Report 56043
 
 

katana gari cho

he keeps a journal


So that guy, the cop, that asshole Goro Fujita, he says to me, make yourself comfortable. Yeah right and up his ass and all that. I'm feeling wasted. Damn bones all broken. I can feel my chest as if it weren't a part of me. It pulses along my veins, hammers at my head. I need to lie down. Damn fuckin' Battosai an' his stupid fuckin' sword.

But. So. So what? It's nice in here. It's dark, quiet, no windows to show me a blue sky I don't care to see. Had me a friend once --and he's dead now, you know-- that would tell me about this one prison he'd been in. Yeah, wouldn't shut the Hell up about it. All the damn time he'd ramble on about what a great place it was. Food, bed, air, and a friggin' barred window. He'd rave about the sun and the sky and shit loads of crap about it. Blue and blue and white glimmering in his lashes, man. He were nothin' but a soft wannabe. Had no taste for killing, not like he should've. Bastard died with the funniest expression on his face. Eyes bulging out, man. I always kinda regretted that I pinned 'im up by his loud mouth. I would've liked to see if he would have smiled.

I'm smiling. Right now. It's dark in here. It's nice. That stupid fat guard out there gave me a few scraps of paper. I made me a boat an' a crane. Origami's stupid, but it passes the time. Now I've got a boat an'a crane an' two pieces of paper. Gotta keep 'em around. I can draw me a nice picture. But I'll probably just leave 'em there. I can't draw. Here, take a look--
 

    My face is a happy face, 'cause it's so nice in here and nice and nice and nice is nice. 

    Man, I'm going friggin' mental--
Oh, man, fuck. I forgot to tell you the date. Damn. I don't know what fuckin' day it is. The day after yesterday. Something in the Meijii era. The number sixteen's stuck at the top of my head. Is that good enough? Man, what do I care? Who's readin' this? I guess it's fuckin' Monday. It's always Monday when it can't be anything else.
 

sanosuke sagara

They caught him at a back street. It wasn't much of a back street. He had tumbled into a small village, bamboo huts with thatched roofs and stones laid out on the supports to keep them together and an old man ambling about in senile peace. The restaurant was the first thing he found. It smelled of dirty rice and rain seeping in through the cracks. It was a musty, tired smell. It tickled at his nostrils. He ordered a bit of sake, a bowl of rice, a fish that was more bone than meat and less meat than a gamy gunk that stuck to his teeth. He hadn't expected anyone to notice him as he left. There were only four people there, bored and drunk. But they noticed him. He found himself running and dodging and cursing, so they had noticed him. They caught him at a back street.

The police officer said he had not paid his meal. He grumbled that he did. The police officer hit him, the cane cracking against his temple. He had not paid his meal, no, sorede? And he had been loitering, the police officer said. He blinked, wrists starting to tingle at the spot where the officer was gripping hard. I was doing what?! he growls, what the Hell is loitering?! Apparently, it was against the law in that village to spend more than one minute on the entry bridge before crossing in and more than two minutes deciding whether to go into a restaurant or not. Yodan ja nai da, temee! But the police officer wasn't joking and he was being pushed down the back street and towards a tiny, dingy building at the end of the block. Away from Kyoto. Away from Kenshin.

The police officer wasn't very agile. The kick caught him square in the jaw, the hollow crack of the man's bones ringing in his ears as he rushed back towards the bridge. Kuso, sono baka na gohan... The rice had been dirty. His stomach hurt. Biting his lip, he pushed on ahead. He'd be safe beyond the bridge. He just had to make it to the bridge. That bridge. The bridge up there, right beyond his reach. Damn it was far.
 

You're saying that he didn't pay his meal?         Pause. Yes.           He gives the man in the uniform a dirty look. What the Hell is this?! This ain't that village, yaro!          A paper rustles. He resisted arrest?          A cigarette is pulled from a pack. Yes. A match is struck, running along the side of the desk.           He slumps into his seat and looks out the window.          A paper rustles. He broke an officer's jaw?          Smoke is exhaled. Yes.          He notices an old woman crossing the street in a sea of young people. She looks beautiful. Clear, porcelain skin.           A paper rustles. He was loitering?           Smoke is exhaled. Yes.           He looks across the old woman at a laundry shop leaning onto the curb. A faded sign reads: Shinomatsu Laundry. Kyoto and Nara. His eyes widen.          A paper rustles. He broke another officer's arm?          Smoke is exhaled. Yes.          He leans forward, every muscle in his body taught. The man in the uniform looks at him quietly. Hey, teme, can I ask a question?          A paper rustles. Yes?        Smoke is exhaled.         Is this Kyoto?          Silence. The clock on the wall strikes twelve in the afternoon, the fraction of a needle thin silence stretching out its hands.           A paper rustles.           Smoke is exhaled.         Yes.          He feels the excitement bubble up inside of him. Man, that's too damn lucky. Too damn lucky. So, hey, think I could leave now?

