrupt, wheeling and senseless, like a volley of firecrackers; then the darkness.
"K-kun!" Cosette gripped his arm.
He recoiled. "Stop doing that."
"Aw, is little K-kun a little grumpy?"
He wondered if he was experiencing something similar to what other people called 'irritation.' Pain meant little to him, but he couldn't deny that he would prefer the little girl, whose life he found himself charged with protecting, to ride in a separate limousine. He couldn't understand why she clung to him, and it was troublesome.
"Cosette likes K-kun so-o much," Cosette sang. "K-kun and Cosette are gonna have a good time tonight, and K-kun's gonna feel all better! Smile, K-kun!"
K-san glanced at her. "Is that an order?"
"Don't you ever smile?"
"This world is corrupt," said K-san, and smiled.
Cosette sat back, and looked out the opposite window. The Tokyo skyline was dotted with neon fire, blinking and revolving in wheels. The car sped on, leaving the world in the dust.
"Why don't you like me, K-san?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Why don't you like me?"
"I don't understand. Are you saying I haven't been doing my job?"
Cosette swung her legs. K-san found it difficult to pinpoint her exact mental age – at times she could seem extremely childish, at times older than he was. "K-kun's all I've really got in the world," Cosette said softly. "If I didn't have K-kun, I'd—"
"Human attachments are meaningless," he said, matter-of-factly. "Pretty soon you're dead, and then what have you got?"
"But we see your loved ones again…on the other side of the river," Cosette almost whispered.
"The Sanzu?—Have you seen it?"
"Well, yes, but – I guess it could've been sunstroke."
"I only believe what I can see with my eyes," said K-san. "Touch, taste, hear – or feel. Since I've never felt 'love,' I don't see any reason to believe it exists. And when I close my eyes – none of this might as well exist. Do you see what I'm saying?"
Cosette crossed her arms. "Well I think you're just being grumpy."
"Tell me. What did you feel, when you killed the man who killed you parents?"
Cosette's eyes seemed to stare inward. For a moment, they had the look of buttons sown onto the face of a cloth doll. "Nothing," she said. "Nothing at all."
"Nothing. You see?"
There was a silence. Around the car, K-san's yakuza cohorts flitted in and out of sight on their motorcycles. No sound penetrated the dim limousine interior. Somewhere ahead in the darkness, Lord Ilpalazzo was alone in his own car with his thoughts, whatever thoughts a man of his infinite powers might entertain.
What moved K-san to speak was not, in fact, a cruel impulse, but what seemed to him like a generous one. "I think you'd be happier if you just faced facts," he said to Cosette. "You're never going to see your parents again. They're dead."
Cosette didn't answer. When he looked at her, her expression was stony, and she looked away.
"What?" he said, in perfect innocence. "Was it something I said?"
Excel pedaled hard, but even her fresh young legs were no match for the limousines and state-of-the-art Suzuki motorcycles. More and more, as they left the highway and wound their way down through the dense urban jungle of Roppongi, she was losing ground. The lightweight frame of the bicycle shuddered underneath her. She grunted in frustration and reflected, also, that she looked like a dork in her bulky purple helmet, clingy pants and kneepads. There was something to be said for efficiency. Something, also, to be said for style. With the money she had saved from Shioji's gift, she could have rented a motorcycle, instead buying twenty-two pounds of Kobe beef – although that precious store of energy had been just as essential to her mission.
Just when it seemed like the limousines would slip out of sight along a winding street, they came to a stop. Excel caught up in a furious burst of speed, crowing triumph, and drew level with the lead limousine at the edge of the crosswalk. The effort almost killed her. Catching her breath in heaving gasps, she looked around, and happened to glance through the window of the limousine.
The sight of his face, after so many, years, almost killed her again. Her legs trembled; the entire bicycle rattled. What stung more, though, than the sight of him, was that he didn't seem to notice her. He stared implacably forward, like man made out of metal or stone. He might as well have been a decoy. Lord Ilpalazzo. Outside the limousine, on the other side of the glass, Excel felt herself shrinking away to nothing. Then the world flashed red and she imagined sinking her hands into his arrogant neck, making him see, making him notice—
Even as her vision went red, the light turned green. The limousine took off with a roar – leaving her behind, as always.
