Post by Deleted on Sept 8, 2019 12:13:20 GMT -5
Open to a blank apartment space—one with almost no windows and extra rooms—where Masuda Jubei, the self-proclaimed “Master” holds a private vigil. His suit pants and shoes say business exec albeit their dingy appearance. He’s shirtless from the belt up showing every muscle, scar and crevice of his forty-seven year old frame. Harsh lighting from excess fluorescent fixtures makes him appear more disheveled than people expect of him. Masuda sits on an all-white folding chair. The shitty plastic sort found at weddings and graduation parties. Although a stranger object between his Italian shoes catches observers’ attention first: a white twenty-plus gallon unmarked bucket.
Jubei: Welcome to Japan. We’re an industrious people, and as my accent implores, English was an acquired taste. Assimilated into a pack like bags of sweetener. Divided by color and function. Ubiquitous to the point of being bland. We copied your ways until we became you. Only then did our old soul beckon us back to where we belonged. Sure, we stole baseball and fútbol the same way we stole calligraphy from the Chinese… but we stopped short of replacing ourselves.
Jubei motions for the camera to get in closer. So close that his oppressive lighting illuminates every pore dimpling his cheek. Dark zombified circles carve out his baby-fat of a Buddha face.
Jubei: I spent years trying to reach the pinnacle of wrestling. Greats whose blood soaked canvases from Tokyo to Sapporo. Names like Akira Taue, Misawa, Jumbo Tsuruta, and the king of Japanese wrestling, Giant Baba. I will never be them. As I age past when those men had their swan songs… the name Masuda Jubei drifts like wind around but never through people. And I’ve accepted that fate.
A side pan gives his profile without the aid of clever angles. We see the true Jubei even mirrors hide.
Jubei: We spend years striving to become icons. Where did my journey begin? I wish the shadows made more sense, but they’re just fog. Something I want to see as more than vapor passing me in the streets. Beyond idle stares of children that know me only as a boogey man. Namahage scraping at their windows, demanding all crybabies leave their hearth and do chores. Specters, maybe, but a man is only as good as his name. Masuda Jubei is not a good name.
Cameras close up on his rounded knuckles and the gnarled veins outlining his finger bones. Worn skin that bulged from exercise and physical competition: hands of an old athlete.
Jubei: Many in this business have the same hands. They look like me, admittedly, with better teeth. I’m missing four. When I had a choice to replace them with implants, I felt the devil image needed less sparkle and more darkness. After eyes, we look at teeth: If they’re crooked. If they’re missing any. Then we learn their name. Mine is Masuda Jubei: That old man from Japan with creepy eyes, a graveled yet nasally voice, and of course, the one with bad teeth.
Cameras pan towards the back of his white chair. As those argent walls fade out of focus, the shot directs towards his elaborate back tattoo: Fūdo-myō, the blue destroyer god with a fire sword. The Master flexes to give the avatar life, and as not to distract from his normal breathing.
Jubei: Yakuza like the image for its threatening eyes. Some enjoy the teeth, which go up and down like a crocodile’s mouth. Together, along with his burning weapon, Fūdo-myō strikes fear into those obsessed with symbols. Those who believe in oni or djinn. People that run from dark rooms because they saw “shadow people.” I chose the avatar because I wanted to be a destroyer. Not because it upped my game in the street ranks of toughness. It identifies with pain, suffering and all those bumps in the night. I wanted to become an agent of death… and I did. Masuda Jubei was a terror of the night, but then the sun rose.
The shot returns to a wide angle so that three of the blank walls are in view.
Jubei: Jayson Price is a name many fear across the marquee. I’ve not had a chance to meet Odin Balfore, but like Mongols on the horizon, I’ve felt his rumblings. The same I felt when your name shared that “VS” with mine. Different worlds never destined to meet. Since they have, Mr. Price, understand that mine is not like yours. It’s one shade of gold. Yours has eighteen. Eighteen title wins: More than anyone achieved during WCF’s tenure. While you made a name in that ring—what will have been a decade come Saturday—mine became a fixture with business. Letters stamped into a standard business card: Masuda Jubei, President & CEO. Boring… until the lights drop.
On cue, all the lights shut off. Jubei snaps his fingers. When he does, black lights turn the white walls into art worthy of Jackson Pollack. Discerning eyes can tell those are the telltale signs of blood splatter not acrylics. His bare chest, arms and face also look to be caked with a UV light paint. He smiles.
