Whitewash High: Rising Sun

Nik sat in the back of the expensive limo with Musashi and Ryuji. Lots of leg space for Ryuji's hurting knee.

"We've got a lot of time to relax before hitting Osaka. Don't be afraid to take a nap, Nik, you're the one fighting, not me," Musashi joked. "It'll be a long night. I told you what we'd win if you succeed."

"Enjoy it, gaijin, few deals like this get made," Ryuji interjected.

"I simply want to win. The prize is a bonus," Nik replied.

"Getting his game face ready, I get it, if you were not always acting like it is your time of month," Ryuji snapped back.

"I forgot to ask you something during our last meeting Musashi. I was eating in some ma and pa ramen shop and a couple goons walked in to eat too. They were talking about the rumble."

"It is always on people's lips. These kinds of events are not hidden very well. Hard to stop people from coming upon a giant melee, or talking about it. Cops don't care as long as no civvies are involved, we don't damage people's property, and keep it clean. Hell, I don't doubt they have their own informants watching on and placing bets for the organized crime division like we were a bunch of race horses," Musashi replied.

"They talked about some guy called the Highlander. Who is he?"

"Fuck, that psycho is showing up, isn't he?" Ryuji commented. "He would show his face, wouldn't he?"

"Psycho?" Nik asked.

"He is a special character, to put it lightly. Delusional psychopath high up in one of the Osakan families," Ryuji continued. "If he is showing up it can mean only one thing, Musashi."

Musashi pointed at Nik, prompting Ryuji to nod his head.

"Me? Why is a psychopath after me?" Nik questioned, confused.

"That ink on your back. He is nicknamed Highlander because he delusionally thinks there can be only one Muramune on the planet. He constantly is testing himself to beat everyone who gets inked by Muramune," Musashi answered. "He can't touch me because I'm a family boss, but it doesn't stop him from sending me invites for a throwdown."

"You mean he wants to kill you?"

Musashi waved his hand to answer no.

"Nah, killing isn't his motivation. He can't preach his superiority over a corpse. The fame of Muramune's masterpieces went to his head. I shouldn't smear him too much, his zeal over the tattoos did raise their prestige higher than they might otherwise be, but he'll fight anyone to prove himself superior. He thinks they give him mystical powers, and the more he defeats, the stronger he gets."

"Like Highlander."

"Got it in one. That means there is a big target on your head tonight. I'd be on the lookout for him during the rumble," Musashi continued. "His boss gives him a lot of leash to run with, so at least we know you're in one of the hot spots tonight."

"His boss can't order him to stay put like you can with me or the others?" Nik asked, rubbing his skull.

"He could but nothing gets Highlander charged up for a fight than knowing a Muramune bearer is showing up."

"I get that Muramune is a genius when it comes to irezumis but there are not that many around, how does he prove his superiority with such a small pool of characters?"

"Copycats," Ryuji said, head leaning back over the headrest as he spoke. "Like anything of value, there are fakes. The man is a reclusive savant. No one knows how or why he chooses who he chooses to tattoo, but that doesn't stop people from getting talented artists to slap his markings on their knockoffs. Sometimes the copies look as good as the original but somehow, someway, Highlander can tell the difference. He calls it a divine mandate to cull the unclean as he puts it. Told you, psycho. The things I get to listen to following this guy around to the big boy meetings."

"You okay, Ryuji?" Nik asked, concerned.

"It is going to rain soon. My knee always fucking aches when it rains."

"You said it aches all the time."

"It hurts a lot fucking more when it rains. I don't know why, it just does. Win and it'll improve my mood. Winning always improves my mood."

"So does cash," Musashi added.

"Gloryboy wins and the agreement is kept, I might stop busting your balls for a week so they can make us a fortune."

"Here is my advice, Nik, Highlander only matters if you make him matter. If you don't care about the irezumi the same as him, then it is just a shit kicking contest. If you lose, you lose. He is not actually going to sever your head from your shoulders. It is not a real gang war," Musashi stated. "He'll only go as deep as you're willing to take it."

"Right, so ignore him."

"Ignore the pretense and monologues, but don't ignore his power. He is an accomplished fighter. Speaking of which, thanks to you, I can make a couple strategic changes since I now know he'll be showing up."

