Contains descriptions of drug use. Reader discretion is advised.
At an indistinct city riverside with no memorable features, a stink descends. It emanates from the great and honorable Nezumi Otoko, who has not taken a single bath since birth. He has also never done laundry, and only owns one set of clothes — a soiled, ragged hooded robe. The bright humid atmosphere causes the stink to bloom, reaching up to the heavens and covering a many-metered radius. Such is the nature of the man’s countenance, rat-like and fetid, that he himself may not be noticed– or rather, he is actively ignored. But the stink? The stink is undeniable. On a day like this, anyone with a trace of civility voluntarily clears out. In the world of humans, this man sits alone.
But the world of humans is not all there is.
In the distance, a woman comes, drawn to the scent as if a homing beacon. She is young, beautiful, and stylish — everything Nezumi Otoko is not.
And yet she comes.
As the distance between the two shortens, her features are more apparent. The woman is short with a nice body, and a blonde silky curled afro that crowns her like the sun. Her style of dress is a strange 00’s throwback, with elements of y2k in cut and color and indie sleaze in arrangement and attitude. One would assume it was nostalgia for a time not experienced, considering her youthful demeanor, but her eyes look hard, experienced, and cold. It was a ritual, an embodiment of sorts, the specifics only known to the woman alone.
“Nezumi Otoko.” She speaks in a blunt, curt voice, devoid of its usual charm and affectation.
“Why, if it isn’t the wife of the great Kitaro! To what do I owe this tremendous honor?” The man’s reverence is exaggerated, barely concealing his contempt.
“100,000 yen.” The woman slaps a stack of cash at the man’s dirty, disgusting feet.
“100,000 yen? What a paltry sum. With the rate of inflation the way it is, that’s hardly anything. But of course, we can’t expect the wife of Kitaro to have much money.”
“200,000 yen.” She throws this in his face. The man can’t help himself — he grabs onto all the cash offered so far, then counts.
“Alright, alright, I see you’re serious. But maybe, not serious enough? I’m well informed on the economy, you see. I know just how poorly the yen’s doing against the dollar.”
The woman shoots him a withering look. She pulls an almost empty box of American Spirits out of her giant white Louis Vuitton hobo bag with rainbow-gradient monograms, takes one out, and gives it a light. She exhales smoke in the man’s face as she tosses a load of bills haphazardly onto the ground.
“500,000 yen.”
The man busies himself with picking the paper off the grass, working hurriedly to make sure nothing gets blown away by the anemic breeze. The full bodied tobacco smoke mingles with the man’s natural stench, creating a devilish fragrance that signals danger to all who encounter it.
After what seems like an eternity, the man has gathered all of the money and confirms that he indeed now has 500,000 yen in hand. Strangely enough, he seems a little nervous.
“Alright, that’s 500,000 yen. Now, could you remind me of the specifics again? And, uh, could I have a cigarette?” Respect doesn’t come easy to the man, and he seems to be struggling.
The woman gazes at him with a faint sweetness, transfers the half-used cigarette from her mouth to the man’s, then places a thick wad of cash in his hand.
“1,000,000 yen.”
The rat man is now full of blood-pumping bravado. This exchange has gone beyond the point of reason. He trusts he doesn’t have to count it to know that’s truly 1,000,000 yen. He smiles disdainfully at this wretched, pathetic woman stupid enough to give him this much money.
“You know, this isn’t really even that much. You Americans gutted the economy, and now you expect to get everything for nothing. Maybe this would be enough at an honest job, for an honest man. But is this honest work? Am I an honest man?” Drunk on his own words, he quickly reduces his cancer stick to ash in one suck. The quickness of it all makes him dizzy.
Unbothered, the woman reaches into her purse and pulls out a thick envelope. She takes one of the last turquoise American Spirits she has, places it gently on top of the envelope, then offers both to the man with what seems to be genuine kindness.
“1,000,000,000 yen.”
The man looks red and feverish as he takes the offering out of the woman’s hands. Just hearing the number is enough to drive him out of his mind. He places the fresh cig in his mouth, and the woman lights it automatically. He huffs and puffs as he flips through all the bank notes in the envelope. It is exactly as she says — he now has 1,000,000,000 yen in cold hard cash. His face takes on the look of perfect subservience. He gets down on his hands and knees and gazes up at the woman sweetly.
“Dearest Dorora-sama, how would you best like to utilize me?”
~~~
“And, and! He rejected me! I can’t believe he rejected me!”
“It would be a great honor to be Dorora-sama’s second husband! That Hakaba Kitaro is a knucklehead and a fool!”
This indistinct riverside has been haunted by these two yokai for God knows how long. Nezumi Otoko looks the same as ever, with the exception of darker than usual undereyes. Dorora’s looks have run ragged, having worn the same clothes for days and pushing the olden party practice of putting fresh makeup on top of yesterdays’ to its absolute limit. The duo smell like cheap fruity vodka, gasoline, chemicals, and dirt on top of the miasma of BO and tobacco. Combined with hazy humidity visible to even the human eye, this ungodly stench has guaranteed their absolute privacy.