Jubei: Appearances are everything. How we build ourselves in public. How we infect those around us with contagious ideas. What are your methods besides violence, Mr. Price? I find the mind takes punches in a different albeit beautiful way. You can preemptively cut someone down before breaking your hand on their jaw. Usher demons into their dreams. Terror is a useful weapon. I’ve used it from the beginning… and now it has secured a world title around my waist. The more matches I participate in, however, the more I realize other worlds exist on our strange rock. Where the world of one company, and its champion, have no effect on those even between state lines in America. But you and I can change that at XIII, Mr. Price. We can unite both our worlds in darkness.
Cameras close up on his hands again. They too have that hidden paint.
Jubei: There’s a lot of blood on our hands. XIII promises to spill even more. It’s funny to me how many times people ask how wrestlers manage pain. How do they get past the phases of violence required to compete in weekly matches. I don’t have an answer for that one. I simply show my hands, which scares them off. Others suffice at a ruined smile. Yet a third batch, those sanguine losers, they dream of being like us. That crevasse I drowned into years ago. When I failed to become what I am now… wondering what else is Masuda Jubei but another beast covered in blood?
A new shot focuses on Masuda from a diagonal angle. He drums on the bucket.
Jubei: Fans want to know what’s inside. They want know how much blood you and I will spill this Saturday, Jayson. But even we don’t know what’s going to happen. We know where the show is taking place. That we will be in the scenic view of Mt. Fuji and Tokyo’s spotlight. Yet so few will actually know what’s going to happen in that cramped music hall. That’s the beauty of XIII… darkness tucked away inconspicuously behind a harmless shell of art. Where monsters live.
Lighting returns to normal yet the shot stays focused.
Jubei: I’ve had a chance to study your game. One of the flaws to having so many matches over so many years, Jayson. I have footage for days. Ways to break down your tendencies. How you react under pressure. Under the pain of missed opportunities. How you react to wins and defeat… everything that builds the character of a fighter. Success demands respect, and it also demands countless appearances. My only issue is that my time in the ring should have peaked when you began wrestling. Now, facing someone of your unprecedented skill and experience, I lack the tools to physically dominate you. I also lack everything but the will to come out on top. A victory I must steal from your heart instead.
Lights darken again, but instead of flipping on black lights, a projector plays a looping video of a golden octopus, like the kraken illustrations of the 19th Century, engulfing everything it touches. Two initialisms remain in its flexing grip: APW and AW. Masuda’s expression flattens.
Jubei: My theme song is no fluke. I am the King of Darkness, and my shroud over Alpha Pro-Wrestling knows no boundaries. Everyone bows to the name Masuda Jubei… until I put that same name into XIII’s talent search. My brutal control of APW should be enough, yet delectably, it’s not even close to enough to impress the fans going to XIII on Saturday.
His smirk comes through in a way disconnected from the tone of his set.
Jubei: I’m used to boos. No one likes me—but they respect me. How you might ask? Crush everything they hold dear, be it golden boy champions to cuddly puppies. I’ve crushed everything people love to where even brats know to bow to their king. Now I have the chance to take something else from the pantheon of WCF heroes. Someone the people respect without disgust. A name behind eighteen wins… the unparalleled Jayson Price. A delicious soul!
The Master tears into that white drum while the lights return to normal. He pulls a hand-sized octopus out from a reservoir of saltwater and displays the living thing in his palm.
Jubei: Your outreach may have many arms. But XIII will be a different story for these two predators. I will have the monster by the head, and then…
He stops mid-sentence to devour the entire octopus, still slithering until its last hapless tentacle slurps into his mouth. That arduous process takes almost two minutes of violent chewing in a dead silent room. Masuda, upon completion, opens his mouth to prove he did it.
Jubei: America is only now hearing the terrible words “Masuda Jubei,” Jayson, but you are entering the belly of the beast. Streets where that name utters from terrified people of every age and generation. Wrestlers that don’t remember the match waged against him, only the agony of what he did to them. I’ve already continued my habit of ending careers on Alpha’s shows. If I don’t break their flesh and bones, Jayson, I rip out their heart and devour their souls. Japan fears me. Those I employ fear me. Now you will be the first to carry my terrible name into another arena as we dismantle each other until there’s nothing left. Don’t sleep on my name. Don’t ever sleep… ore wa masūta desu.