The silence persisted, and K-san guessed that lighter conversation was called for. As politely as he could, he asked Cosette: "Excuse me, ma'am. What was the name of that restaurant we were dining at, again?"
"The House of Blue Leaves," said Cosette, dully.
"The House of Blue Leaves," K-san repeated. It had an unaccountably pleasing sound. "Blue," he said quietly, looking forward with his eyes half-lidded. "Blue, blue, blue…"
The singer writhed like an epileptic snake, shouting into the microphone his nearly-incomprehensible English lyrics: "I'm blu-u-u-u-ue, doobi-doobi-doobi…"
The band, three men dressed in strange bird costumes, played with ferocious energy; the drummer thrashed his sticks, the rhythm guitarist rolled his hips around, making love to his instrument.
"Blu-u-ue, blu-u-u-u-ue…"
Dressed in the most modern and obscenely revealing clothes, the singer had the body of an ancient Greek bronze. His shirt, resembling a bondage harness, cut over slabs of wastefully articulated muscle. Teenaged girls lifted their arms to him from the crowd; he wailed with eyes shut, paying no attention.
Excel gave him a passing glance as she entered; but she had more important things to worry about, she quickly reminded herself, than virile-looking, hunky rock musicians wearing next to nothing.
"Blue, blue, blu-u-ue…"
She spotted them on the second floor: a cluster of men in dark suits, a young girl in a Chinese dress, a lanky young man in a school uniform – and a broad-shouldered man in flowing cape. All of them were alike in their inexpressive features. Even as she caught sight of them, though, two groveling hostesses ushered them into a private dining room, and the paper door slid shut behind them. Excel cursed.
Still wearing her kneepads and carrying her helmet under her arm, she walked out over the dance floor of the House of Blue Leaves. It was a bright, high-ceilinged room in the traditional Japanese style; everywhere the contemporary flirted with the ancient. A small but enthusiastic crowd performed outdated American dance moves by the stage. Excel's legs burned from the long ride, and her butt ached. She was at a loss.
"A fortuneteller told me that my love with you was through," the singer moaned.
Kneading her lower back, Excel crossed over to the bar.
"Hey, liquorman! Gimme something hard?"
The bartender eyed her skeptically.
"May I see some I.D., Miss?"
Excel stared at him, her eyes bloodshot with thoughts of revenge, her hair windswept from highway cycling. "I didn't say sell me one. I said give me one."
The man lowered his eyes. "Of course, Miss. Right away."
The consumption of liquor was immoral, and a primary tool in the of the subjugation of the lower classes, Lord Ilpalazzo had taught her. Well, she'd show him. As she waited, leaning back on the bar, her eyes drifted again toward the writhing singer.
"I hope that she was wrong cause you've been gone too long from home…"
There was something familiar about him, she decided.
Eighteen-year-old Miki, one of K-san's bodyguards, was telling a joke. It involved household cleaning products and impossible sexual acrobatics. Cosette turned away, annoyed, and her eyes fell on Lord Ilpalazzo.
The Commander sat back from the table with has hands folded in his lap, watching his underlings laugh and carouse. He never smiled. He almost never spoke, except to issue orders, and it was impossible to speak to him. It went beyond the usual affectations of power; he had cut a part of himself off from the world. Even now, as Cosette started at him, he didn't meet her eyes.
What about you, Ilpalazzo-sama? she thought. What did you feel when you conquered F-city? F-prefecture? Hokkaido? She couldn't believe he'd felt nothing. How could a man accomplish such feats unless he was driven by some incredible passion? But she suspected that it was true; K-san was right. To all appearances, Lord Ilpalazzo – like K-san, like herself – was not enjoying himself. The antics of his subordinates, the premium sushi dinner, the beautiful establishment itself – all meant absolutely nothing.
