Concrete. Concrete everywhere.
This entire city was so fucking boring and overhyped, completely drained of all life it ever had, but maybe that’s just due to Hollywood. If there’s one thing that ruins perception, it’s Hollywood. I’m beginning to feel sorry for the people who come here expecting something better, because all they get is the smell of sweat and a sea of squinty eyes. What happened to those cool little electronic signs that you see in New York that are apparently here? Fuck me… Oh and the weather is shit too. I literally felt the tragic gale rattle my car window and the rain slam against the sun roof of the Rolls Royce. I’m not driving of course, what type of low-class leech do you think I am? Anyway, I need to be sure where I was going, so I called out past the bulletproof glass to the front of the car.
“Chauffeur.”
“はい?!”
(Yes?!)
“Yeah, uh, you sure you know where you’re going?”
“私は自分の性器いぼの小娘のようなこの街を知っています!”
(I know this city like the puss of my genital warts!)
“Alright, just checking. You know, you’re not like the other racist fucks around here, you seem to be the only one who does what they are told.”
“私にお金を与え、私の嫌いな人を食べて、愚かな白い肌をあなたをファック.”
(Just give me my money, eat my asshole, silly white skin.)
“Yeah, I like sumo wrestling too.”
“自分を殺します.”
(You kill yourself.)
I asked the driver to take me to a child sweatshop, to help me out with a promo as a counter to all the points Christopher Isles made, if there was any. I felt that the only way to stoop down to the level of this
was to get a foreign child to explain a few things to me. After all, I can’t really understand what this guy is saying amidst the waterfall of brah’s and his annoying cunt of a friend that kept interrupting, so I just tuned out.
After about fifteen minutes, I felt the texture of the ground change from concrete to gravel and then the vibration of the engine finally stop. I pushed the button to roll down the window and laid my eyes on quite possibly the biggest factory I have ever seen. Now make no mistake, it was big but still fucking disgusting and dirty, fitting in perfectly with the other architecture in the city.
The chauffeur opened the door and popped open an umbrella to shield me from angel’s tears emerging from the polluted sky, before walking me up to the entrance, if you could call it that. It was more like a hobbit hole, the size of a small animal. I had to duck my head to enter. When I emerged on the other side, it was euphoric and exactly how I imagined it - rows upon rows of kids sewing together cheap t-shirts, with no expression on their faces.
“Take me to the factory owner.”
“私は時々共食い発生を持っています.”
(I sometimes have cannibalistic outbreaks.)
“Alright, thanks.” The Chauffeur continues to walk along a metal balcony, looking down on all the children. I follow.
“So how many kids are there in total?”
“私は数学の教師あなたの外国性交のように見えるのですか?”
(Do I look like a maths teacher you foreign fuck?)
“Woah, four hundred? That’s a lot.”
“私は笑うだろうあなたはがんを取得”
(You get cancer – I will laugh.)
After obnoxiously clanking our way across the metal support, we finally reach an office with a white door. There was a distinct sound of laughter and it seemed like the man was busy. There was a sign on the door was some stupid shit in Japanese so I didn’t really understand it, but the Chauffeur bent over and knocked several times anyway, so it couldn’t have meant anything bad. Upon the impact of my Asian friend’s knuckles against the door, the laughter seized and there was a pause. After a few seconds the guy on the inside shouted.
“あなたがここに歓迎していない、残します!”
(You’re not welcome here, leave!)
“That sounded pretty angry, what did he say?”
The Chauffeur merely waved his hand, signalling that I could enter. I nodded before opening the door and stepping inside to see a huge fat Asian in a pinstripe white suit lunge from his chair and get up into my face. Now at this point, I kind of had enough with all these people thinking they can boss me around, so I sigh and backhand him, sending him flying to the floor with a thud. He groans before pulling out a gun and pointing it at my face.
“Woah, I suggest you get that gun out of my face immediately. I’m an English wrestler and was looking to enquire on the availability of one of your kids to help me out with something. It should only take-“
“English? I am Yakuza! Yakuza! Bad men! White man stay away!”
