Call 'em bōryokudan—violence groups.
Arashiyama District, Kyoto, January 8, Day of Osaka Fuku Ryu Matsuri
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The gods laughed 'til they cried. Then they ran around for a bit. This was no laughing matter, they realized. Their faces were a collective of hysterics, of dire reaction shots from daytime television.
Lanternfish found the blue dragon at the outskirts of the bamboo forest, his corpse milling about the banks of Ōi River like a classy beached whale. Rather, Lanternfish found Mr. Aoi in human form, all nine hundred and ninety nine years of fire-breathing wisdom and pallor mortis, and by the position the man lay in, he seemed ready for a lifelong catnap. No trace of injury tainted his features. He lay outstretched, hands firmly clasped together, face contented and oddly smug. Nothing too unconventional, mind. The lizard was prone to lounging in any place he saw fit, and those who encountered him were treated to a grand ol' time. He'd been a stylish soul with street savoir faire. And now he was gone.
But the little goldfish was not fazed at first, merely intrigued. You could even call it giddy. Who would initially assume the man to have passed anyhow? Lantern, gliding through the air on pure logic, had smiled—no, remained joyously blank-faced when the dragon came into view, and his scales glimmered, illuminating the wooded pathway. It danced a dance of the sea, a sort of ghetto jitterbug. Mr. Aoi always had such tales to tell, such threads to weave. Tonight would be no different, Lanternfish reasoned. Tonight would be good.
Tonight would not be good. The fish wailed, which is to say its expression remained indifferent as it shed a single tear. What would the community of myths say? Oh, they would be so terribly bemused. They had been secluded, it and Aoi, for so long, yet now would be the moment to venture down, way, way, down, guided by rail lines and pure intuition, to play the role of the messenger.
Roughly the size of a small child, Lanternfish nonetheless had the heart and will of daikaiju. If it had braved the span of oceans, if it had defied the terrible black colossi of the ocean, then it could make this trip.
It was time to venture. To the Demon Queller—to Osaka!
Osaka, Up and Down and All Around
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The bōryokudan came to town. Tides got a little stronger, the water a little warmer.
Osaka didn't acknowledge them at first, no sir. Best to shut the blinds to such villainy. Uncharacteristically quiet, the denizens rose with sheepish steps, jolted awake only by the thrum of the monorail. Architecture sang the blues; fresh watercolor facades had dulled overnight, made pale and rash and uncouth by the inhabitants that resided within. If the people would not speak beyond humble greetings, then the graffiti and the power line birds would speak for them. Even the sun itself appeared wrapped up in hesitance, yet the spirits knew better. Time was grey for just a moment. This would pass, they assured, like an awkward silence at a family supper.
Then pulsed the faraway beat of a taiko drum and, following it, an impromptu jam session on an untuned baby grand, a few found objects on the concrete and the high score medley on an arcade machine. Elsewhere, footfalls struck the ground to a perfect time signature. Who they are carried or where they were headed was not important for now. Go 'head, Speed Racer.
The bōryokudan came to town, and the city stirred in their wake as if summoned to liveliness, to draw anticipated breaths and to brew black coffee for the long haul. Dawn colored the highways like red carpets rolled out for exorbitant automobiles and the brutes at the wheels. Children and wives were hidden from their wrath, lest they be snatched up and left as prey. Strange to think that Osaka had hushed for an interval when polished loafers hit the pavement, then the people quickly let out a roar to fill that weakened space. They would challenge the violence groups, ninkyo dantai, or whatever they referred to themselves nowadays; they would yell as loudly as their slangified dialect would allow, and they would stomp and hoot and howl like the beasts they sought to best. Or they would remain collected, polite. "Mokkari-makka?" was the way, even if this meant one was asking if the other made any money, rather than something daft like inquiring for a name. What good was a name compared to the yen?
Seen to any wandering eye, the bōryokudan came to the Business Park. Reflections from the office windows caught the sheen of cufflinks. So many black suits, so many like minds. The skyscraper floors were stormed with hierarchy: from the bottom, lesser hands slaved away at banquet dishes to sate the men who idled above. They would talk for now, crack jokes and flash teeth until the superiors arrived. It was a nice prelude to madness.
Isamu, Sixth Chairman of the Terajima Clan, Father of the Damned and all-around swell fellow arrived with his queen of a wife, Makoto, on his arm. From the second the odd soldier took note of their presence in the lobby, the gathering tower was set a-flurry with submissiveness. Deep bows, lowered heads, and extended hands graced the pair, to which they replied with handshakes and hurried steps. "No more of that Godfather shit," they'd always say, but they would fall trap to the gestures every time. Multiple appearances did little to squander the novelty of seeing the two together: whereas she was regal in nature, slight and short-bobbed, with a killer set of eyebrows to boot, he seemed mismatched beside her, towering over her, so unlike the dapper beast of yesteryear in spite of his considered dress. The others would not see them bicker as they entered the elevator alone. In the old days, such occurrences had a fair chance of ending in heated, melodramatic acts of love, but a forceful slap on the wrist was all the oyabun received. As the doors slid open, the others, too, would not see him burst into a deep fit of laughter, or see a glimpse of an unwanted smile creasing upon her lips. When they strode across the length of the conference room, their expressions were grimly set.
To the left, twelve representatives of Kyubei-kai, a stoic amalgam of counselors, accountants, and enforcers, were poised upon their hands and knees before the exotic matriarch seated at the end. To the right, an equal amount of Terajima returned the favor. The Chairman and the Demon Queller acknowledged them all, and it was only when the trio of leaders were settled did the yakuza dare to be seated.
Make no mistake—no one wanted to be here. The Kyubei mother, the patriarch, and the ane-san appeared as enthusiastic as modern children at mass. But this bullshit, this hours-long truce needed to be endured. At least there would be rice cakes afterward.
"We need to neuter the Dogs," it was unanimously declared, and there would be much fist-slamming if these mobsters were not so quaint. "They smell."
From there, the lines were redrawn: Minami, the south, with Dotonbori district and others accounted for, would forever be swathed with the scent of Kyubei; Umeda, in the north, was firmly Terajima, with no exceptions. The eastern and western burbs were not as claimed, and they were ripe with opportunity for both parties. Whomever sought them was up in the air, but it was known that the Wild Dogs were rapidly infesting owned property. And that was no good.
So it went. Family rivalry would be thrown to the wayside for the welcoming of Fuku Ryu—temporarily, at least. A crash through the conference doors, however, sounded a different kind of animal after all had dispersed. One might have noted the swift flash of scales blazing down the hallway, yet only the oyabun and the Demon Queller would bear witness to the death of the Lanternfish, who, with its last words, delivered the fate of old Mr. Aoi.
Den-Den Town, Minami, Osaka Fuku Ryu Matsuri
That night, in the blustery cold, the parade would go for miles up the way, past the technicolor signs and the neon advertisements. Crowd records were shattered this year; by a general headcount, the number of attendees was dizzying, and the energy wafting through the air was infectious, electric. You could feel the spirits thrive. They had never been more jovial, prancing among the humans who so dearly wished to see them partake in the festival. Footfalls struck the ground to a perfect time signature. Who they carried or where they were headed remained known to the shadows. A horned being reared its head, took in the sights, ducked away to obscurity.
The Dogs, heeding the message of their Alpha, knew what they must do. To fail would result in a horrible fate, and anything other than success was not an option.
But, for now, all was good. All was calm. It would be mere moments before everything came alive.
[Missions have been posted! Make your famiry proud!]