"Hello Kitty! & Cocktails," An Alternate-History Reunion of Those Who Were We 'til 1998
Hello Kitty! One of us in this tent is a murderer.
The tent covers an entire izakaya, or pub, called Salas near Japan Railway’s Tsudanuma Station in Funabashi City in Chiba Prefecture in Japan. It’s the fall of 2010, and it’s just started raining on a chilly Tuesday night so seventeen of us, who had been spread out also using the tables outside, had ended up all huddled near the floor heaters eating our raindrop-speckled edamame and yakitori and imbibing thirstily from glasses of momohai, water, warm sake, and cold draft beer now only around the bar and seated at a few of the nine tables inside the tent. It’s eight p.m., I’m perched drying at the bar near the tent’s entrance, and I’ve narrowed down the murderer to one of seven suspects, all having their reunion in Japan across the tent from me. I only need one more piece of evidence to catch my prey. Hello Kitty!
I’ve been keeping tabs on these people for over twelve years now. I know all about them, stuff their mamas don’t even know. I’ve almost been caught by each of them almost a dozen times, but I’m good at what I do. Now don’t start thinking that I’m the murderer or that I’m going to be the victim right at the end. This is not that kinda’ story.
We’re down to twelve in the tent as five I’ve kept an eye on for the last few months pay their tab at the register two stools down from me and then run out into the rain trying to make the 8:10 train to Inage, three so-called Assistant Language Teachers, or ALTs, English-speaking foreigners brought into Japan to guest-star in middle- and high-school English classrooms, and two of their supposed Japanese hangers-on. My own assistant will have to keep watch on those five tonight; I’m sticking here. Down to twelve. Twelve, my lucky number. One of the twelve–a cold, hard killer. Hello Kitty!
Taking care of the pub tonight is Ka-chan the hostess, Jun the bartender, Yo-kun the barback or runner, and Keiko the waitress. All four of them think they know the secret of Salas, long-rumored to be run by the Japanese mafia, the Yakuza; but only one of us knows the secret behind the secret. It’s not the Yakuza, who only think they run the place, two or three nights a week sending their tattooed and black-garbed- and sunglass-wearing goons near to frighten easily-rattled troublemakers. Not many of us left in the tent tonight are easily rattled. Yeah, the Yakuza may run the street outside and the Pachinko parlor nearby, but they definitely do not run this place. I can’t tell you who does right now though. If I think about it hard enough to tell you, they’ll hear me thinking about them. You heard me right. Shhhhh... Hello Kitty!
Besides the four workers, that leaves eight, myself and the seven suspects, including the one at the top of my list. They’re all gathered around a coupla’ tables pushed together in the back right corner, the first time all of them have been back in Japan at the same time in years. Hello Kitty! I’ve come up with nicknames for them so that I can think about them without any danger of being overheard telepathically.
Tonight, I’ve taken to calling them the 7 & 7 Gang–alphabetically, there’s–
Alabama Slammer (guess where he’s from; always stressing himself out working really hard to be happy),
Chocolate Soldier (I almost called her Bloody Mary, but she calms down when she gets her chocolate),
Fuzzy Navel (cause this dude is hairy; uses any excuse to show off his massive hairy pecs and fuzzy iron-hard abs; always cracking jokes, but he’s only ever made me laugh quietly to myself three times; three times in twelve years–you do the math),
Irish Coffee (her impenetrable mind protected, fulla’ math and complex designs),
Rob Roy (she’s the quick one, also has discernment on mega-genius levels, sees the truth of things; the only one to ever actually notice me for more than a moment and even speak to me since this all started; she almost caught me on a quiet late-winter day in Dunblane in 2004), Hello Kitty!
Screwdriver (I am still considering calling her Flirtini for the night, but her curly dark hair back in the 90s always reminded me of corkscrews, and she’s the driven one in this hyper-driven bunch),
and, finally, Sex on the Beach (well, it's only my fantasy, but... shhhhh... my Queen Elizabeth... oh, your majesty, shhhhh...)
Shhhhhit, gotta’ be more careful, can’t think hero names. Hello Kitty! Hello Kitty! Hello Kitty!
They’re all in their thirties or forties and used to be just mild-mannered ALTs themselves in and around this area back in the late nineties. All seven of them, along with ten others, including myself and the best friend and only love I ever had in the whole world, now murdered by one of these 7 & 7 Gangsters, all of us were here that night in 1998. The 7 & 7 were here; Hell, a couple of them were even responsible for The Decanting. Oh, if only Japanese politeness and English-speaking-foreigner rudeness were just a myth. One of these seven is an asshole killer...
Dammit, lalalalalalalalala, grandma’s nipples, juiceberry hippos, lalalalalalalalalalala, hell, kit, kitt, hell, kitty... Hello Kitty!
Whew. Almost got caught in a mind-glance. “Hello Kitty!” works every time to protect my mind though. They, well, everyone hates Hello Kitty! But, to them, it’s like kryptonite to Superman or, better yet, garlic to a vampire. Damn telepathic intrusions. Gotta’ be more careful... Can’t think hero names; can’t think about how everyone got their powers that night... shhhhh... Hello Kitty! Hello Kitty! Keep this in mind though–Thinking “Hello Kitty!” will drive even the best telepath among them right out of your mind. That’s a freebie for ya’.
