Osaka, That Fucking Meeting Place
What was Hojo always saying?
“Well, fuck me sideways.”
Suited it's purpose fine. What a vulgar display of power; gathering like-enemies to this place. Empty greetings gurgled from the hollows of their throats in the means of bowed heads and cupped hands, though Raja was too preoccupied eyeing the fiendish representatives of Terajima from across the way. She made no conscious effort to be tough, or hard-boiled, or grim, or any of the things she's usually called. Though, the unruly set of Isamu's jawline seemed to thrum with a dull determination that bordered on disciplined grimness, controlled temperament by the subtle touches the Demon Queller offered. These were the seemingly innocent movements that goose-fleshed her forearms with renewed animosity. What would she give to wrap her tapered fingers around that neck? To squeeze until his eyelids could no longer bear the weight of covering those discerning eyes, rimmed sanguine; popping, bursting, ruining that ridiculous suit with it's grisly contents. The Matriarchal woman poised her palms downwards, indicating that the members of Kyubei-kai could seat themselves whenever they felt it was necessary. If they wished to remain upwards, than she allowed it. Small defiance’s still roared like wildfires within her breast. Folding her slender legs beneath her, tucked between the folds of exotic garments, Raja claimed reservation furthest from the Chairman and the Demon Queller. Her clawed fingertips drummed against her kneecaps.
Buckets of whiskey could not make this gathering pleasant. Backseated memories drug it's fingers across the back of Raja's neck, reminding her that it was not the Wild Dog's she wanted to neuter. Those words swirled, stuck in her throat, making nothing but lace fall from her mouth to her stomach and bubble into a resemblance of a countryside desert. These were niceties that were necessary until they swaggered out of the long hallways; faltering, always faltering like curtains giving away. Feigning cheap, hearty nods of approval, they'd believe every word the Matriarch spoke. They'd settle uncomfortably in the back of their minds, pulping into something acceptable, commendable, agreeable. She did not agree. She did not want to be breathing the same rotting, stinking air as the Terajima. The Wild Dog's were a tempered threat sidling at the brinks' of Kyubei territory: baring teeth, claws, and fists. Somehow, somewhere, they shared common goals. Everyone who wasn't them was an enemy.
Her fluttering eyes were only lightly closed, half-lidded. The indescribable chirp of the gathering coming to it's end broke the silence of the chamber. Her eyes immediately shattered open like broken panes, narrowing to harrowed, yellow-bellied slits. She got this habit of shoving her head into a firefight without giving a damn for the consequences and this, this was no different. Raja's sweeping skirts ruffled into a tight-circled flourish, fluffing feathers, jingling trinkets, as she abruptly stood, watching the Demon Queller and Isamu trail from the room like ghostly presences. There is nothing romantic about any of this. Sweeping organs squelching from your belly and shifting in ways they shouldn't, and what she long ago suspected – that there was nothing romantic or heroic about this lifestyle, that it would end in sudden, catastrophic violence – was always confirmed. However, Raja promised his swollen organs would spill first, across those unblemished, polished shoes of his, and she would weep like a broken record, repeating and stuttering.
Raja, Third Chairwoman of the Kyubei Clan, Iron Mistress and all around testy, moody, sonnuvabitch fled from the clans' meeting with thoughts of decay. She couldn't breathe. The solemn slaps of her sandals accompanied the business clops of expensive footwear, adjoined in marching unison. Her accountants, councilman and thugs trailed behind like colourful ribbons; an assortment of banner's with downcast eyes, tightened fists and flashing teeth. A spangled flash of scales glittered in the corners' of her slanted peripherals, but she only greeted this hasty assessment with an unmannerly snort. Imagine wanting something so very, very desperately that you would smash away all the walls locking out danger and begin the slow, trembling waltz into condemnation. Nothing else was important.
Festival Street Corner
Red lanterns spiralled across wooden railings, with fanciful dragons, fishes, critters in gold ink climbing up the paper sides. Several food peddlers had erected stalls along the streets, carefully placed out of the parade's path, but still crowded by the swelling masses. Sticky rice dumplings in bamboo leaves – chicken and duck gleaming shiny brown, cooked so tender the skin was almost falling off – snow-white crab crackers that crackled in your mouth - steamed vegetables in spicy red bead sauce – golden corn-and-crab soup with white egg streamers – fish carefully served whole with its head towards the guest of honour – swollen chunks of candied ginger – grilled chicken dripping fat from wooden skewers – egg rolls and bean curd and lobster and crab and shark's fin. With each combined delicacy, it's wafting scent masked sweating bodies and sweet cigars. The Iron Mistress was swathed in heavy garments of beige-brown leather and shimmering with bright violent power, unmeasurable. She carried a world in her small bronzed hands and too many years in clouded yellow eyes. Spiralling tattoos covered the exposed flesh of her forearms, legs and midsection. A Matriarch had no shame; no proprieties against the undignified. No stuffy regulations to follow.