“Dorora? Nezumi Otoko? What in the world are you guys doing?” A lanky silver-haired youth with floppy emo bangs covering his tremendously round head approaches the pair. He is clad in a thin, baggy black-and-yellow striped sweater, massive cut off jorts, and a pair of mass-produced geta. His voice contains neither anger or fear, just curiosity.
“Kitaro!” Nezumi Otoko’s back snapped straight, immediately returning him to lucidity.
“Getakichi, baby! Try some DMT!” Dorora’s voice was flirty and fucked up, and she waggled a strange device in her hand.
“What? What even is that? And…” the youth sniffed the air. “Have you been smoking cigarettes? Dorora, what is going on?”
“Uhhh…” Dorora cast an unfocused gaze into the distance, then took a hit from the DMT pen. “See you later.” Her eyes glazed over, and her consciousness flew into another world.
“She’s going to be out for a bit,” Nezumi Otoko offered matter of factly. “Come, sit Kitaro! We’ve got a lot of party treats.” He hurriedly patted the patch of grass next to him.
“…Ok.” While Getakichi would never expect a straight answer from the man, until his wife came back, he had some time to kill. He sat next to Nezumi Otoko and got comfortable.
From this perspective, he could see that before the pair was a veritable excess of powders, pills, dried up plant matter, empty liquor bottles, and cigarette butts. What shocked him was not the vulgar display of vices, but the fact that the alcohol was cheap and nasty, and the rest was stuff he knew his wife hated and didn’t indulge in. The Dorora he knew was all about all-natural, or at least high-quality, about mitigating risks and honoring the body. So what was all this…?
“Alright, we’ve got some Adderall, Xtasy, coke, Xanax, magic mushrooms, cherry vodka, American cigarettes…oh, and DMT. Take your pick!” Nezumi Otoko slapped Getakichi on the back so hard he coughed.
“Uh…I’ll pass.”
“You suuuuuuure?” The rat man’s voice was nasal and wheedling, vibrating at a frequency that was incredibly irritating.
“Fine, I’ll take a cigarette.” Getakichi rolled his eye.
Nezumi Otoko chortled smugly, as if he knew what the answer would be all along. He took an almost full box of orange American Spirits, pulled out two cigs, and handed one to Getakichi. Nezumi Otoko lit the one in his mouth, then placed the lit tip to the edge of Getakichi’s cigarette, staring intently at Getakichi’s face as the youth huffed and puffed. The intensity of Nezumi Otoko’s gaze flustered Getakichi, and he jumped away a bit once his cigarette was fully lit.
Nezumi Otoko took a big, long drag, then slowly and dramatically exhaled, relaxing his body so that he resembled a lounging Roman emperor. “So, Kitaro. What brings you here?”
“I should be asking you the same thing.” Annoyance coursed through Getakichi’s body like venom. “What exactly are you doing here with my wife?”
“Hm, well…only things she asks,” the rat-like man cooed as he stretched himself out like a comely young maiden.
“Cut the shit! Dorora hasn’t been home in days.”
“Well, that’s because she’s been with me!~”
“You…you!” Getakichi’s face took on the look of a bull that could only see red, and he grabbed Nezumi Otoko by the collar, slightly lifting him off the ground.
“Alright, alright! I swear on King Enma, I haven’t slept with your slutty wife. She asked me if I could source some things, then paid me very generously for my time. There’s a lot to try out, so it’s been taking a while. Can you let me go now?” The man was red all over, nearly choked out.
“Oh. Alright.” Getakichi let Nezumi Otoko go. The man coughed and sputtered with his hands and knees on the ground. It didn’t even register to Getakichi, so lost he was in thought.
“But…why would she ask you for this? She doesn’t even like these things!”
“Why should I know?! Ask her!” Nezumi Otoko pointed at Dorora, who until now was doing a good job sneaking away unnoticed.
Getakichi swung his eye like a pinball, then made direct eye contact. Getakichi’s stare became Medusa-like, and Dorora locked into place, unable to move.
“Hahaha…honey…” Dorora awkwardly smiled and laughed, the puffiness of her face making the gesture come off more grotesque than amiable. Getakichi simply stared. Dorora allowed her face to show the true dourness she felt, and shuffled back to the party spot.
The atmosphere became unbearable. Dorora reached for the speed in order to introduce some much needed levity, but Getakichi slapped it out of her hand. Dorora fumed as she saw it roll down the grass and into the river.
“Excuse me?? That’s not cheap!” Dorora was a fluffed up ball of indignity.
“So? I thought you hated Adderall! You said it makes you grind your teeth and messes with your mind.” Getakichi, used to this by now, had the demeanor of an unmovable slab.
“Well, that’s true, but…” Dorora looked small and vulnerable.
“But?” Getakichi did not let up.
“But…but at least I’m not a STALKER who can’t give his wife some alone time!” Dorora was now a full blown gale of rage.
“What? What!? I didn’t even know you were here! I came here at the request of the river yokai.”
“River yokai?” Nezumi Otoko inquired.