A paper rustles.          Smoke is exhaled.         No.
 

katana gari cho

You can never tell where the next asshole you meet on the street is going to, what he's thinking. Maybe he's going home t'make love to his wash room walls. Maybe he's got a lover waiting for 'im somewhere. Maybe he walks a real shit ugly dog around all night. Maybe he owns a long, sharp katana and they'll be one less soul tonight in this fucked up world. I dunno. I don't care.

I was a washed up jerk a couple'a years ago. Nothin' t'tell before I was a washed up jerk, either. Stupid father, fuckin' martyr mom. Little money, empty stomachs, stumbling home drunk after a night'a gambling. That kinda shit. You know. I guess it was coming that I'd be a jerk. I had a rusty old katana and an empty belly. I didn't care who I killed so long as I could get some food. I didn't care if I killed. I knew where my corpses came from. Fucked up houses like my own. They went home t'dirt and screamin' children and cheap booze and passing on the herpes. Better off dead, the lot o'them. Killing 'em was a blessing.

It felt unreal, the first couple'a times. I had a rusty blade. It wouldn't slice through properly, you know? Got a sword a few years later, a real piece of work. Belonged t'some jerk Mifune. It was as sharp as Hell, man. Clean, fluid movement. Went right through the ribs and across the stomach and gore and bilis without so much as a jerk. Felled heads like all men were babies. It was my baby. But it wasn't mine when I was a fucked up jerk. Back then I had a rusty ol' piece'a shit that stuck halfway 'cross the ribs with a sick little noise. It was funny. You'd expect ribs to crack. But it was as if you'd hit a mass of mud, soft mud and all this junk stuck in it. Real weird, man. Had no other sword, though, and I soon wound up in jail. Some stupid bitch squealed t'the cops when I killed her busu little boyfriend. Asshole supplied me my opium. Great shit. It was a nightmare t'be without it back then. Could'a killed that bitch. Not that I do that shit anymore. Like I said, I was a washed up jerk by then. But if you'll excuse me now--
 

And you ain't gonna watch, so turn around an' go somewhere else.
 
 

sanosuke sagara

Five by six and a half feet, give or take eight feet up to the ceiling. No room to do much but sit and stare at the guy on the cell across from yours. The cell across from his was empty. The jail itself was pretty empty. He counted one kid and two seedy looking bums as they led him to his cell. What? he grinned, the guard behind him staring straight ahead, doesn't anybody get arrested in Kyoto?

Not for what you did, was the curt, clipped reply. It hurt. He stuffed his hands into his pants and kicked at the dust floor. Maybe it hurt. Maybe he wanted to feel proud to be the only person in that jail who could really hurt someone. Break the wooden bars, at least. He grinned, running his left hand over the right's knuckles. A giddy, childish glee filled him. Flexing his right hand, he began to whistle. The guard didn't say anything, merely carried out his duties--to unlock the prisoner's cell and motion him in, secure the lock and be on his way, keys dangling from his belt--as quickly and efficently as possible.

Squatting down on the cell's dirt floor, his charge gave him a feral, indecipherable grin. Pretty comfortable, he said. When's dinner? The guard left him like that, grin stretched out comfortably over his lips, legs dangling from the openings in the wooden cell door. He wondered how anyone like that could break anybody's arm. He hoped they wouldn't have to keep him for long.
 

The bars of cell 11 rattled at intervals. The rattlings grew shorter, more urgent, with the passing minutes. He'll grow tired soon enough, the supervisor grumbled before he abandoned his post, pulling his cap down over his ears as he shut the door behind him. The minute hand on the office wall clock ticked a haltering inch. The bars rattled again. And again. Ora, temee! Oratsute! The guard on duty pulled out his typewriter, taping idly at the keys. He had finished all the filling for that day, all the reports, all the mail. He sighed. Ora! You call that miserable stuff you gave me food!? Na?! The bars rattled again. Hey, you! Onore! Bakayarou! The guard pulled out a pen and clicked its mechanism on and off aimlessly. The bars roared out in frustration. I'm hungry, damn it! As the monk! All I had was a fucking frog! Oratsute, you! The pen's mechanism became stuck. With a sigh, the guard replaced it in his breast pocket. A heady succession of rattles and bangs and frustrated gnashes came from cell 11. Rattle. Bang. Shikushou! Bang. Rattle. Onoree! Rattle. Bang. Rattle. Rattle. I just want to eat! Mou, tabetaiii!!
 