She looked at K-san, and a sudden thought came to her: It's too late for all of us. She shook her head; what was that supposed to mean? She was rich and powerful and feared, Lord Ilpalazzo more so. How did all that amount to nothing?
Yes, familiar…
Excel's heart suddenly skipped a beat. The man had been singing with his eyes closed, but when the song was over, he opened them suddenly and met her gaze. She felt her legs losing their grip on the barstool. He was looking at her, her, her, with his sizzling blue eyes, and he was smiling.
She shook her head. There was no mistaking it, though, he was looking straight at her, and the crowd had begun to look in her direction too. She pointed at her face – watashi?
"Young lady," said the singer, in his smooth deep voice, through the microphone so that the entire restaurant could hear. Heads turned. Eyes stared. She sat with hand on her bicycle helmet, grinning uneasily.
So much for deep cover, she thought. Deep…covers…no! She was on a mission.
"That look in your eyes," said the singer. "Please!—Stand up, let me get a better look at you! To simply glimpse that passion is like a balm on this poor rose-pricked soul!"
Excel got awkwardly to her feet.
"Eh heh…perhaps there's been a mistake? Excel is just a – humble shopgirl – from the shops."
"Oh, there has been no mistake, I assure you…" He leaned nearly off the stage, peering acutely into her face. "Ah! Magnificat!—Ladies and gentlemen, if you will direct your intention – allow me to present to you a rare but glorious spectacle! Behold, a young lady utterly, madly, violently in love!"
Excel looked blankly back at him.
"…love?" she said, in a small voice.
"Yes." His crushed-rose lips smiled. "Love."
"Are you – are you like, completely sure?"
"Ah, ladies and gentlemen, I can feel it!—Inspiration, running like morphine through my veins! Please, gentle lady, allow me to present this humble Spanish ballad as a tribute to the glory of your love!"
Excel sank back down on the stool, her cheeks bright red. She was on an epic quest of revenge, and she had not been so embarrassed since the time in Junior High when Ken Miyamoto had tripped and tried to look up her skirt.
"Boys!" the singer called, snapping his fingers. "The Malaguena Salerosa!"
"You have to say yes, yes, yes, no matter what selfish demands they make!" said the proprietress, moving at a steady clip on her high heels.
"But they demand ridiculous things…!" the waiter complained, balancing a tray of beer bottles as he tried to keep pace with her.
"Shut up! Didn't you hear what happened to Ichiro Murasaki? Do you want to get your head chopped off?"
"No, I don't want that…!"
They reached the door of the private dining room. Inside, yakuza toughs, both male and female, lounged in ridiculous attitudes with their arms and heads on pillows. Only their chiefs, the two men and the little girl, kept respectable postures.
"Hey!" yelled one of the young men, pointing at the waiter. "You know who you like?"
The waiter, in his yellow and black-striped kimono, stammered that he didn't know.
"Charlie Brown-chan!"
Laughter and applause erupted at Miki's wit.
"Yes," simpered the proprietress, clapping her hands, "he does look like Charlie Brown…"
There was a drum roll, and the band struck up a Latin rhythm. The singer began, his Spanish gorgeous and silvery, far more fluent than his English:
Que bonitos ojos tienes,
Debajo de esas dos cejas,
Debajo de esas dos cejas,
Que bonitos ojos tienes…
Then, as the guitar played a delicate phrase, he whispered the translation, looking directly at Excel: "What pretty eyes you have, under those two eyebrows…"
Malaguena!—salerosa…
Besar tus labios quisiera,
Besar tus labios quisiera,
Malaguena Salerosa…
Y decirte…nina hermosa…
"And telling you, beautiful girl…
That you are pretty and magical,
That you are pretty and magical,
As the innocence of a rose…"
K-san was counting bullets. Cosette watched as he lined them up on the edge of the table, one by one, his fingers moving precisely. Small Ingram bullets, like a cat's teeth. Hundreds of them could be fired in seconds, each one lethal, and he handled them as casually as dominoes.
