Post by the Schadenfreude on Mar 16, 2021 13:22:22 GMT -5
Tokyo is in bloom early again this year. Ueno Park is bright with color and happiness; especially, with the waking sun. Children laugh, passing through on their way to school; businessmen set up big-money deals for the day in their rush; walkers stroll by, casually smelling the cherry blossoms; and bike riders break their first sweat of the day.
In striking contrast, Schadenfreude sat on a yellow bench gazing into the steam lifting from the surface of the channel.
Above him, a cawing murder of crows picked the branches clean of blossoms. They didn’t eat the entire flower, only the juicy centers full of insects. Handfuls of discarded petals laid around the bench and at his feet.
Needless to say, the locals went out of their way, starting three or four benches in each direction, to avoid walking anywhere near him; much less, directly past him. They choose instead to use the wider bike path behind him, side-eyed whispering as they went.
His wool suit, though stylish, was out of season.
His beard desperately needed a trim.
None of this was frightening to the small child tossing handfuls of seed and closing quickly. Not that the child was paying any more attention to the seed than the crows gave the empty blossoms and, just as he had been bombed once or twice from above, Schadenfreude was pelted with a small handful. He didn’t turn to scold the child, he simply dusted it off of the breast of his jacket and lap of his pants.
“Sorry,” the child’s mother was profuse, “please, excuse her.”
The child jerked her little arm away from her mother’s grasp and headed straight at him.
“Kon'nichiwa!”
“Ohayō,” Schadenfreude greeted reluctantly with a forced smile.
“Karera wa,” the child looked up into the tree, timidly hiding her eyes beneath her brow, “anata no mono?”
Schadenfreude shook his head, no. The child lifted her bag and he shrugged in response.
Not knowing nor caring, either way, she dipped her hand into the bag and spread the seed mix on the narrow walkway ahead. If the crows didn’t eat it, there were swarms of pigeons in the surrounding trees ready to swoop in. Had it not been for the crows, they may have been as immediately brave as the sparrows; however, it wasn’t until the child was long gone before the pigeons dared.
“What makes one ‘violent’,” Schadenfreude pondered aloud not expecting an answer.
“Was that for me?”
Schadenfreude wrinkled his brow and twisted his mouth before turning his head to the right, finding only a pigeon perched upon the arm of the bench. The pigeon stared back at him, twitching its head erratically and fluttering its eyes, but demanding an answer.
“I can’t say I was asking you directly,” Schadenfreude provided, sheepishly speaking to a pigeon on a park bench, “no.”
As if the pigeon were to say, “No, that,” it moved its head, nodding with a repeated pecking toward the seed.
“Oh, right,” Schadenfreude almost chuckled under his breath, “sure, what was I thinking?”
The pigeon glided down from the bench to the offering and ate, oblivious to Schadenfreude.
“Maybe, it’s in his name?”
“Seriously,” he tried to work it out, “does coming out as Junior Vivacious make this guy any more full of life than the next? I don’t think so, not any more than someone calling themselves Violence or Goode.”
Right? It made sense to him anyway. Besides, his own name is Schadenfreude and the only misfortune he has experienced recently is that of his own. There’s no relishing in that.
“That can’t be,” he shook his head.
The noise in the tree above ceased.
It was silent, for only a moment, before the sound of rushing wings kicked up and flung about the seed on the concrete. A crow had dive-bombed from high in the branches and chased the pigeon away from where it ate. It was a wild and quick getaway, but the pigeon was safe when the crow returned to cackling with his companions.
Hearing them reminded him of Goro Yamashi, who, even in defeat, found sadistic humor in an oversized child’s game only nights ago. Their score had gone back and forth, all the while, Yamashi teased. There was no doubt, Yamashi was the most violent person that Schadenfreude knew: a renowned game master known for bending the strongest of wills to his own.
“Yamashi just has that way,” he scoffed. “He knows your weaknesses, persuasions, and perversions and he uses them to make you do things ...like, sure, come, drink, play a game, and win sexy bitches.”
Then, another pigeon landed and began to feast.
“Hell,” he shrugged, “some of these weak-minded, easily-offended types would find what I did last night to be ‘violent’ -while others, including those six little tarts, may find it quite pleasurable.”
The same crow swooped again, from high up in the tree, but missed and the crows soon returned to laughing as another pigeon flew fast and away.
“Yeah, fly away,” he lightly applauded the escape, “meanwhile, I’m stuck here.”
To go home to Chichijima is a twenty-four-hour ferry ride there and another back. There was no sense in that. While his fellow competitors zipped back and forth between here and there, he remained here. There was also no sense in lagging himself repeatedly - “As if time doesn’t exist;” especially, having just returned to Tokyo from Vancouver.