katana gari cho

I first met him at jail. I was a pretty quiet little prisoner. Just sat on my butt all day and dangled my legs. There came a time when I couldn't tell when my legs where dangling from when they weren't. Yeah, real fuckin' psychological shit like. Bein' in jail does that to you. You spend too much time in that dark little cell an' you just start thinking that it's ok to carve out little kanji on your skin. It's ok. Everybody does it. Right? Everybody kills, too. Yeah. Just like that. I carved out a few kanji over my right wrist. With my nail. It doesn't hurt in the darkness. You hafta see the blood in the morning to realize that you almost mother fuckin' suicided. Kuso ya na.

He wasn't concidered a threat when I first met him. A freak. A mummy. A crazy. But not a threat. Messed up little Kisai jerks like me where more of a threat to 'em. He strolled up to my cell as if he owned the block. Looking down at strays in a pound or som'thing. Choosing the pick of the litter. Spewing all this bullshit about needing a strong guy. I listened to him for a while. I was bored outta my shit, you know. Hands clasped behind my head and swinging my legs and shrugging away everything he said. I guess he was impressed. You can never tell with him. He has that funny way of looking at you, as if he knew you and everything that was you 'cause someone had burned him up and he had lived to tell the tale. I dunno. Funny, fuckin' mummy. I started to like him by the end of the day. I had to piss at some point, and he followed me around. That jail I was in at that time, a prisoner could go out with a guard to a nice little pissing chamber. Toilet paper an' everything.

I rolled out a few feet of it as he talked to me, tryin' to convince me to join him. I wasn't paying much attention to him then. I just wanted to sleep. I broke outta jail the next day. The fuck if I know why. I had a reason back then. I think it was because that mummy was so fuckin' funny. I don't think it was because I wanted to belong anywhere. Bullshit. People belong in the backs of their heads. When we can talk to ourselves and carve our flesh out in the dark, that's when we're real. That's where I belonged.
 

Wonder how Shishio's doing? Hope the asshole wins. I'm gonna be at pains to find me a nice new boss. Heh. Shit, I stepped on my origami crane. Aw, shit, man.
 

sanosuke sagara

Darkness is there in the back of the mind. It revolves slowly within itself, dreaming out an existence for itself. For him. Darkness is that thing which our campfires hold back. The Taisho had said that. But darkness had crawled out across the campfire flames to swallow them up. All of them.

     did you leave them behind?
No. I carried out the Taisho.

did you leave them behind?
   No! He pushed me. Him! I would've stayed with him. He knew that. I would've saved him. There was time. But he pushed me! did i leave them behind? did i leave them behind?

You stood by idly and watched him die.

i watched him.

You watched him die.

i watched him die. i wanted to stop it. but i couldn't do anything. there was a fence.

You watched.

i watched him die. his blood. his blood dripped onto the pavement. it was thick and red. gallops of it.

His head was.
his head was like those magic tricks. unreal. it was done with mirrors. his body was underneath the stool.

They blew his head off.

his body was under the stool. i didn't leave him behind. i

couldn't find his body. that's all.

his eyes were.           his eyes were closed. closed.

his eyes were.          closed. closed in sleep. his body was.     his eyes were.        under the stool. eyes.        closed.                   closed.            they were.              open.                      closed.
open and starring at you.                      closed. his eyes were closed. his eyes were closed. his eyes were closed.

did you leave them behind?



sweat down his back

 He awoke disoriented. There was a bad taste in his mouth. As if something had died in there at night. He drew a hand over his mouth and sat up. Sweat ran down his back, mingled with the dust and stones of his cell. He scratched at his scalp. It had been days since his last bath. He felt greasy, heavy. He rubbed his hands over his nose, smearing his hands in grease. He stared at them. He felt dirty. Too dirty. The sweat itched across his skin, the dust settling on his lashes. He felt dirty.
 

katana gari cho

Do you care if I made love to Yumi? 'Cause I never did. She wasn't a lady you fucked around with. And I'll probably never see her again after I get outta this jail. I thought about it, though. Making love to her. You get to thinking about it after a while. Then it can be Yumi or the next whore down the street. It doesn't matter. You start going crazy after a while. You catch yourself looking them, feeling all drowsy and fucked up and shit yeah you're hand's slipping into your fuckin' pants, man.

