What happened to NaNoWriMo?
Remember when I said something about this crazy idea called NaNoWriMo. No? Really? Allow me to refresh should you be so inclined.
Did I win? Well if you mean write 50K words then no. If you mean getting in to the habit of writing everyday, however, then…still no. Writing more? Yes, a little. Fooling myself into thinking I could make this a career and claw my way out of the depths of English teaching? (Which really isn’t that bad to be honest, my schedule is sooooo slack.)
Well yes and no. I did learn this kind of thing [Writing] is a slow pot to boil and you have to heat it with book matches you picked up from a scummy bar on the bad side of town. And you have to do it one at at time. Forever. It’s enough to make a person go insane.
Anyway, how far did I get? Just over 25,000 words. Which is more than I’ve ever put down about anything. For comparison the novel I started last year for NaNoWriMo currently sits at about 9000 words. And I’m thinking of putting a bullet it its metaphorical head and sweep it away. No sir, I don’t like it.
But this one I like and think I could finish it. I just committed an ultimate sin by letting other entertainment take precedent over writing. This is because I wrote myself somewhere that just made my motivation go limp like over cooked spaghetti. Anyway, to boost my own ego somewhat (and provide a little meat to this pity party) I’ll attach the second ‘chapter’ to my novella down here at the bottom. You might remember the first part, if not here. Look at it!
Just a warning. I still haven’t edited any of this so it could be crap. Especially since it’s completely new. The first chapter was about a third old material. This one…is not. Well anyway, enjoy.
Yokai Blues: Chapter 2
Tom smacked the side of the printer with one giant blue fist. A small panel on the side of the printer said “Built Oni Tough!” Tom cracked it a few more times before it resumed spewing out paper. The hulking blue figure, dressed in the latest color vomit Harajuku calls fashion, nodded once at the offending computer equipment.
“That’ll teach you,” he said. Tom gave it another light thwack for good measure. When he turned back to his desk he saw Nick standing in the doorway, sipping a can of vending machine coffee. Tom looked back at the printer, then to Nick.
“How long were you standing there?” he asked.
“Since about three smacks ago,” Nick said. Tom turned back to the printer and narrowed his eyes at it. The bangs of his spiked, bleached-blond perm dipped low over his plucked eyebrows.
“It’ll get some more if it doesn’t behave,” he said.
“If you break it, it’ll come out of your paycheck. Not mine,” Nick said as he crossed the small office to his desk.
“Don’t worry,” Tom said, “This one’s got a year warranty against abuse by ogres.”
“And how long have we had it?” Nick said. He sat down in his chair with a small grunt. He reached down to open the lowest desk drawer. The sound of shuffling papers and cursing soon followed.
“About 11 months,” Tom said, still glaring at the printer as it calmly printed off reports like nothing had happened. He turned back to Nick.
“You finished that bottle last Friday, remember?” Tom said. Nick popped his head back over the top of his desk.
“Damnit, you’re right,” he said, standing up. Nick pointed a finger at Tom. “Just make sure when you do break it, it’s still within warranty unlike last time.” Tom started to say something but Nick cut him off.
“And no more about how you forgot it was a national holiday or whatever. You had the day off for a reason.” Nick scanned the room looking for more whiskey.
“Actually I was going to ask if you’d like me to go to the liquor store for you,” Tom grinned at Nick, showing off two rows of perfectly white, pointy teeth. “Because we’re out of whiskey.” Nick dropped back into his chair.
“Yes, please,” he said, waving Tom away, “You know where I keep the hooch money.” After Tom had shut the door, Nick pulled his hat over his eyes and leaned back to take a nap.
Nick stumbled awake when Tom came back to the office. He gave his head a vigorous shake to scatter the dreams of pencil thin metal claws. Tom pulled out several bottles of whiskey, a large one for general use and guests, two smaller ones of higher quality for Nick’s personal stash, and two cans of cold beer.
“To take the edge off the afternoon,” Tom said, gesturing to the beer. Nick glanced at his watch. It was already after three in the afternoon.
“How long were you gone?” Nick asked.
“Only about ten minutes,” Tom said, “You’re the one that staggered in here so late. What kept you?”
“Didn’t sleep well, woke up late,” Nick said. He grabbed one of the beers, cracked it, then took a few hearty swigs. A satisfied sigh, straight out of a commercial, escaped his lips. “Also,” he took another sip of beer, “I had to stop by the local police box to return something.”