Cut feed.
We see Masuda Jubei wearing a white designer suit as he enters a company car. He removes his cellphone—an outdated Android phone, but still in a excellent condition—from a suit pocket.
Jubei: If the acquisition is a failure, I’ll have your head for breakfast … Do you think I’m kidding? I’m going to be in a death match this weekend, maybe two if I win the first one. What are you doing after twiddling your thumbs under a desk—chartered accounting? … Oh, stop being so uptight. It’s not you’re sneaking out at night and prize fighting under a bridge. You’re cuddling that family I lavish with luxury … No you spend my money to make them feel good … Don’t apologize! I’m not in the business of making people happy, Takeshi. We are the Masuda Corporation. If we can’t own our competitors, then we acquire their soul and crush them under our Italian shoes… What do you mean accounting isn’t ruthless? Don’t bullshit me … Good. Now the last thing I’m going to hear from you is “yes sir.” Not an apology … Good. Get what I want or you’re fired … Oh, and tell your family to enjoy the ballgame. I hear the Tigers could be going to the championship … Yes yes, goodbye, Takeshi.
The intercom buzzes Masuda from the divider.
Driver: If you don’t mind me asking, Masuda-sama, is there a chance my son and I can get tickets to the show? They’re already sold out.
Jubei: My Jubeilation, or XIII?
Driver: Well, I promised him a wrestling show…
Jubei: I don’t think XIII is made for a kid his age. I have to bludgeon a legend of this business. Then, if I can manage to do that impossible task, my body has to survive long enough to beat one of two younger men in the same ring under the loosest rules you can imagine. I might run out of blood before I pin a second man. Yet you, and a five year old, want to come and watch the carnage I bring with me to every ring. Have you ever seen one of my matches?
Driver: I remember your ‘90s stuff, Masuda-sama. You were a dangerous grappler. No one wanted to fight you because they said you were a “bad worker.” You weren’t that bad, were you?
Jubei: Do you remember my hair?
Driver: Oh yes, It was so clean cut!
Jubei: I don’t, not after washing out blood after every show. Went bald and never went back. I don’t even know if it’d still look good. My father had a bald spot.
Driver: Did you know those genes actually come from your mother, Masuda-sama?
Jubei: Yes. I just imagine what he’d look like covered in blood. He had a mustache too.
Driver: Was it like mine?
Jubei: Too much like yours. Listen… take two of my five allotments. The other three are for execs from Date Tech. I’m going to put them as close to ring as possible. That way they see what I can do with my bare hands, and to what lengths I will go to acquire their surging assets.
Driver: You’re the best! But may I ask you something else, Masuda-sama?
Jubei: Fine.
Driver: I’ve been your driver for four years now. But ever since you promised to bring an APW show to Japan, my son has been following your career. He really likes you.
Jubei: Why is that?
Driver: Well, he knows that his father works for him. That I’m privileged to be your servant—and at the call whenever you need me.
Jubei: What will he think we finds out this the last you’re driving me home?
There’s a long silence.
Jubei: Tickets will be waiting for you and Jidou-chan. As for fans… I don’t need them. People who like me for what I do copy me, or they have no concept of how I destroy everything I touch. Jidou might like me because we’re as close as this glass allows you. Tell him that in life that he should never meet his heroes. We’re terrible humans plotting against everyone we meet. Lesson one for a lifetime to come. You were a great driver. Losing your talents is quite a shame. But I’m not a man of the people. Nor do I need their approval. Come Saturday, everyone watching XIII will see how far I’m willing to go to win.
Driver: I understand… Can will still pick those up at the ticket booth?
Masuda laughs, leaning straight into the intercom.
Jubei: I am willing to crush everything Jayson Price, Johnny Stylez or that Beau Blaze hold dear. In a world of unknowns, the only way to reach the top is by killing the rest. You understand me, and have never once asked why I am this way. That’s why you’re keeping the job, idiot. I need more drones like you. People I can practice my punches on until the curtains go up. So bring the boy along. He sounds like my kind of demon. Maybe a sly little kappa to turn against your will.
The driver laughs sheepishly with Masuda.