As I glance back up, Chocolate Soldier and Screwdriver call up the latest pictures of their young sons on their cell phones and pass them around. Everyone oohs and ahs. The kids are really fantastic kids, normal too. I was within a mile for each of their births, just in case any of The Decanting powers were inherited by the 7 & 7's progeny. Hello Kitty! All’s OK, so far, no powers handed down to the next generation. Hello Kitty!
Alabama Slammer hugs Screwdriver closer to him with his thunderously powerful right arm while holding her cell in his left, “You haven’t posted this one on Facebook yet, have you.” He’s a real Facebook freak. He goes on, “So precious. He’s really starting to look like your cute li’l news-reporter hubbie, don’t you think?” He hands the phone back to her. “So proud of you having a family and a life away from all this.”
The 7 & 7 Gang smile. They’re so beautiful when they’re like this, in their street clothes, but still almost glowing. Not many know their secrets. I’ve got to be careful here. Tonight I bring a secret killer to justice. Hello Kitty!
As the empty momohai glasses add up on their tables, Sex on the Beach and Fuzzy Navel have been trying to one-up each other with Shakespearean put-downs. They were both actual English teachers before coming to Japan and before, you know, the thing happened but have since gone on to other pursuits. Best Bard-like zinger I’ve heard tonight is Sex’s, “Thou creeping ill-nurtured foul deformity.” The insult certainly fits the murderer sitting at the table twelve feet from me. Just twelve feet away; twelve, my lucky number. Hello Kitty!
Rob Roy pulls her hair back and plays at pulling it into a ponytail and turns to Irish Coffee, two seats away, and she whispers secretly, “Oh, I can’t decide which is more impressive. You’ve built so many nice buildings recently since we last were all together. For spot-on inspired and inspiring inspiration, it’s got to be the Vestibule of Victory in Canberra, but I like the whimsy you put into the facade of the Dormitory of Due-Process in Cape Town, too. Oh, which one?”
“Hon, you don’t have to decide,” Coffee replies proudly. After pausing, her face almost explodes with a mile-wide grin, “The thing I’m most proud of producing lately though is helping Liath Macha finally give birth to a filly!” She’s been busting to tell the news, and I hadn’t even noticed.
No one at their table has heard yet that the renowned Warhorse Liath Macha had successfully brought forth a foal. I hadn’t either. Hello Kitty! This is news indeed. Irish Coffee’s animals are always world class. I hope Liath Macha is not anywhere near the Tokyo metropolitan area at the moment. If she is, I'm going to be in a world of shit. Hello Kitty!
Chocolate Soldier stabs into the conversation with, “Oh, do you think you could build a fortified nursery for our kids and pasture the Warhorses outside? With two grown Warhorses of Eire grazing the grounds around one of your buildings, luv, we’d never haveta’ concern ourselves with our children’s safety. What d’ya reckon, mates? A Fortress of Familitude?” She frowns then seriously offers another, “A Sanctuary of Safeguardiness or some such thing?” Well, she’s obviously not the one coming up with the world-capital crimefighting-headquarters’ names, is she?
She suddenly glances around at the pub’s workers and even toward me. As the reddened eyes of the Soldier glance over me, I’m telepathically shielded, safely in the middle of a discussion in Japanese with Jun the bartender, also in his late thirties, about Hello Kitty! and about the recent J-pop comeback, after their marriages and giving birth to their kids, of the two women of the band Kiroro. I’d set that conversation up over the last few minutes since all the kid picture-sharing was going on just in case a telepathic glance came my way so that the concepts of birth and kids would be all over my mind’s surface but not necessarily be about the 7 & 7 Gang’s loved ones. Just in case. Good call. The Soldier turns back to her teammates and friends and continues talking quietly with them, each of them wanting to name Coffee's Warhorse's new filly, unaware that even though I’m still partially invested in carrying on this inane J-pop conversation with the friendly but kinda’ bumbling bartender that I’m still fully invested in capturing a killer tonight. Hello Kitty!
Suddenly, in the sound of a voice, the turn of a certain phrase, the way a gesture flows, it’s so obvious which one is the killer now. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to figure it all out. Hello Kitty! I relax over another glass of water and await an opening, a weakness to exploit.
After a few more rounds and some other customers, mostly unknown to me, new ALTs from nearby Narashino City, I believe, come in for a quick draft beer and a couple of midoris and then scurry right back out, the rain still steadily falling outside, the radio music in the tent stops, and an announcer’s voice reminds the station’s listeners that tomorrow, all across Japan, is Suupaa Hiiroo no Matsuri, The Festival of Super-Heroes, where all fourteen members of the Earth’s super-hero group, The Equality Coalition, will gather at Shibuya Crossing, which will be closed to motor traffic, near the Hachikou statue, to celebrate the seven living Japanese members of the super-hero group’s recent beat-down in Osaka of the Prejudice Pack and their Behemoths of Hatred. He goes on to say that everyone will also want to continue commemorating the world-saving bravery of deceased founding Equality Coalition member, Japan’s own Denkiman, or Mister Electricity, who short-circuited and died after being tossed into Tokyo Bay by the non-conductive, ultra-steel-armor-wearing evil genius, Yakuza Kosuke Kobayashi, almost eleven years ago, on the night, the horrible night known to all worldwide as “The Arrival of Y2K.” Yakuza Kosuke Kobayashi, Y2K, get it, another asshole like the murderer I’m keeping an eye on right now. Hello Kitty!
