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SpineTwister · **01-09-2015, 06:27 AM**

Tokyo, Shinjuku Ward, Kabukicho District

Kabukicho is Tokyo's most infamous vice hub. Blazing in a million neon colors, the district is layered like a coral reef. On the surface, where salarymen and gaijin tourists stagger drunkenly through the streets, are the hostess clubs, soaplands, and other pedestrian distractions.

Underneath, where the lights dim, the shadows hide less savory things: brothels warehousing Thai and Korean sex slaves, animal shows, dangerous edgeplay parlors, live-action tentacle rape. People go missing here, the police well greased with gangster money.

SIMON LYSTER, “THE SPINE TWISTER” has gone to the bottom of the reef, where the eels writhe in the slime.

In a side street near the district’s eastern edge sits a small building bearing a simple logo: an inverted triangle over a square. This is the crest of the Todachi-gumi, the Yakuza crime family in charge of the underground death-match circuit.

As LYSTER enters the building, two younger family members in slick sharkskin suits step forward, prepared to give a drunken tourist the beating of his life. Then they stop, eyes widening in recognition. “RISUTO-san!!!”

One, a puroresu fan, launches into the old Budokan Hall spiel: “IGIRISU NO YOKAIIIIIII!!!!!!!! SU-PA-I-NO… TO-II-SU-TAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!”

LYSTER rolls his eyes and tries to be polite.

The noise attracts attention. A small, slim man of about 60, sharply dressed, surrounded by middle-aged gangsters in Armani suits, emerges from the inner office. He gives a simple disapproving glare. The younger Yakuza shrink away like whipped dogs.

"Apologies for their rudeness," the OYABUN says in near-perfect English as the two men mutually bow. "Please come in, RISUTO-san. Long time it’s been."

The Yakuza have an infamous tradition: the yubitsume, the severing and offering of a finger joint in atonement for a mistake.

The OYABUN gestures to his office with two perfect hands.

LYSTER begins taking off his shoes. The OYABUN stops him. “No need. Nothing pure about this place. Only filth.”

"Suits me," LYSTER says.

The OYABUN’s office is utilitarian, only a few decorations adorning the place: some calligraphy, a print of Hokusai’s Tako to ama erotic woodcut. LYSTER stares admiringly at a samurai helmet, dented, marred with sword strokes, covered with rust.

“You’re one of the few Westerners that appreciate the wabi-sabi aesthetic, RISUTO-san.”

“Imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete,” LYSTER recites. “It suits my nature. I like broken things.”

A younger gangster brings LYSTER a small jug of sake.

"Kubota Manju. Your favorite."

"My deepest thanks. Been too long. Can't get it outside Japan," LYSTER says.

"We don't give the Manju to gaijin," the OYABUN says with a slight smile.

"But I'm a gaijin," LYSTER counters.

"You have no country, RISUTO-san. You're a shark riding the waves of pain where they take you."

For 15 minutes or so, the two men catch up. Then: "So what brings you to Tokyo, RISUTO-san? And what made you ask to contact... them?"

"I'm in a match this Monday. A battle royale."

"I remember how you hate them."

"I don't expect to win. But I want to rip the place apart before I go."

"That's the Igirisu no Yokai I remember."

"Speaking of which… might I see the old gear, please?"

"Certainly." Then, to a subordinate, "Igirisu no Yokai no fuku, kudasai." The gangster bows deeply and scurries away.

Shortly he returns, bearing a bizarre outfit of rubber and latex, a costume of an alien monster.

"We retired the gimmick after you left. No one could be the Igirisu no Yokai but you. You don't mean to assume it once more?"

"No. Not entirely. But I am at a disadvantage, and I need the Kuroshi no Kumo."

"The Black Death Cloud." The OYABUN nods. "Without the mask apparatus, a man can hold only one dose in his mouth and hope to live."

"One is all I want," LYSTER replies. "I don't want to win this match. I only want to make someone else lose. Paralysis is my kink, not blindness, but a man does what he must and takes what he can."

"Of course. One capsule remains. We kept it for you." The subordinate extracts from the mask a capsule of black plastic, about an inch long, then hands it to LYSTER. LYSTER respectfully takes it in both hands, bows, and stores it in his shirt pocket.

(OOC: For this match only, in place of the cloverleaf, I am adding the following move to my trademark moveset: BLACK DEATH CLOUD: Single-use Great Muta-style mist attack.)

"And speaking of ripping the place apart, you must be in a state if you want to bring in—“

As if on cue, a subordinate enters the room, bows, and announces:

"Harajuku no Kuroshito."

Black Angel Harajuku. Some of LYSTER's scars itch in the presence of the ones who inflicted them, his deadliest foes.

Japan's most infamous tag team saunter into the office, completely unfazed by the mobsters surrounding them, not bothering to bow. In front is a small, sleek woman of about 23, dressed in a frilly pink gothic lolita dress decorated with cherries. Her hair is dyed pink to match the dress. She retains the drop-dead gorgeous looks of the J-Pop idol she once was. Only the Yakuza-style tattoo sleeves on her arms and a feral gleam in her eyes betray the monster she is now.

“BISHOUJO-san,” LYSTER says, bowing.

“RISUTO-san!!! Come for more pain game?” SAKURA BISHOUJO chirps in broken English, then giggles.

Not trusting his imperfect Japanese, LYSTER opts to use the OYABUN as a translator:

“I'm in a battle royale. Gonin baka Amerika-jin wo tatakaimasu, BISHOUJO-san. Five Amerika-jin… well, three Amerika-jin, one Kanada-jin, and one lunatic who claims to come from Atlantis. All in need of a Cherry Bomb. In the States they'd call it... let's see, a 450 rotation into a double Harlem Hangover, but you run in and show my opponents how it's done. Like you showed me so many times. You in?”

SAKURA BISHOUJO thinks a minute, then claps delightedly, makes a "V" sign, sings, "Amerika ni youkoso!!!!!!" and ends with the same unnerving giggle.

“Exactly,” LYSTER says.

The woman behind BISHOUJO is large by any female standard, huge by Japanese proportions, all lean wiry muscle. She wears black jeans and shirt under a leather jacket. Her hair is dyed green. The lower half of her face is covered by a rubber contraption designed to resemble a surgical mask, airbrushed with a twisted, fanged, deformed mouth stretching from ear to ear. She carries a well-worn kendo stick.

“KUCHISAKE-san! Hajimemashite outside the ring at last.”

GURO KUCHISAKE says nothing, just glares at her old enemy.

“I know you hate me, KUCHISAKE-san. But we’re like estranged parents – we both love the pain we birthed together. What's your catchphrase: ‘Your violation is my delight’? Doesn't roll off the tongue quite like ‘You will break like all the rest,’ but something's doubtless lost in translation.

“I offer you something for your violation.” LYSTER holds up an 8.5" x 11" glossy promotional photo of JILL LORDER.

"Pretty girl, yes? Such a pretty face. For you. For the facebuster only you have perfected. The Kuchisake Smile.”

“What do you say?”

For several seconds GURO KUCHISAKE stands still and silent. Then she extends the kendo stick, whips it in an arc, and slices LORDER's photo in half at the mouth.

"I'll take that as a yes."

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