Jubei: Now hurry, I have more appointments than hours on the day. Lunch, Dinner, post-dinner and three desserts. Three of them! It sounds like heaven, but if you ate my tables, you know they’re actually hell. Of course, all I’ll see are the faces I’m going to rearrange. Stupid, talking mouths unware of the person sitting across them and a pineapple parfait. Because names go on business cards. We look right past the letters every time. Just as those unsuspecting gaijin will do this week. Monsters, now they delve deep into the hearts of men until their time to strike. What I’m doing now as I prepare to end two more careers—
Driver: Osama banzai!
Jubei: Yes… long live the king.
Jubei: Welcome to Japan. We’re an industrious people, and as my accent implores, English was an acquired taste. Assimilated into a pack like bags of sweetener. Divided by color and function. Ubiquitous to the point of being bland. We copied your ways until we became you. Only then did our old soul beckon us back to where we belonged. Sure, we stole baseball and fútbol the same way we stole calligraphy from the Chinese… but we stopped short of replacing ourselves.
Jubei motions for the camera to get in closer. So close that his oppressive lighting illuminates every pore dimpling his cheek. Dark zombified circles carve out his baby-fat of a Buddha face.
Jubei: I spent years trying to reach the pinnacle of wrestling. Greats whose blood soaked canvases from Tokyo to Sapporo. Names like Akira Taue, Misawa, Jumbo Tsuruta, and the king of Japanese wrestling, Giant Baba. I will never be them. As I age past when those men had their swan songs… the name Masuda Jubei drifts like wind around but never through people. And I’ve accepted that fate.
A side pan gives his profile without the aid of clever angles. We see the true Jubei even mirrors hide.
Jubei: We spend years striving to become icons. Where did my journey begin? I wish the shadows made more sense, but they’re just fog. Something I want to see as more than vapor passing me in the streets. Beyond idle stares of children that know me only as a boogey man. Namahage scraping at their windows, demanding all crybabies leave their hearth and do chores. Specters, maybe, but a man is only as good as his name. Masuda Jubei is not a good name.
Cameras close up on his rounded knuckles and the gnarled veins outlining his finger bones. Worn skin that bulged from exercise and physical competition: hands of an old athlete.
Jubei: Many in this business have the same hands. They look like me, admittedly, with better teeth. I’m missing four. When I had a choice to replace them with implants, I felt the devil image needed less sparkle and more darkness. After eyes, we look at teeth: If they’re crooked. If they’re missing any. Then we learn their name. Mine is Masuda Jubei: That old man from Japan with creepy eyes, a graveled yet nasally voice, and of course, the one with bad teeth.
Cameras pan towards the back of his white chair. As those argent walls fade out of focus, the shot directs towards his elaborate back tattoo: Fūdo-myō, the blue destroyer god with a fire sword. The Master flexes to give the avatar life, and as not to distract from his normal breathing.
Jubei: Yakuza like the image for its threatening eyes. Some enjoy the teeth, which go up and down like a crocodile’s mouth. Together, along with his burning weapon, Fūdo-myō strikes fear into those obsessed with symbols. Those who believe in oni or djinn. People that run from dark rooms because they saw “shadow people.” I chose the avatar because I wanted to be a destroyer. Not because it upped my game in the street ranks of toughness. It identifies with pain, suffering and all those bumps in the night. I wanted to become an agent of death… and I did. Masuda Jubei was a terror of the night, but then the sun rose.
The shot returns to a wide angle so that three of the blank walls are in view.
Jubei: Jayson Price is a name many fear across the marquee. I’ve not had a chance to meet Odin Balfore, but like Mongols on the horizon, I’ve felt his rumblings. The same I felt when your name shared that “VS” with mine. Different worlds never destined to meet. Since they have, Mr. Price, understand that mine is not like yours. It’s one shade of gold. Yours has eighteen. Eighteen title wins: More than anyone achieved during WCF’s tenure. While you made a name in that ring—what will have been a decade come Saturday—mine became a fixture with business. Letters stamped into a standard business card: Masuda Jubei, President & CEO. Boring… until the lights drop.
On cue, all the lights shut off. Jubei snaps his fingers. When he does, black lights turn the white walls into art worthy of Jackson Pollack. Discerning eyes can tell those are the telltale signs of blood splatter not acrylics. His bare chest, arms and face also look to be caked with a UV light paint. He smiles.