The loud baritone of drum beats thrummed like a death toll being counted off, rebounding off her ribcage and settling into the pits of her stomach. It was comfortable. By Japanese standards, the Iron Mistress looked like an odd duckling gumshoeing the sidelines. That isn't to say there's any genuine ethnic segregation amongst the festival goers, but there's clearly a minority and majority; mingling amongst themselves like real fucking comrades. The swollen crowd was a mass of tourists, locals and Natives alike. The streets were lit by large multicoloured paper lamps that were both hung and carried, swung and tucked between armpits. Pudgy-fingered children cooed and cawed from windowsills; all trying to reach the flickering light casting incandescent beams across their faces, whilst having their hands slapped away by impatient parents. She swayed lightly with the heavy steady beat, hammering like the hearts of every Japanese citizen: calling out to their blood like a war cry from far away. Those rhythms intertwined with the sounds of life emanating from it's people, and the boom of fireworks lighting up the sky were the lifeblood and spirit of Japan. Of the Yakuza. Of each clansmen.
With meticulously practised movements: Raja flapped a small leather pouch open, fished out an ornately designed Kiseru pipe from between her breasts and began packing it with yamabuki tobacco; tight as a whore's—you get the point. She let the smoke percolate in her lungs before exhaling in a controlled push of breath, revelling in the tobacco’s unusual flavour. This wasn't like smoking a cigarette, because it wasn't a daily occurrence. You had to soak up the experience itself. Her whispered words carried a lazy cloud that curled interestingly from her nose and lips, receding to skinny twists before disappearing among all the colourful streamers. She'd given direct, absolute, unambiguous orders to find Sawada Nobuyuki and rip his damned head from his shoulders; slowly. Remove a few fingers, crudely prune them from his feminine knuckles. Only upon witnessing pure, unadulterated horror flickering in the man's docile pupils would they offer repentance in the means of death: carving the Kyubei-kai symbol into his pasty forehead. The embers flickering from the pipes packing cup waned to a dull glow, capturing the Matriarch’s attention. Relighting the worn walnut pipe, Raja vaguely wondered whether or not Hojo had exhausted his informants—well, it was a stupid thought. Informants was a loosely misdirected, obtuse word for: people-I-beat-the-shit-out-of.
She chewed the pipe with renewed fascination. Parades' hardly existed in the harsh realities of Saudi Arabia; where entertainment, liveliness and joviality were seen as weaknesses. If there was any events planned, it was strictly forbidden to women. A harsh, caustic laugh bubbled from her lips, spewing fat plumes of smoke from her nostrils. It was strange how she dealt with each individual clansmen. Peculiar members—like Hojo Kaito—were often swayed by particular poisons, money, and mutual respect. She'd promised him two specific bottles coming from her private cells; two bottles which now sat cattycorner on the scuffed oak table of her chambers – rum, thick and sweetened with age, and whiskey, smooth and heady – opposing predilections, though neither find themselves lacking in attention. They'd been shipped from across the seas, from her homeland. Those tastes far outmatched the variety of rice liquors in Japan. If that wasn't enough, her stash of exotic hashish was a far better compensation for excellence. She needn't really worry about his loyalty, because Hojo's penchant for violence bellied her own. And with the others, the Iron Mistress worked less and less to impress. Her presence was terrifying.
Yellow-bellied eyes raked the surging crowd for familiar faces, until they halted abruptly on a tall, tattooed, beatnik snatching his fingers away from a child's quivering chin. Just the man she'd been looking for. Once you've attained a status as high as Oyabun, there wasn't much you didn't know. There wasn't many people you didn't know, either. Whether it be through harried rumours, shoddy encounters, or friendly faces you'd bought several shots of whatever-the-hell-that-was: Solo the Mad. Japan's information mill, churning useful scoops like wheat kernels, but offering it to anyone who was willing to pay his price. It was aggravating. Anyone who isn't us, is the enemy. She scoffed heartily at her cryptic thoughts and swaggered forward, swaying through the crowd much like a tigress who'd pinpointed her focus on a particularly tasty piece of meat. If anyone had seen her muscled shoulder bones rolling beneath her feathered half-shirt, it certainly wouldn't have surprised anyone. The Matriarch's clawed fingertips prodded Solo between his shoulder blades, pinching the fabric between her fingertips before she innocently settled her hand against her hip.
“Preying on children, now, Solo?” Her foreign voice undulated, falling softly into a crescendo of motherly tutting. She ponderously examined her free hand's curled fingers, turning them this way and that within the lamplight’s occasional beams. The Iron Mistress was not prone to asking others' for help, even if it proved logical. Though, trust was always an issue, Raja's strong belief that her clansmen could overcome all obstacles was genuine.
“Fun would be,” She began, rolling the words in her mouth as if they tasted strange. As prideful as a man asking for directions, the words chortled uncomfortably in her throat. She tapped her index finger against her chin, then added, begrudgingly, “helping me find Sawada Nobuyuki. We know he's around here somewhere. Hiding in the dark like a child.” Like all things, everyone had their own price. It was the way of men.