Y2K, he would’ve destroyed the world that night, if not for the bravery and sacrifice of Denkiman. Denkiman was a good man, I’ll give you that. Smoked like a never-ending belching smokestack though, lighting the next cig with the tip of one of his electric fingers while the remnants of the old cig still smoldered, freshly stubbed in the ashtray. If there was ever one man in the world though totally not suited for tights, mask, and a cape; I gotta’ go with Denkiman on this one, the lack of height, the protuberance of paunch and the thin moustache just not meshing with the toned-body hugging, domino-mask wearing, and billowing-cape flouting costumes preferred by the super-hero set. Oh, if only he’d gone in for the self-regenerating body armor. All that electric potential...
The radio announcer asks for a moment of silence for the fallen hero, Denkiman. Screwdriver, Rob Roy, Irish Coffee, and Alabama Slammer stifle sobs. I do so myself. Chocolate Soldier vowed years ago never to shed another tear, after the Tasmanian Incident of '05, the whole southern part of her country, Australia, ripped from the Earth--for which she feels solely responsible--and she doesn’t cry here; however, her dry reddened eyes impossibly grow even more saddened for a moment. Hello Kitty! Fuzzy Navel and Sex on the Beach haven’t even been listening–I don’t even think they ever learned Japanese–cracking wise again about Shakespeare–it’s always Shakespeare with those two–until the others shush them to mournful silence.
Looking at them now, sad for their teammate, you’d never believe me if I told you one was a murderer even more vile than Y2K. Hello Kitty!
The announcer continues by reminding all that everyone will be so happy to welcome back every single one of the seven foreign-born super-heroes of the Equality Coalition at the Festival:
Rolling Tide (“the Bombshell of Birmingham,” in his flaming crimson tights, there’s gotta’ be a name for the winners in the world),
Daisy Chain (“the Go-Go-Getter of the Gold Coast,” everyone’s sad, sentimental favorite since '05–everyone loves her, no one not),
Miracle Worker (“the Fireball of Phoenix” with all his magic, starring his exposed maximum powerful massive chest and flat iron-hard stomach),
Weiran of the Green (“the Dublin Dynamo,” brilliant in her kabuki makeup, honoring the country where she gained her powers),
Cut Lass (“the Loveliness of the Loch District” with blades flashing in her ultra-feminine Kilt of Kindness),
Solidarity (“the Juggernaut of Joburg” and her Mega-Vuvuzela, extra power gifted to her by her country’s Quintessence of Madiba),
and, oh, my Queen Elizabeth (“the Hag,” meant in an ironic way, “of Harrods,” hereditary holder of the right to kick criminal ass in Cambridge).
Well, as much as I know the whole world needs six of these heroes and their seven Japanese teammates and as much as I love Japan–I owe it so much for all my own powers–Hello Kitty!–all twelve of my secret powers... Hello Kitty! Hello Kitty!–as much as I love Japan, this country will not celebrate tomorrow. The people will only stand stunned when I reveal the treachery of a founding member of the Equali..., umm, Hello Kitty! the 7 & 7 Gang, the one that only I know as an insane murderer. Tonight, the murderer lurking in the ranks of the 7 & 7 Gang--smiling in this warm tent filled with the aroma of chicken and alcohol--actually the very hero celebrated worldwide a few years ago for finally finding the missing weapons of mass-destruction, will at last face twelve-fingered justice. Yeah, I never did know squat about weapons of mass-destruction. Hello Kitty! But, I do know I’ve got these two weapons of ass-destruction, my two fists–twelve fingers total–Bam! and Kapow! The murderer’s gonna’ get Bam! and Kapow! right in the kisser, and then I’m gonna’ give that mumblin’ faker a serious ass-whuppin’, total ass-destruction– Tonight--Your ass is Ground Zero, killer! Hello Kitty...!
To Be Continued in Secret Identities–Issue #2 in “I Point My Thumb at You; Five Fingers Point Back at Me” starring at least 13 members of the Equality Coalition, where Solidarity again blows her Mega-Vuvuzela and says, witheringly, "What. Were. You. Thinking. Dumbass?" and with a backup short-short story about the Secret Wimbledon Origin of Queen Elizabeth called “Love-Thirty” with a super-secret, very gay (pleasantly surprising) guest star.
(All characters, situations, personalities, traits, portrayals, events, etc. all fictionalized. No actual basis in any sort of reality intended. It's all just in jolly rocking-the-comics fun. Thanks.)
All above Copyright 2010 Michael S. Adams
Labels: Birmingham, phoenix, Queen Elizabeth, Solidarity, vuvuzela, Y2K