Musashi took out a phone, picking up the legal pad he had sitting next to him in the limo.

"In another life I would have loved to be a pro baseball manager. I guess I missed my true calling."

"Gaijin, focus on winning the area. He can't take all of you on, so if he is not already there waiting for you, bullrush the defenders and hope there are few enough left for when he does get there," Ryuji instructed him.

"I'll keep it in mind," Nik nodded.

"Did Musashi show you the picture yet?"

"Of the starlet? Not a peek."

"Certified mint you'll make with her. Hottest woman on the market. Three guesses and you'd nail her easy. No pun intended."

"That the card you gave me?" he asked Musashi.

"No, a different kind of bonus. This is business, not personal. Just win and you don't have to think about it."

"Any hint at what this Highlander guy looks like?"

"He has a scar down the side of his face," Ryuji answered, rubbing his knee. "He'll find you, don't worry. He won't let the advantage slip by observing you, studying you, assuming he even shows up. How long before he fought that guy from Kawasaki to get one?"

"Took a year," Musashi answered. "No clue how the guy got the tattoo. You know the fortune someone would make if they learned how Muramune chose who he chose?"

"Again, gaijin, he is only one man. Focus on the big picture," Ryuji added.

Nik nodded, looking out the limo window as he stared at the highway lights. In front and behind were a parade of limos, cars, bikes, all manner of vehicles in the convoy. Once they hit the city limits they'd all be breaking off into different directions, all assigned a specific zone. The special one would get dropped off personally. High risk, high reward, Musashi thought. Send up a signal flare where his golden boy got posted and maybe it'd force his opponent to shift men around, weakening other areas.

X

The limo rolled up to the staging point. Other fancy cars and limos waited there, and makeshift tents were set up as if it were a university party or village celebration. Patriarchs of dozens of Osakan and Nagoyan families were in attendance. Some wore suits, some went with traditional kimonos, but all were serious. Even as grunts brought drinks and food around to the assembled guests, the air felt electric.

Musashi and Ryuji got out, walking over to pay their respects to the host. Musashi's eyes took quick glances all around him, noticing all the players who arrived or were still on their way. Most of the fat cats from his alliance were there, minus Ueno surprisingly. It caught him off-guard as he was the most militant of the ruling families.

"Yamato-san, welcome, I heard a fascinating rumor I want your opinion on," a jovial man called out, waving him over.

Standing before the jovial, the pair bowed deeply. Old, grey, and missing a few teeth, he held the reins of power in Osaka. In one hand he gripped a ceremonial fan, one someone would see in an old samurai film, matching his traditional kimono.

"What is the rumor, Mabuchi-sama?" Musashi replied with deference.

"I heard from my lieutenants that you brought in a ringer. Is that true?"

"A ringer? Oh, you mean Denzel? No, just an ambitious man looking to make a name for himself," Musashi replied.

"Is that the man's name behind the mask? Too shy?"

"Different culture, Mabuchi-sama. You can understand, considering my reputation for the eccentric."

"Jolly good, Yamato-san. I look forward to a good scrap. It gets these old bones feeling young again."

Mabuchi walked off to his ceremonial seat at the head of a large, ornate table specially brought in for the occasion. His family owned the land so a gathering on private property couldn't be raided by the cops.

"That went well," Ryuji whispered.

"As long as he is alive we'll have peace," Musashi whispered back. "Let us set up and put on a good show for him."

X

Nik ducked and weaved the fists that flew his way. When one kick targeted his midsection, he grabbed the leg and pushed the assailant backwards into the group surrounding him. He faced these odds before in his first rumble. A nobody gaijin with a ragtag team against a bunch of Osakan yakuza he never knew or heard of. A recipe for disaster but he persevered and came out on top. He got a dulled and dented new car as a reward.

Now they took the brawl to Osaka, where the hometown boys were looking to even the score and force a rubber match. The golden boy had drawn the attention of some of the Osakan families looking to put his head on the metaphorical pike after his showing the previous month. Ryuji knew this would happen so he kept pushing Nik to train at the dojo in his free time. Every ass kicking he'd receive there at the hands of Barbaydas would be one more callus to endure future pain.

