by R W Sowrider
“Behold,” Aphrodite said. “A pale horse and its rider’s name is Death.”
At first glance, Rowen was startled by the four figures, particularly alarmed by the one on the pale horse who was a ghoulish skeleton with glowing red eyes.
But upon closer inspection, Rowen realized that there wasn’t really much to fear precisely because the rider of the pale horse was a skeleton. It had no muscle whatsoever and its bones were so weak and frail that it was struggling to keep hold of its polo stick. Further, the red glow from its eyes was so faded and sickly that rather than being fiery embers, its eyes were more like charred pieces of coal stricken with conjunctivitis.
As Rowen monitored the curious being with distaste, the captain of the fearsome warriors in fur hats came galloping by.
Rowen found this warrior to be much more impressive with his brawny physique, forbidding eyes, and burly black beard covering his tan skin. He looked virile enough to spawn half of the Earth’s population.
“Can I get in the game, now?” the meek figure called Death whined.
“I told you,” the intimidating captain replied, harshly. “When there’s less than a minute left, if we’re up by a dozen goals or more, I’ll let you play.”
“Aw, fiddlesticks,” Death lamented, snapping his fingers in disappointment, literally snapping the distal phalange of his middle finger. “Ouuuuch!” he cried.
As Rowen looked on in surprise and disgust, he heard the familiar boom of Delemor’s voice. “Rowen, you little skid mark! Who do you think you are?! You think you’re better than Death?!”
“I’m sorry?” Rowen replied in confusion.
“You heard me, you little shit! You think you’re better than Death, do ya?! Huh?! You ain’t shit, you little shit. Get back here before I let Death have his way with you in the 7th Circle of Hell.”
***
“So what can I do you for?” Delemor said, crossing his legs and leaning back in his throne.
Rowen studied Delemor for a beat, then opened. “I wanna be popular.”
Delemor shuttered as if that was the only sentence in the universe that he didn’t want to hear. “… Okay. I’ll grant you that. But now we’re even. ”
Rowen continued to stare at the incandescent being. He was extremely intimidated by the look in Delemor’s sapphire eyes, real or fake, yet somehow he felt inspired to press on. “I want stumbling blue eyes,” he demanded.
Delemor snort-laughed. “What do you mean, ‘stumbling?’”
Rowen maintained his business face. “You know, like my eyes will be so blue that when people see them, they’ll stumble.”
“I think you misheard some song lyrics along the way and mean ‘unbelievable’ blue eyes, but either way, since I’m in a generous mood, I’ll hook you up. But you’re gonna need glasses.”
“What’s the point in having eyes as blue as the Mediterranean sky if you have to hide them behind glasses?’ Rowen asked, defiantly.
Delemor clicked his tongue in frustration. “I said you’d be popular.”
“I need you to pinky swear,” Rowen replied, reaching his pinky finger across the table.
“Fine,” Delemor grunted, stretching a pinky finger toward Rowen.
Rowen had to lean fully forward to reach the outstretched pinky of the short-armed deity, but once they interlocked digits, despite Delemor putting a little too much strength into the pinky-shake, Rowen was satisfied.
“I want a baby face.”
“Done.”
“But not like literally the face of a baby the whole time I’m alive, but like I look young even when I’m old.”
Delemor once again clicked his tongue. “Fine. But you’re gonna be a late bloomer.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re gonna hit puberty well after your peers. I.e., you’re gonna encounter some good-natured ribbing in the high school locker room. Like once the captain of the football team notices in the shower that you’re yet to mature, he’s gonna announce it to everyone. ‘Rowen ain’t got no pubes!’”
“I wanna be the captain of the football team.”
“You got it, stud. But you’re still gonna face that ridicule as you make your way up.”
“Okay, then I want wavy gold locks.”
“You wanna be a male, right?”
“…”
“Fine, I’ll grant you that. But you’re gonna be a pussy.”
“Like a coward?”
“Yup.”
“Then can I at least have nice biceps.”
“It won’t help you to not be a pussy, but sure, nice biceps it is.”