Jubei: Appearances are everything. How we build ourselves in public. How we infect those around us with contagious ideas. What are your methods besides violence, Mr. Price? I find the mind takes punches in a different albeit beautiful way. You can preemptively cut someone down before breaking your hand on their jaw. Usher demons into their dreams. Terror is a useful weapon. I’ve used it from the beginning… and now it has secured a world title around my waist. The more matches I participate in, however, the more I realize other worlds exist on our strange rock. Where the world of one company, and its champion, have no effect on those even between state lines in America. But you and I can change that at XIII, Mr. Price. We can unite both our worlds in darkness.
Cameras close up on his hands again. They too have that hidden paint.
Jubei: There’s a lot of blood on our hands. XIII promises to spill even more. It’s funny to me how many times people ask how wrestlers manage pain. How do they get past the phases of violence required to compete in weekly matches. I don’t have an answer for that one. I simply show my hands, which scares them off. Others suffice at a ruined smile. Yet a third batch, those sanguine losers, they dream of being like us. That crevasse I drowned into years ago. When I failed to become what I am now… wondering what else is Masuda Jubei but another beast covered in blood?
A new shot focuses on Masuda from a diagonal angle. He drums on the bucket.
Jubei: Fans want to know what’s inside. They want know how much blood you and I will spill this Saturday, Jayson. But even we don’t know what’s going to happen. We know where the show is taking place. That we will be in the scenic view of Mt. Fuji and Tokyo’s spotlight. Yet so few will actually know what’s going to happen in that cramped music hall. That’s the beauty of XIII… darkness tucked away inconspicuously behind a harmless shell of art. Where monsters live.
Lighting returns to normal yet the shot stays focused.
Jubei: I’ve had a chance to study your game. One of the flaws to having so many matches over so many years, Jayson. I have footage for days. Ways to break down your tendencies. How you react under pressure. Under the pain of missed opportunities. How you react to wins and defeat… everything that builds the character of a fighter. Success demands respect, and it also demands countless appearances. My only issue is that my time in the ring should have peaked when you began wrestling. Now, facing someone of your unprecedented skill and experience, I lack the tools to physically dominate you. I also lack everything but the will to come out on top. A victory I must steal from your heart instead.
Lights darken again, but instead of flipping on black lights, a projector plays a looping video of a golden octopus, like the kraken illustrations of the 19th Century, engulfing everything it touches. Two initialisms remain in its flexing grip: APW and AW. Masuda’s expression flattens.
Jubei: My theme song is no fluke. I am the King of Darkness, and my shroud over Alpha Pro-Wrestling knows no boundaries. Everyone bows to the name Masuda Jubei… until I put that same name into XIII’s talent search. My brutal control of APW should be enough, yet delectably, it’s not even close to enough to impress the fans going to XIII on Saturday.
His smirk comes through in a way disconnected from the tone of his set.
Jubei: I’m used to boos. No one likes me—but they respect me. How you might ask? Crush everything they hold dear, be it golden boy champions to cuddly puppies. I’ve crushed everything people love to where even brats know to bow to their king. Now I have the chance to take something else from the pantheon of WCF heroes. Someone the people respect without disgust. A name behind eighteen wins… the unparalleled Jayson Price. A delicious soul!
The Master tears into that white drum while the lights return to normal. He pulls a hand-sized octopus out from a reservoir of saltwater and displays the living thing in his palm.
Jubei: Your outreach may have many arms. But XIII will be a different story for these two predators. I will have the monster by the head, and then…
He stops mid-sentence to devour the entire octopus, still slithering until its last hapless tentacle slurps into his mouth. That arduous process takes almost two minutes of violent chewing in a dead silent room. Masuda, upon completion, opens his mouth to prove he did it.
Jubei: America is only now hearing the terrible words “Masuda Jubei,” Jayson, but you are entering the belly of the beast. Streets where that name utters from terrified people of every age and generation. Wrestlers that don’t remember the match waged against him, only the agony of what he did to them. I’ve already continued my habit of ending careers on Alpha’s shows. If I don’t break their flesh and bones, Jayson, I rip out their heart and devour their souls. Japan fears me. Those I employ fear me. Now you will be the first to carry my terrible name into another arena as we dismantle each other until there’s nothing left. Don’t sleep on my name. Don’t ever sleep… ore wa masūta desu.
Cut feed.
We see Masuda Jubei wearing a white designer suit as he enters a company car. He removes his cellphone—an outdated Android phone, but still in a excellent condition—from a suit pocket.