Fingers clenched together, he threw a punch that struck home on a grunt's jaw. The man dropped to his knees as if shot and keeled over. Nik did not let up, finding the next assailant to line up his fists, thirsting to temper his soul with the blood of these training dummies. He saw them as a means to an end, unwitting training partners to practice and hone his skills before the real battle against Ueno's clan.

One grunt landed a couple good punches to Nik's stomach, fazing him slightly. Sucking in some air, Nik shouted to psyche himself up and unloaded his own fists right back. He could feel the blood splatter against his suit as the man hurled up from the impact. Barbaydas made him work extra long on the punching bags without any gloves or tape, completely raw until the skin peeled off his hands.

"Do you think your enemy is going to care about concussion protocols? Do you think a referee will save you if you start seeing stars circle above you when you're staring up at the sky? No, your enemy will make you eat the shit off his boot heel and you'll be drinking your meals," Barbaydas would tell him. "I think it is cute when I hear other yakuza start calling their fists Smith and Wesson after a few rounds in the ring. They think a few good punches and it is over. KO. You win. Nah, you need stopping power for that. You want real stopping power? You earn calling your fists Winchester and Remington. You blow a hole through their gut at point blank range and then you can start acting like this is a movie."

Nik remembered the speech, every single word of it. Every punch hurt. Every punch burned. The pain kept searing his senses. Barbaydas demanded Nik punch harder. Brutal, ruthless, uncompromising pain. The mercenary never said a word when Nik started screaming in anger, using his rage to fuel each punch as more blood caked the punching bag. No style or floating like a butterfly, only raw, bull, knockout power to tear a man's head off.

That is what he fired at the next Osakan grunt that locked sights on him in the park. That is what crumpled the man mid punch, cowering the men by him. The grunts became the experience fodder for Nik's blooming skills. The brightest flame is also the first to be snuffed out though.

One man pushed himself out of the manic mosh pit. Nik could see him coming his way, a sick, twisted grin on the man's face. Thick fingers unfastened a button with each step. He casually exposed his own Adonis body, sculpted out of marble and crafted for unknown hours in the ironworks.

"Gaijin, I heard stories about you from the last rumble. I've been training just for this," the Osakan gangster announced in a thick accent.

All his men moved aside to give space for the duel. A few of the Nagoyan yakuza did not care, choosing to interfere and throw themselves at the enemy officer. Brutally executed, he dodged their impotent blows with graceful leans, cracking their jaws and knees as punishment for disgracing his honorable challenge.

"There, that should keep the dogs at bay. How about it, gaijin, I need a worthy opponent?"

The twisted smile made Nik sick. He wanted to smack it off the man's face.

"You want me? You got me!" Nik shouted back.

The other officers and grunts mostly stopped fighting, intrigued at the duel. A few pairs kept whacking amongst each other but the majority started forming a wide circle as a makeshift arena, with Osakans on one side and Nagoyans on the other. They did not care that their champion was a foreigner. A challenge was a challenge and all their reputations were on the line. They had to support him.

Nik took off his jacket and shirt, tossing them to the crowd behind him. The gasps from the unknowing supporters made him grin in proud satisfaction, showing off the beginnings of his Muramune irezumi.

Both men gave a valiant battle yell, rushing at each other. Fists flew past dodges and counters. Nik had little of the grace his opponent's burly frame hid, getting nicked and sliced by knuckles. He ignored the scrapes, thinking back to his training.

"Are you going to cry? Are you going to ask for mercy? Beg for it? Do you think I will give it to you?" he heard Barbaydas scream at him as his fists rammed into his gut.

Special training he called it. Punishment training, not because he fucked up and did something wrong during practices but to mold his pain tolerance. Barbaydas did not teach much fancy footwork. He did not subscribe to the Bruce Lee schools of high-pitched shouts and lightning speed fancy feet.

"Hardcore blood and guts. You make a man answer the question 'how bad do you want it'? The problem with dodging all the time is one day someone is going to land that punch. Maybe not today or tomorrow but someday, and if you only train how to dodge a blow you never learn how to take it when the fucker lands."

So Nik tanked every punch that landed when his own ungraceful leans and jukes whiffed. He tasted blood run down his nose to find a new home on cracked, broken lips. Nik held his own though making this a fistfight of attrition. Each punch he ate he made sure the Osakan officer ate one doubly back. Cocked and loaded, Remington shotguned into the rib cage. He felt the bones crack from the punch, and the officer gasped out in pain. Forced to take a knee, and needing a hand on the ground to stabilize himself, he left himself open for a nose shattering knee.