“Since you brought up sports, I wanna be athletic.”
“Sure, I can do that. So … black dude in America, right?”
“Pro basketball player?”
“Nope. At best, you’ll be an average working man.”
Rowen winced. “Okay, scratch the athletic talk. I’ll take white male in America. But I’d like a full set of lips.”
“You literally just said ‘white male’ and yet you want lips?! How about I smack you in the face right now and send you to the 7th Circle of Hell?!”
“Fine, no lips,” Rowen conceded.
After thinking on it for a second, Rowen pressed his luck. “How about you at least grant me a lower lip?”
“Dele-damn, you’re driving a hard bargain today. Fine. I’ll grant you a lower lip, but you’re still gonna be pasty white. Like, dead body white. And on top of that, you’re gonna be one of them dudes that pisses the bed.”
Rowen clicked his tongue. “Well, if I’m gonna be a bed-wetter, can I at least be a rock star?”
“Nope.”
Rowen clicked his tongue again. “Fine. But I wanna be a Jack of all trades.”
“Sure. But you’ll be a master of none.”
“Fair enough.”
“Also, by ‘all,’ I’m assuming you mean a few.”
“A baker’s dozen?”
“A few.”
“Fine, but I want a big penis.”
“I thought you said you didn’t wanna be black.”
“Shit,” Rowen groaned. “Big penis for a white guy?”
“Alright.”
Rowen smiled, satisfied that this was his best negotiation yet. At the same time, he wracked his brain for more attributes that might come in handy.
Delemor smiled too, seemingly happy that Rowen had finally offered a challenge. But apparently not wanting to concede too much, he took advantage of the silence to end negotiations. “Meng Po!” he cried. “Bring out that intoxicating concoction of yours.”
“I uh …” Rowen mumbled.
Delemor mimicked Rowen’s stumbling facial expression. “I uh … How’s about you stop fuckin’ this up and start grabbing life by the pigtails?!”
Rowen felt like he was punched in the gut. Was Delemor actually encouraging him?!
While Rowen tried to interpret the situation, the adorable hunchback emerged with her fizzy beverage.
“Here you go, sweetheart. Today’s brew is guaranteed to put some ass on you. Even if you’re fated to be a white boy.”
“Thank you very much,” Rowen replied, receiving the cup with both hands and doing his best not to gag while drinking it down.
Meng Po once again helped him up. “Go to Japan,” she screamed in his ear. “You’ll be huuuge there!”
Rowen conked out as Meng Po giggled.
Delemor couldn’t help but chuckle as well. “Why do you always do that?”
“Do what?” Meng Po replied.
“Say something to him while he’s right on the verge of having his memory erased.”
“Do I need to tell you?” Meng Po replied, raising an eyebrow.
“…”
“Just fucking with him.”
Tokyo, Japan
Early 21 st Century AD
A week before coming to Tokyo, Rowen Boozewell, at 33 years old, informed his parents that he was moving out of the basement of their suburban New Yo
rk home to live out his dream of getting paid by Japanese girls to party and sleep with them.
Rowen’s parents did their best to hide their shock and mortification behind supportive smiles.
“Son, that’s great,” Rowen’s dad replied half-heartedly as he gave Rowen a pat on the back. “Perhaps you’ll be able to pick up some of the language this time.”
Rowen had spent about a year ‘teaching English’ in the beautiful countryside of Japan a few years earlier, but all he had to show for it was a self-published novel that was the literary equivalent of the MTV show, Jersey Shore.
“Yeah,” Rowen’s mom said smiling through her teeth. “Perhaps you’ll meet a wonderful Japanese girl who you can settle down with.”
“I’m gonna need a loan,” Rowen declared.
“Sure, bud,” Rowen’s dad replied, encouragingly. “Whatever it takes. Unfortunately, with the way the economy’s been, we don’t have much cash on hand, but we can move a few things around on our credit cards to get you a plane ticket, and I’m sure we can scrounge up enough cash to get you through a few months while you look for work.”
Rowen nodded. “Cool.”