Sometimes they're like Yumi. Something you can't touch. So you just mumble some dumb shit and walk away. Sometimes they're like Kisai girls, and they start fumbling and giggling and moaning till you just wanna dash their heads against the wall and shut the fuck up, bitch. It's not real then. But sometimes they're like the nice lady. The lady that sat at her porch and watched her husband die. Her nice, handsome husband. She must have been crazed with grief. Who'd ever love an asshole like me? Shit ugly an' nothing you wanna touch or what the Hell, but she was looking at me with those big, brown eyes, man. That was real. And I ain't gonna tell you about it 'cause I can't remember. If I remember then I want her. And I'll be damned if I'm gonna fuck myself in this damn cell.
 

Damn. Damn it, man. Now I'm feeling fucked up. Look, why don't ya leave me alone for a while? It's damn fuckin' easy to rape. You a woman? Get outta here. Don't even think I'm a nice guy, 'cause your daddy's right. We're nothing but assholes. Get out. You a guy? Don't laugh, man. Or I break your skull. It's damn easy fuckin' easy to kill. Don't even think you can stop it. You can't stop a damn thing. You're just dead. Or raped. Or whatever the fuck. Just get out.
 
 

sanosuke sagara

Sano likes happy things. He likes flowers. He likes blue, clear skies. He likes bunny rabbits. Fluffy little bunny rabbits. Hop hop hop. They hop in the tall, green grass. Sano likes that. Sano likes happy things.

Sano likes his bandana. It's red and worn and dirty, but he loves it. It makes him happy to wear it. His captain gave it to him. His captain wore one just like it. Sano's captain had to go away. He had to say goodbye and Sano never saw him again. (some say his head was blown off, but some also say a tomato is a fruit and that the earth is round.) Sano misses his captain. But his bandana makes him happy. It reminds him of all the good times they shared. He remembers the laughter. He remembers fishing in the rivers. He remembers how it felt to hug the captain. It felt nice. It felt warm and safe. Sano likes safe. He likes his bandana. He likes happiness.
 

katana gari cho

You again? Heh. Ain't feeling fucked up anymore. Have a seat. You see that corner over there? Some ass's got a light on in the cell rows outside. First time I get some fuckin' light in here. They put my hands in this wooden shit things, you know. Can't move much. It itches. Crap. But hey, you ever make shadow puppets? It's a shit stupid thing to do. A flat palm don't look nothin' like a dog. And I'll be damned if I see a damn bunny when they do that with their hands. The wiggly thing. You know what I mean. I tried making a bunny. Looked mother fuckin' stupid. A freaky, damn sick old bunny wiggling about. I had me a swan peck 'im to death. Heh. Bunny looks. Bunny hops. Bunny under swan attack. No more bunny. Kawaisonna. Yeah fuckin' right. I like making birds, though, with the big wings. My fingers are too friggin' long and bony. Big big wings. A bird that can't fly anywhere.

The ass out there's gonna turn off the lights soon. Some idiot's banging his head on the bars out there. Asshole. You can't bang your head in jail. This is your home. We're little shadow birds. We ain't going nowhere. Might as well get comfortable.
 
 

a note from the author
 regarding report 56043

katana gari cho's note on shadow animals, written from the security block cell no. 14, was the last i received before i lost contact with both him and the prisoner on cell 11, sanosuke sagara. as is often the case, i was called away to preside and take notes at a case in nagoya and when i managed to return cell 11 was empty and katana gari cho had fallen inexplicably silent. hajime saito would not tell me anything more about them, and i was forced to put an end to this report. it was... a sad thing. i'm afraid i was enjoying myself a bit too much. nevertheless, this is goodbye. thank you for the sake.

if you'd like to reach me, don't stop by the house at tokyo. it's kind of abandoned by now. but leave a message with sakura yamatori, she'll make sure i get it.
 

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© September-October, 1998 Team Bonet. Rurouni Kenshin is © 1994 Nobuhiro Watsuki and Shonen Jump. This story owes a debt of gratitude --if stories can even do that-- to the much maligned and misunderstood last episodes of Evengelion (© 1995 Gainax Studio) and to the work of Japanese director Kazuhiko Kunihara. Thank you for reading. I know the story's a bit pointless... Ma, thanks for all the fishes, as [now sadly defunct] She 100.3 fm DJ Shark might say.