“They appeared in my dreams. They told me that you and some foreign yokai were causing chaos, and wanted me to get you to stop.”
“Ehh….how about that.” Now that Nezumi Otoko thought about it, there were some river spirits who politely asked him and Dorora to leave, but he quickly dispatched of them with his stink breath.
“That’s so weird…on my last trip, I saw a giant floating head made out of water that just told me to get out until the DMT wore off.” Dorora mused.
“Huh? Dorora, let me see that. What is this DMT stuff anyway?”
Dorora handed Getakichi the DMT pen and starting explaining. “DMT is a psychedelic derived from plants in the Amazon. It causes heavy, real seeming hallucinations that last for about fifteen minutes. It’s so fun and trippy! And there’s machine elves! Usually you have to smoke it in powder form in a crack pipe, but I bought this DMT vape pen from some guy online.”
Getakichi nodded and affirmed as she spoke, even though it didn’t make much sense to him. He sniffed the pen, then licked the opening. Now he understood.
“Dorora…you’re not seeing random stuff or computer gnomes when you hit this…you’re seeing yokai! That was the river god himself telling you to get lost.”
“Ohhh….” Dorora’s voice regained some of its usual lilt. What Getakichi said made a lot of sense.
“But Dorora…YOU’RE a yokai! How did you not realize what was going on all this time?”
Dorora turned her head away. “I’ve just…I’ve just been feeling messed up, I guess.”
Getakichi hugged her and pulled her in close. Dorora melted, forgetting how good it was to be held up in his big strong arms. “Hey…that’s ok. But we’ve really got to get out of here.”
“Or else what?” Dorora jerked herself away.
Getakichi looked puzzled. “The river yokai are super pissed. Do you really want to have problems with those guys?”
Nezumi Otoko took the chance to inject himself into the conversation.
“Pfft! Yokai get mad at ME all the time! But it doesn’t matter. Because I do what I want!” With a dramatic flair, he took a handful of magic mushrooms and threw it into his mouth.
“Yeah! I do what I want!” Dorora did a bump of coke.
The two were soon giggling and shittalking like a bunch of idiots. Getakichi now understood what was keeping Dorora away, and wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. He lit another cigarette, but it didn’t help any. He silently pleaded with the river god for some perspective he could take without rowdy violence. His consciousness expanded from the river, to all of Tokyo, to the whole world. For a split second, he could perceive the beauty of the interconnectedness of life’s web.
Getakichi remembered who he was.
“Dorora…” He gently placed his hand on her shoulder.
“WHAT?!?!” Dorora’s face looked undeniably devilish now. The coke was wearing off.
“You know what Mataro-kun told me? He said something like…if his mother could turn her face to him and shine, he could be saved.” It sounded like nonsense to Getakichi, but it felt important.
“Ma-Mataro-kun MISSES me?” Tears welled up into Dorora’s eyes. She snapped into sobriety.
“Yes. He does.” Getakichi knew that for sure. He tenderly kissed the top of Dorora’s greasy, smelly head.
“Ahhh…ahhh….Mataro-kun misses me…” Dorora sobbed inside Getakichi’s sweater, her body shaking and wracked with tears. The sun started to set, and burned red with twilight. The stars twinkled in the deep blue sky.
“Let’s go home,” Getakichi sweetly murmured into her ear.
“Hey! You can’t leave yet! Dorora, what about our throwback?” Nezumi Otoko shouted just a little too loud, his perceptions skewed by the mushroom’s come up.
“Throwback?” Getakichi asked.
“It’s when you invoke the past in order to escape the pain of the present.” Dorora offered sheepishly.
“But why would you need that?”
“I don’t know…I guess I thought if I felt young again, the rest would sort itself out.”
“Ehhh….” The mess before him looked like the opposite of that.
Dorora kissed his hand and nuzzled his shoulder. “It’s ok, you don’t have to understand.”
“There are multiple meanings to the word throwback!” Nezumi Otoko wasn’t ready for the party and cash flow to end. “Like so!”
Nezumi Otoko stuck his ass out in front of Getakichi’s face, put his hands on his knees, then started wiggling his butt up and down, arching his back with a disturbing amount of effort.
“Get that thing out of here!” Getakichi smacked Nezumi Otoko’s ass as hard as he could, causing him to fly out into the sky then splash into the river, his fart spiraling out in an arc. The noxious gas didn’t affect Dorora and Getakichi, but it was a near miss. The two started laughing.
“Let’s get out of here.” Getakichi kissed Dorora’s forehead.
“Ok.” Dorora kissed his neck. “Wait! What about the drugs? Do you think the river god would take it as a peace offering?”
“…You want to dump a bunch of random stuff into the river?”
“…Point taken. HEY! NEZUMI OTOKO! YOU CAN KEEP THE DRUGS!” Dorora shouted at the top of her lungs. From the fast flowing river, an arm raised in thumbs up.
The sun set, and the heat gave way to a cool, clear night. Nezumi Otoko was besieged by visions of watery imps torturing him for hours to come, but besides that, the mood and visuals were pretty alright.