“Fucking idiots,” he slightly shook his head, “but there’s the real violence of all of this. After I snap ARMBAR, I’m going to step onto a plane, fly fourteen hours to The States, only to step off of it at the exact same time on the exact same day that I stepped on. Saturday, which should have already happened, is next and full of promotional stops, and then, on Sunday, I debut for Union Battleground against Johnny Violence in Atlantic City. Let’s do the time warp…” he mocked melodically.
Rustling upward into the tree, the crows didn’t care too much for his song, but another pigeon had landed and was picking the sunflower seeds from the little of the mix that remained.
“I know a lot about violence, but I don’t know much about Johnny,” Schadenfreude sat back, talking to the birds. “Besides the obvious, he’s won his first two matches, but any Battleground Network subscriber can tell you that. I’ve won two matches before,” he looked up, the sparrows had returned, “I’ve won two matches in a row before,” and then they seemed to scurry, bouncing away into the grass; “I’ve also picked up the loser’s take at the window for a month before seeing another win. You’ll need a Yamashi service to see…”
“Who cares?” The tree was silent.
“I want to mangle his hands,” his thoughts escaped him.
Just as suddenly, all of the breath was knocked from the pigeon. It was bombed, hard and fast, with all of the velocity of the diving crow. Rolling twice before slamming against the iron bars that fenced the channel, the pigeon was then pounced upon by its attacker. The raven squeezed both talons, digging in. Two double-foot stomps and the crow bit down on the pigeon’s throat and ripped out its jugular.
“If he never makes that fucking geek-gang sign again,” he marveled at the crow, now enjoying a freshly plucked eyeball, “I will so enjoy ripping the thirty-four muscles from the twenty-seven bones that he uses to make that…”
His phone rang, the sparrows took off, but the crow continued his breakfast.
“Laimee, hi, ohayō” he answered, straightening the left side of his suit jacket, “oh, nothing. Just watching a crow eat a pigeon and talking to myself.”
The crow continued in bites; plucking and spitting away feathers to shred the skin away and rip out chunks of meat. It watched, chewing, as Schadenfreude discussed his itinerary, argued about some of the promotional payouts, and excited over a new order of shirts.
Finished on the phone, Schadenfreude commented, “I’ve eaten duck, pheasant, chicken, and turkey, of course, but never pigeon. Not even out there,” the crow tore off another bite. “You seem to be enjoying it though.”
In striking contrast, Schadenfreude sat on a yellow bench gazing into the steam lifting from the surface of the channel.
Above him, a cawing murder of crows picked the branches clean of blossoms. They didn’t eat the entire flower, only the juicy centers full of insects. Handfuls of discarded petals laid around the bench and at his feet.
Needless to say, the locals went out of their way, starting three or four benches in each direction, to avoid walking anywhere near him; much less, directly past him. They choose instead to use the wider bike path behind him, side-eyed whispering as they went.
His wool suit, though stylish, was out of season.
His beard desperately needed a trim.
None of this was frightening to the small child tossing handfuls of seed and closing quickly. Not that the child was paying any more attention to the seed than the crows gave the empty blossoms and, just as he had been bombed once or twice from above, Schadenfreude was pelted with a small handful. He didn’t turn to scold the child, he simply dusted it off of the breast of his jacket and lap of his pants.
“Sorry,” the child’s mother was profuse, “please, excuse her.”
The child jerked her little arm away from her mother’s grasp and headed straight at him.
“Kon'nichiwa!”
“Ohayō,” Schadenfreude greeted reluctantly with a forced smile.
“Karera wa,” the child looked up into the tree, timidly hiding her eyes beneath her brow, “anata no mono?”
Schadenfreude shook his head, no. The child lifted her bag and he shrugged in response.
Not knowing nor caring, either way, she dipped her hand into the bag and spread the seed mix on the narrow walkway ahead. If the crows didn’t eat it, there were swarms of pigeons in the surrounding trees ready to swoop in. Had it not been for the crows, they may have been as immediately brave as the sparrows; however, it wasn’t until the child was long gone before the pigeons dared.
“What makes one ‘violent’,” Schadenfreude pondered aloud not expecting an answer.
“Was that for me?”
Schadenfreude wrinkled his brow and twisted his mouth before turning his head to the right, finding only a pigeon perched upon the arm of the bench. The pigeon stared back at him, twitching its head erratically and fluttering its eyes, but demanding an answer.
“I can’t say I was asking you directly,” Schadenfreude provided, sheepishly speaking to a pigeon on a park bench, “no.”