I chuckle as this sweaty pig had the audacity to both interrupt and threaten me, so I kick the gun out of his hands and send it skidding across the floor. I then raise my leg and thrust down the heel of my shoe down onto his nose and felt the squishing sound of flattened flesh rather satisfying. He screams as I step off of him and walked over towards an open book, which looked more like a business log. I ran my finger down the page hoping to see a name that I liked, which there wasn’t any.
“Tell me, what is your name?”
“My name is Hanshiro… do not hurt me!”
“That's a change of attitude. Okay Hanshiro, I will make this very clear. I came to you with a business opportunity, though there is a change of plans now considering your actions. I will take. TAKE – with a capital T, A, K and E – one of your workers from you. If you do anything to stop me, you will die. Is that clear?”
“Yes! Yes! Do not take my son Ike!”
“Wow… terrible parenting there Hanshiro. Employing your own kid into a sweatshop? Looks like I know who I will be taking with me now.”
I storm out of the room to see the Chauffeur standing there with his one hand in his pants and the other gripping tightly a box of popcorn, managing to balance it and shove it into his mouth at the same time. I knock the popcorn out of his hand, causing it to fall off the balcony and onto the main factory floor, making all the kids leave their workstations and lunge onto it. It was like the Hunger games, except with malnourished Asian children.
“さてさて怒ってあなた醜い女を得ることはありません.”
(Alright, don’t get angry you ugly cunt.)
“Go back to the car and prepare the engine. I will be out in a second.”
The Chauffeur stumbled off as I looked down at the complete and utter fucking warzone below me. However, there was one kid refusing to partake in the food scramble, instead only staying at his workstation and doing some sewing. I squint my eyes and try to look at his nametag.
It was Ike.
“Uh… Ike? You understand English?”
The kid looked up at me, still continuing to do his work.
“Yeah, you’ve been promoted, time to stop work and come with me. Don’t worry, you’ll still be able to do your sewing and shit.”
The kid hesitates, before dropping what he was doing and climbing up the stairs towards me. He was a scruffy kid, his hair was overgrown and dirty and his face was covered in all sorts of scars and bruises. Obedient – just what I needed. However I was rudely interrupted by a previous acquaintance…
“Ike! Get the fuck back to work!”
I felt a heavy force leap onto my back and a tight grip wrapped around my throat, I manage to look behind me and see Hanshiro piggybacking me, trying to choke me out while waving around a machete. I must admit, I had flashbacks to when Peter Gilmour strung me up with fishhooks and I knew that I never wanted to go to that place again. I was motivated not to die. However, the fat fuck just wouldn’t let go, no matter how many times I swung him around and tried to fling him off, I only felt his grip tightening. I make eye contact with Ike, telepathically pleading with him to do the right thing.
Suddenly, Ike springboards off the balcony rail and enzuigiris his dad right in the back of the head, killing him instantly. I felt his grasp around my neck completely let go and I threw him off of my back onto the crowd of kids who after finally tasting food, turn into several Issei Sagawas and begin to savage his corpse. It was a pretty big sight to take in and I turn to face Ike, who still has a blank expression on his face.
“Come on, let’s go.”
Ike and I run out of the door, leaving behind the sweatshop massacre. Emerging through the door/Oompa Loompa crevice yet again, I discover several black cars outside, each with blacked out windows and huge Asian men guarding them. I assumed it was probably just the kids’ parents looking to bring them home from work, so I took no notice, instead heading over to my Rolls Royce.
“Chauffeur?”
Chauffeur, couldn’t hear me, because his brains were splatted through the bullet hole in the windshield.
Fuck.
I begin to notice the all the newly arrived men turn to face me, who now all are armed with assault rifles. All I can think to myself is whether or not this was a good idea and whether or not I will make it to Warfare to beat the shit out of the Virgin Isles. I turn to Ike, who mouths the word ‘fuck’ in perfect English.
Ah-hm.
Fuck indeed.