Rowen’s mom gave his dad a furtive are-you-sure-we-want-to-help-our-son-become-a-male-hooker? glance.
As Rowen turned to head back to the basement, Rowen’s dad called to him. “Hey, son. You know, I could help you get a job.”
Rowen turned back around. “What on God’s green earth are you talking about, old man?”
“I mean, I know parents are supposed to allow their kids to find their own way, and I know you’d hate to be thought of as someone who got their job via nepotism, but all you have to do is say the word and I’ll find you something at the accounting firm. It’s not glamorous and it doesn’t pay much, but once you learn the trade, you’ll have a stable job for life.”
Rowen’s eyes lit up with sarcasm. “You mean, I can have a job that’s not glamorous and pays shit?! And all I have to do is study a bunch of boring crap for years and years and then I can count beans … for life?!!!”
“…”
Rowen turned on his heels. “Get lost.”
As the basement door slammed shut, Rowen’s mom looked at his dad. “Who would have thought that offering unconditional love and support would yield such monumentally shitty results?”
***
“Thank you for coming,” the cheerful receptionist said as Rowen entered one of Red Cross’ 11 blood donation centers in Tokyo.
“Oh, nothing for me, thanks,” Rowen replied, bowing his head politely while rushing toward the donator lounge. “I’m just here to meet a friend.”
The receptionist watched in disbelief as Rowen strode up to the only other white guy in the facility.
Trevor was holding a styrofoam cup of hot chocolate and munching on a sugar cookie while taking in the view of Shibuya Crossing below.
“T-Rex! Long time no see!” Rowen called out to his best friend from the English school they had taught at.
“Nobody calls me, T-Rex, bro. But it’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, too.”
“Congratulations on Memoirs of a Douchebag. I didn’t think you had it in you to write a blog post about school girl undies in vending machines, let alone an entire ‘book.’”
The fact that Trevor made air quotes when saying ‘book’ didn’t mitigate Rowen’s elation at the congratulations. “Thanks, man!”
“I have a strict policy against reading word diarrhea, but I made an exception in your case and skimmed a good deal of it.”
Rowen’s eyes lit up again. “Thanks, brother! What’d you think?”
“I was surprised by how many of my stories you usurped … and butchered.”
Rowen smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, sorry about that. For the life of me, I cannot tell stories nearly as good as you.”
“You probably shouldn’t write them then.”
Rowen optimistically interpreted this as a playful jab. “Aw, c’mon, man. It’s gonna hit big someday and I’ll buy you a drink.”
“I won’t hold my breathe. Why did you use a pen name, anyway?”
“Oh, you know. I didn’t want people to read all those crazy tales and vulgar thoughts and get the idea that I’m some kinda twisted deviant.”
“You are a twisted deviant.”
“I know, but I don’t want other people to know.”
“You and everyone else on Earth. Pussy.”
“Cut me some slack, bro.”
“Speaking of pussy, why’d you go with the pen name, John Box? Is that ‘Box’ as in ‘vagina?’”
Rowen smiled with pride. “Yeah.”
“So you’re admitting to the world that you are a walking vagina? I guess that’s kind of refreshing for a pussy. ”
“No, no, no. That’s not what I’m going for. I’ve got a bunch of different names. Like a rock star name … and a porn star name … and … okay, I’ve got three names. Rock star, porn star, and my literary name.”
“John Box is literary-sounding to you?!”
Rowen winced. “Well, it makes more sense when you hear the other ones.”
Trevor eyed him, blankly. “Go ahead.”
Rowen entered salesman mode. “Okay, so my rock star name is Johnny Box.”
“Fuck yeah!” Trevor said, sarcastically. I totally see it now. Awwwwwwwwesome.”
Rowen pushed through the sarcasm. “And my porn star name is Jack in the Box.”
“That sucks.”
“Come on, at least the porn star name is decent.”
“Sucks.”
“Well, what would you go with?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t put any thought into it.”
“Well, how about we try to come up with something?”
Trevor thought about it for a split-second. “T-Bone.”