As if the pigeon were to say, “No, that,” it moved its head, nodding with a repeated pecking toward the seed.
“Oh, right,” Schadenfreude almost chuckled under his breath, “sure, what was I thinking?”
The pigeon glided down from the bench to the offering and ate, oblivious to Schadenfreude.
“Maybe, it’s in his name?”
“Seriously,” he tried to work it out, “does coming out as Junior Vivacious make this guy any more full of life than the next? I don’t think so, not any more than someone calling themselves Violence or Goode.”
Right? It made sense to him anyway. Besides, his own name is Schadenfreude and the only misfortune he has experienced recently is that of his own. There’s no relishing in that.
“That can’t be,” he shook his head.
The noise in the tree above ceased.
It was silent, for only a moment, before the sound of rushing wings kicked up and flung about the seed on the concrete. A crow had dive-bombed from high in the branches and chased the pigeon away from where it ate. It was a wild and quick getaway, but the pigeon was safe when the crow returned to cackling with his companions.
Hearing them reminded him of Goro Yamashi, who, even in defeat, found sadistic humor in an oversized child’s game only nights ago. Their score had gone back and forth, all the while, Yamashi teased. There was no doubt, Yamashi was the most violent person that Schadenfreude knew: a renowned game master known for bending the strongest of wills to his own.
“Yamashi just has that way,” he scoffed. “He knows your weaknesses, persuasions, and perversions and he uses them to make you do things ...like, sure, come, drink, play a game, and win sexy bitches.”
Then, another pigeon landed and began to feast.
“Hell,” he shrugged, “some of these weak-minded, easily-offended types would find what I did last night to be ‘violent’ -while others, including those six little tarts, may find it quite pleasurable.”
The same crow swooped again, from high up in the tree, but missed and the crows soon returned to laughing as another pigeon flew fast and away.
“Yeah, fly away,” he lightly applauded the escape, “meanwhile, I’m stuck here.”
To go home to Chichijima is a twenty-four-hour ferry ride there and another back. There was no sense in that. While his fellow competitors zipped back and forth between here and there, he remained here. There was also no sense in lagging himself repeatedly - “As if time doesn’t exist;” especially, having just returned to Tokyo from Vancouver.
“Fucking idiots,” he slightly shook his head, “but there’s the real violence of all of this. After I snap ARMBAR, I’m going to step onto a plane, fly fourteen hours to The States, only to step off of it at the exact same time on the exact same day that I stepped on. Saturday, which should have already happened, is next and full of promotional stops, and then, on Sunday, I debut for Union Battleground against Johnny Violence in Atlantic City. Let’s do the time warp…” he mocked melodically.
Rustling upward into the tree, the crows didn’t care too much for his song, but another pigeon had landed and was picking the sunflower seeds from the little of the mix that remained.
“I know a lot about violence, but I don’t know much about Johnny,” Schadenfreude sat back, talking to the birds. “Besides the obvious, he’s won his first two matches, but any Battleground Network subscriber can tell you that. I’ve won two matches before,” he looked up, the sparrows had returned, “I’ve won two matches in a row before,” and then they seemed to scurry, bouncing away into the grass; “I’ve also picked up the loser’s take at the window for a month before seeing another win. You’ll need a Yamashi service to see…”
“Who cares?” The tree was silent.
“I want to mangle his hands,” his thoughts escaped him.
Just as suddenly, all of the breath was knocked from the pigeon. It was bombed, hard and fast, with all of the velocity of the diving crow. Rolling twice before slamming against the iron bars that fenced the channel, the pigeon was then pounced upon by its attacker. The raven squeezed both talons, digging in. Two double-foot stomps and the crow bit down on the pigeon’s throat and ripped out its jugular.
“If he never makes that fucking geek-gang sign again,” he marveled at the crow, now enjoying a freshly plucked eyeball, “I will so enjoy ripping the thirty-four muscles from the twenty-seven bones that he uses to make that…”
His phone rang, the sparrows took off, but the crow continued his breakfast.
“Laimee, hi, ohayō” he answered, straightening the left side of his suit jacket, “oh, nothing. Just watching a crow eat a pigeon and talking to myself.”
The crow continued in bites; plucking and spitting away feathers to shred the skin away and rip out chunks of meat. It watched, chewing, as Schadenfreude discussed his itinerary, argued about some of the promotional payouts, and excited over a new order of shirts.
Finished on the phone, Schadenfreude commented, “I’ve eaten duck, pheasant, chicken, and turkey, of course, but never pigeon. Not even out there,” the crow tore off another bite. “You seem to be enjoying it though.”