Out like a light the officer fell backwards. Grunts went to pull his defeated body out of the arena. Nik simply turned around, turning his back on them all to show them who won. They were a layer of his tattoo, etched upon his damned soul on this journey of revenge. Muramune's reputation held enough sway among the ranks of their world that the sight of his trademark on an outline instilled fear in the hearts of weaker grunts. They were not in the presence of a ragtag, backwater officer.

"He has a Muramune. Look. It has the sign," one of the Osakan grunts called out.

"No way. A fucking gaijin trash heap? It has to be a fake."

"I heard it costs real blood to purchase it."

"It is real," a booming voice called out.

As if parting the sea, all the Osakan gangsters separated to make a single path for a lone figure standing away from the fray.

"So, brother, tell me how you were gifted a divine mandate?"

A well-dressed, well-built man walked through the crowd. Blood splattered his polished gloves and expensive suit. No doubt an officer by the wardrobe but also a rich one at that to be wearing such expensive threads to a brawl. Slicked back and thick as a forest, his hair appeared to eat a bottle of mousse every morning. A long, jagged scar cut along the temple to the outer neck.

"Brother? I'm not your brother. Who are you?" Nik asked, turning to face the man.

He sucked in air, not hiding very well the fatigue that anchored his bones and limbs.

"We were both graced with a boon paid for in blood. All who bear the flag of the master are brothers."

"If you're saying you have one of Muramune's tattoos as well, strip and show us all you're so special."

"I do not disgrace the flag by throwing it down like a gauntlet against any unworthy fool. Or do you consider my officer to be your equal?"

"I don't know anything about your clan politics or who is an officer. I'm here for a fight and that is it," Nik replied.

"You will fill the mandate's cup with all the blood you can handle, foreigner. You bear the flag of the damned. Train well, brother. I hope to see you again when your soul is worthy to do battle with its kin."

The officer smirked and turned around, leaving the brawl entirely. Nik had no time to think over the man's confusing speech though. The two sides used the duel and sudden speech to recover and lick their wounds, ready to continue as they rushed at each other again. Purely on instinct, Nik tossed a man out of the way from tackling him, refocusing on the current battle.

Despite wanting to follow the mysterious opposing officer, the renewed brawl kept Nik's attention to the matter at hand. He had a job to do and he did not plan on letting Musashi and his side down. With no respite to put his shirt back on, the tattoo got its first taste of mayhem. The one-vs-one battle against the officer wetted the palate like an appetizer. Unleashed for the first time, it could breathe in the air of carnage and chaos.

A glancing hook slid off Nik's cheek, giving him a new target of attack. The park created an orchestra of bedlam as the Nagoya soldiers fought for the same prize they defended a month ago. Musashi promised a reward for the side that won their objective and the boys always enjoyed these special rewards. The side benefits of being a pimp, pussy is the greatest motivator for frustrated, single men with nothing on their brain but booze and porn.

A pair of Osakan soldiers grabbed a tight hold of Nik's arms, struggling to contain him. Sweat greased up his muscles. A third man landed blows into Nik's gut, prompting him to hack up in pain. He did not need brute strength to slip out of the situation, using the oily muscles to squeeze out of their grasp.

The park they fought in kept itself isolated from the general public. No onlookers chose to wander in on the yakuza brawl, nor did the cops stick their nose where it did not belong. A singular car hung out under a street lamp, a prize for the taking.

The crew Nik fought with tonight were not entirely Yamato family members. Some from the Yamada clan were mixed in as well. Nik never got told roster details, only the mission. Beat the shit out of the opponent until they give up and run. Some did run, fleeing off into the night. The Osakan numbers whittled down as the fighting continued but casualties for the Nagoya crew put a strain on their resolve as well. Nik took on two or three fighters at a time, tanking punches and kicks with gritty determination.

Whoever the space case was that went biblical earlier never made another appearance but that did not mean other officers were not around to do their own damage. Osaka would not be a feared city if all their leaders were complete scrubs.

"Denzel!" a familiar voice called out. "We need to turn the battle soon."

Daisuke had shown up on Nik's flank, doing his best to push away the growing tide of soldiers.