"Que eres li-in"the man sang, and held the note until Excel felt her own lungs ache, then rushed headlong into the final verse: "Da y hechicera, que eres linda y hechicera, como el candor de una rosa…y decirte…nina hermosa…"
Slowly, regretfully, the music swelled to a close, and the man stood in a posture of desolate reflection. Slowly, he opened his eyes again. Excel felt a shock almost as great as when he had first looked at her.
She recognized him. And, the wily bastard, he must have recognized her as well.
"ACROSS Special Operative – codename Key," she whispered.
He smiled more handsomely than ever. "Correct, mi corazon," he said. "Former Special Operative Excel."
The crowed looked on, bewildered. Key set his microphone carefully back on its stand, then turned and bellowed up at the second-floor balcony: "Lord Ilpalazzo!—Your most esteemed guest has arrived!"
Excel was on her feet, bicycle helmet in hand. Her heart fell through her boots. Not at the trickery – this was as good a way as any to draw her quarry into the open – but at the thought that she would see him, face-to-face, and he would have to look at her now.
The paper door slid open. The boy in the school coat came out first, glancing at Excel without interest, and his cohorts followed. They stood in rank along the railing. Finally, Cosette emerged, and—
He came out and stood behind them, taller than any of them. There was something like a ghost about his presence; he stood there behind them in his grays and faded purples, silent, unsmiling. She could hardly be sure he was really there.
She remembered. He had looked just like that, on that day four years ago. Standing so high above her. Was he even looking at her?—She couldn't tell.
"What is she doing here?" Cosette said icily, leaning over the railing.
"She's come to kill you," said Key. "I can see it in her eyes. Ah, bravo!"
There was a moment's total silence, then the crowd screamed as one. The dance floor emptied in a minute; customers pushed and jostled as they clogged the exits. Cries of: "Kill!—He said kill!" rang off the walls. Excel stepped forward. Now there was no one between her and her enemy – except, of course, for the heavily-armed yakuza, their steel-eyed lieutenant and one very psychotic little assassin. Not to mention Key…
"Pardon me, sir," said the musician, "but I'm afraid I must bow out."
Without a downward glance, Ilpalazzo nodded.
Key winked at Excel, saying with a flourish: "Someday, somewhere, I know we'll meet again, mi corazon…" He snapped his fingers. The drummer pressed a button, and the entire band vanished in an eruption of stage smoke.
Excel was left coughing, staring up at the balcony.
"Should I take care of her?" said Cosette, looking to Ilpalazzo. He didn't answer.
Balling her fists, Excel yelled up at him: "Lord Ilpalazzo! Ilpalazzo!"
He still gave no sign he had heard either one of them.
"Lord Ilpalazzo! You and I have—look at me! Don't you dare not look at me! Excel came all this way and I pedaled and pedaled and I killed Hatchan twice and she almost poisoned me and I went to Osaka and this kind of creepy guy gave me a giant robot and then there was a guy with a moustache with the ends pointing up and—you have to look at me! You can't just—Lord Ilpalazzo!"
He turned his back, his cloak flaring out, and walked back through the doorway.
Excel sank down on her knees, still looking up. "Lord Ilpalazzo…"
"Whiny little drama queen, aren't you?" said Cosette.
K-san reached into his school coat. "Shall I take care of her, ma'am?"
Cosette smiled. "Fire at will."
Still on her knees, Excel didn't hear the command, but she heard the sound that followed. If not for Misaki's warning, she would have indeed assumed that someone in a nearby room had begun to pound on the keys of an old typewriter.
K-san fired down with his arm straight out, the small, stubby machinegun rattling, sending out volley on whistling volley of tiny deadly shells, as easily as he might have poured out a cup of tea.
There was not even time to run. Excel cowered, clapping her bicycle helmet over her head. The floorboards cracked; a cloud of wood dust filled the air; the Ingram clicked.