Jubei: If the acquisition is a failure, I’ll have your head for breakfast … Do you think I’m kidding? I’m going to be in a death match this weekend, maybe two if I win the first one. What are you doing after twiddling your thumbs under a desk—chartered accounting? … Oh, stop being so uptight. It’s not you’re sneaking out at night and prize fighting under a bridge. You’re cuddling that family I lavish with luxury … No you spend my money to make them feel good … Don’t apologize! I’m not in the business of making people happy, Takeshi. We are the Masuda Corporation. If we can’t own our competitors, then we acquire their soul and crush them under our Italian shoes… What do you mean accounting isn’t ruthless? Don’t bullshit me … Good. Now the last thing I’m going to hear from you is “yes sir.” Not an apology … Good. Get what I want or you’re fired … Oh, and tell your family to enjoy the ballgame. I hear the Tigers could be going to the championship … Yes yes, goodbye, Takeshi.
The intercom buzzes Masuda from the divider.
Driver: If you don’t mind me asking, Masuda-sama, is there a chance my son and I can get tickets to the show? They’re already sold out.
Jubei: My Jubeilation, or XIII?
Driver: Well, I promised him a wrestling show…
Jubei: I don’t think XIII is made for a kid his age. I have to bludgeon a legend of this business. Then, if I can manage to do that impossible task, my body has to survive long enough to beat one of two younger men in the same ring under the loosest rules you can imagine. I might run out of blood before I pin a second man. Yet you, and a five year old, want to come and watch the carnage I bring with me to every ring. Have you ever seen one of my matches?
Driver: I remember your ‘90s stuff, Masuda-sama. You were a dangerous grappler. No one wanted to fight you because they said you were a “bad worker.” You weren’t that bad, were you?
Jubei: Do you remember my hair?
Driver: Oh yes, It was so clean cut!
Jubei: I don’t, not after washing out blood after every show. Went bald and never went back. I don’t even know if it’d still look good. My father had a bald spot.
Driver: Did you know those genes actually come from your mother, Masuda-sama?
Jubei: Yes. I just imagine what he’d look like covered in blood. He had a mustache too.
Driver: Was it like mine?
Jubei: Too much like yours. Listen… take two of my five allotments. The other three are for execs from Date Tech. I’m going to put them as close to ring as possible. That way they see what I can do with my bare hands, and to what lengths I will go to acquire their surging assets.
Driver: You’re the best! But may I ask you something else, Masuda-sama?
Jubei: Fine.
Driver: I’ve been your driver for four years now. But ever since you promised to bring an APW show to Japan, my son has been following your career. He really likes you.
Jubei: Why is that?
Driver: Well, he knows that his father works for him. That I’m privileged to be your servant—and at the call whenever you need me.
Jubei: What will he think we finds out this the last you’re driving me home?
There’s a long silence.
Jubei: Tickets will be waiting for you and Jidou-chan. As for fans… I don’t need them. People who like me for what I do copy me, or they have no concept of how I destroy everything I touch. Jidou might like me because we’re as close as this glass allows you. Tell him that in life that he should never meet his heroes. We’re terrible humans plotting against everyone we meet. Lesson one for a lifetime to come. You were a great driver. Losing your talents is quite a shame. But I’m not a man of the people. Nor do I need their approval. Come Saturday, everyone watching XIII will see how far I’m willing to go to win.
Driver: I understand… Can will still pick those up at the ticket booth?
Masuda laughs, leaning straight into the intercom.
Jubei: I am willing to crush everything Jayson Price, Johnny Stylez or that Beau Blaze hold dear. In a world of unknowns, the only way to reach the top is by killing the rest. You understand me, and have never once asked why I am this way. That’s why you’re keeping the job, idiot. I need more drones like you. People I can practice my punches on until the curtains go up. So bring the boy along. He sounds like my kind of demon. Maybe a sly little kappa to turn against your will.
The driver laughs sheepishly with Masuda.
Jubei: Now hurry, I have more appointments than hours on the day. Lunch, Dinner, post-dinner and three desserts. Three of them! It sounds like heaven, but if you ate my tables, you know they’re actually hell. Of course, all I’ll see are the faces I’m going to rearrange. Stupid, talking mouths unware of the person sitting across them and a pineapple parfait. Because names go on business cards. We look right past the letters every time. Just as those unsuspecting gaijin will do this week. Monsters, now they delve deep into the hearts of men until their time to strike. What I’m doing now as I prepare to end two more careers—
Driver: Osama banzai!
Jubei: Yes… long live the king.