Rowen’s lips slowly curled into a smile as images of T-Bone steaks and car wrecks overlapped with Trevor’s first initial and a rock-solid boner. “Oh yeah,” he replied, laughing. “That’s way better than mine. You mind if I use it?”
“Doesn’t really make sense for you, but go ahead, bro.”
As Trevor and Rowen were talking, another gaijin sidled up. He had slicked back hair, dark eyes, and a shady smile. “Hey, guys.”
“Francesco!” Rowen exclaimed, spreading his arms to welcome him with a hug. “It’s great to see you.”
“Long time no see,” Francesco said.
Rowen turned to Trevor. “This is the guy I was telling you about. We met at our old watering hole, the Beer Haus. He was studying at a Japanese language school while getting his medical degree.”
“Nice to meet you,” Francesco said to Trevor, extending a hand.
Trevor eyed him suspiciously, but shook his hand nonetheless.
“So, we ready to hit that party now?” Francesco asked.
“Yeah,” Rowen replied, turning to Trevor. “Why’d you wanna meet up at a Red Cross, anyway?”
“If I’m gonna drink at your pace and still get a buzz, I need to thin out the ole blood a bit.”
Rowen and Francesco laughed.
As the trio began walking toward the exit, Trevor grabbed Rowen by the elbow and in a hushed tone offered a warning. “This dude strikes me as a complete scumbag, bro. I’d watch your step with him.”
***
Underneath massive billboards featuring the hottest actors and enormous jumbotrons streaming the latest J-pop music videos is the five-corner intersection famous for being the world’s busiest pedestrian crossing.
After fighting their way through the dense crowd, the guys headed down a narrow side street and descended to the basement level of a surprisingly non-descript building.
They opened the door to the “international party” to find themselves in what looked to be a decaying conference room devoid of any furniture or decorations save for a makeshift bar near the entrance.
Shitty music blared over shitty speakers while a multitude of chinless dorks
with bulging eyes interacted with a handful of eager-to-speak-English Japanese girls.
Unbeknownst to everyone in attendance, a spirited Dionysus cheered on an inebriated Aphrodite as she haphazardly sprayed the crowd with her mischievous arrows .
A few of them plunged deep into the hearts of the unsuspecting victims. Some were mere flesh wounds. But for the most part, they seemed to hit the sexual organs of greasy gaijins finally getting a taste of popularity.
While Rowen had promised himself that he wouldn’t get involved with anyone romantically – because it wouldn’t be fair to them while he researched the host world and engaged in debauched affairs – at the precise moment that he locked eyes with a vivacious cutie, he was struck by one of Aphrodite’s fateful arrows, making him feel as if a hydrogen bomb had gone off in his chest.
Despite a severe case of the butterflies, he approached the apple of his eye and blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “What has two thumbs and wants to hump the crap outta you?”
“I’m sorry?” she replied in utter confusion.
“I mean, what has two thumbs and yellow fever?” he said, as if this line was somehow less inappropriate.
The wide-eyed girl mulled over the bizarre question. “A person with malaria?”
Rowen excitedly pointed both thumbs at his chest. “This guy!”
Surprisingly, the girl laughed. “You are a unique one, aren’t you?”
“I sure am. And you have a unique taste in clothes.” Rowen pointed at her sheer scarf which featured images of pink hearts mixed with a plethora of sushi dishes. “Do you have some kind of hentai food fetish?”
“You don’t think it’s cute?” she replied, feeling self-conscious and for some reason hoping for his approval.
“No, no. It’s cute. It’s absolutely adorable. Just like your dimples.”
She smiled not only at the compliment, but also at the sincerity in Rowen’s eyes when he said it. “Thank you. You seem different than most guys.”
“I’ve been called ‘special’ since I was a little tyke. ”
“All the other guys just ask to buy me a drink. Then I’m stuck chugging it as fast as possible to get out of monotonous small talk and awkward silence.”
“Well you’ll get no awkward silence from me, I can guarantee you that. Even if we’ve run out of conversation topics, you can count on me to sing little ditties like Turning Japanese by The Vapors.”