He shot his six, it would have been said of a cowboy; K-san had shot his one hundred. He let barrel drop.
"Nothing at all," he muttered.
The dust began to clear.
Cosette caught her breath. "Impossible!"
Excel still cowered, unharmed, the floor bullet-eaten all around her; smoke curled up from her helmet.
Cosette pounded the railing. "Baka! Didn't you see she was wearing her protective helmet? Helmets reduce the risk of fatal accidents by nearly ninety percent!"
"That's right!" said Excel, leaping to her feet. "Just remember, kids, wear a helmet and you're always safe!" She pointed at Cosette: "Now, Excel will defeat you, sub-boss, and your random underlings too!"
K-san stared in disbelief.
"Who – who are you calling a sub-boss!" shrieked Cosette. She glanced furiously around. "What are you waiting for, random underlings?—Tear the bitch apart!"
"But ma'am!" Miki gestured helplessly with his handgun. "What are we supposed to do to her?"
"Kick, punch, whatever! There are six of you! She's an unarmed girl!"
"Aye-aye, ma'am!"
They others rushed down the stairs. Assuming karate stances, they advanced slowly on Excel, who stood her ground.
"You have nothing to worry about," K-san assured Cosette, quietly. "All of my men have substantial training in the traditional discipline of—"
"Excel chop!"
K-san's eyes widened as Miki flew through the air, smashing through the paper screen behind the stage. Over the next few minutes, defying all common sense, he watched the girl scattered his trained fighters with yells of Excel punch! and Excel kick!—and, finally, Excel throw!—sending the six-foot-tall Hiroguchi into an ornamental pool of water. Excel stood victorious, dusting her hands.
Cosette screeched in disbelief, clawing her face. "Impossible! No!"
Three of the men managed to scramble to their feet and rushed Excel together, but she was unfazed. Again: "Ultimate finishing technique!"—they all lay sprawled in front of her.
Excel planted her hands on her hips. "Ha! Ha! Ha—"
"Enough!" yelled K-san.
There was immediate silence, and the word almost seemed to echo.
"That's the spirit, K-kun!" Cosette clapped her hands, smiling; then her expression darkened. "Kill her."
K-san nodded, pushed a stray lock of hair behind his ear, and vaulted over the railing. He landed in a graceful crouch on the empty stage.
"I've never seen a technique like yours," he said as he rose. "I can't understand how you defeated my subordinates. However, it's time to put an end to this nonsense." He looked straight at Excel with his dead eyes like shotgun barrels, and she felt a flicker in her resolve. "I hold a third-degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do. A second-degree in Judo. I can kill a man in three seconds. If my superior has left by now, which I assume he has, then I am the deadliest man in this city." He paused, and said with infinite contempt: "Look at you. Why have you come here? What do you possibly expect to do to me?"
Slowly, as if reaching for a weapon, Excel removed a small remote control from her pocket.
"This," she said, and pressed the button.
Far above the rafters, there was a rumbling noise. Cosette looked up. K-san looked up. The building began to shake. A teacup rolled off the edge of a table and shattered on the floor. The band's abandoned instruments jumped and danced.
Excel grinned. "Go to shi," she mouthed.
The ceiling erupted inwards with a scream of splinters. A pool of shadow poured out around K-san's feet.
Perhaps he could have leapt to safety, but for the split-second in which he could have acted, some force held him motionless. It was an awe: the noise and the trembling overhead seemed cosmic, divine. So this is it, he had the time to think. This is really it.
There was nothing else.
Two hundred tons of metal drove down on him, and the VE-6050 Pfadfinderin stood in all its pastel glory inside the House of Blue Leaves.
Night air poured in through the ruptured ceiling. Looking up, Excel could see the stars.
Excel's preview: Well, as a very wise man one said, some fellas are lucky and some aint! So pour the dirt over both the quick and the dead as Death Rides a Bicycle keeps on rolling and the body count keeps on rising! Tune in next week for our Very Special Episode, "Goodbye, My Summer." But why's it snowing?