“That file on the massage fox?” Tom said. He opened his beer. Nick looked at Tom, eyes sharp. He’d assumed both beers were for him. Tom either failed to notice or chose not to react so Nick let it go.
“That’s the one,” Nick set his beer down on the desk and began to twist it back and forth between his fingers. He tapped on the sides of the can a few times before taking another swallow of the crisp brew.
“She the one you were always talking about?” Tom said, “The one that’d let you sleep it off at her place for the minimum fee?” Nick nodded. He didn’t want to say anything at the moment so he just drank his beer to avoid it.
“Terrible way to go,” Tom said in that detached way most people talk about the dead they didn’t know.
“Yeah,” Nick said between sips of his beer. It was almost half empty by now. He would have to switch to whiskey soon. The sat there for awhile in silence, drinking. Outside several emergency vehicles drove by, sirens at full volume. Nick liked to try and guess which kind they were just by the sound; police, ambulance, or firetruck. He was never very good. Even after all of these years he had trouble telling the difference. The variations between them were more subtle than back home.
Tom finished his beer and crumpled it in one great hand. He took aim at the recycle bin from where he was standing like he was about to shoot a free-throw. Nick could almost hear the crowds cheering in Tom’s head from the serious look on his face. Tom let the can fly. Nick watched it arc perfectly and land two feet short of the bin. Nick laughed.
“Your form is great but you have to work on your range,” he said. Tom stomped over to the can. He picked it up then stomped back to Nick.
“Think you can do better?” he said, offering the can to Nick. Nick took it with an exaggerated bow. He leaned back in his chair and raised his arm. A casual flick of the wrist and a second later the can hit the bottom of the bin with a solid clunk. Nick raised both arms over his head, hands balled into victory fists, and looked at Tom. His face was deadpan, no expression except the light of success flashing behind his eyes. Tom shrugged his knotty shoulders then went back to his desk.
“Lucky shot,” he said over his shoulder. Nick put his arms down and picked up his beer. He finished it with a smile. Crushed the can between both hands then took aim again.
“1000 yen says you miss,” Tom said from his seat.
“You’re on,” Nick said. He took the time to calm his nerves. Every beer can that went from full to empty because of Nick ended up getting tossed at the recycle bucket. He usually made more than he missed but that was always at night after Tom had gone home.
“Either shoot or get off the bowl,” Tom said. He still had trouble with some English idioms. Nick flicked his wrist and let the can fly. This one too found its home in the bottom of the bin. Nick left his shooting arm in the air, slowly raised his other above his head, and then swiveled his chair around to face Tom. Nick’s face was the same expressionless mask. Tom looked like he had just tasted a sour milk and fermented soybean smoothie. Nick lowered one hand and made the time honored, hand over the money gesture. Tom walked over to Nick, muttering and cursing in Japanese as he pulled out his wallet. When Nick tried to take the bill Tom offered the big blue ogre clenched it in his fingers.
“You know I could snap your neck like a chicken,” Tom said.
“And you know that I spend all my train fare on booze so how about you let me enjoy my triumph?”
They stared at each other for a heartbeat before both started laughing. Tom let go of the money and Nick was quick to put it in his wallet before Tom changed his mind.
“So what’s with the interest in this fox?” Tom asked once he was back behind his desk. Nick reached for one of the smaller bottles of whiskey. He looked around but the only things on his desk were random papers of a long forgotten nature and wrappers from various quick and unhealthy food type products.
“I’ll tell you if you bring me a glass with some ice in it,” Nick said. Tom stopped typing on his comically large keyboard. Nick saw Tom roll his eyes but let it slide since the brute was getting him what he’d asked for. When Tom came back with a glass dotted with water spots and three weak looking ice cubes, Nick accepted it in an overly polite manner. Tom chuckled a little at Nick’s antics. Nick poured about two shots worth of whiskey into the glass and swirled it around to chill. He took a slow sip, savoring the burn on his lips and tongue. Nick sank back into his chair. It was then that he noticed Tom sitting on the edge of his desk, looking not unlike a child waiting to be read a bedtime story.
“So,” Tom said, “You and the fox? Did you…?” He made a rude gesture with his thumb and pinky. Nick tried not to rise to the bait but his denial didn’t sound honest enough for Tom. The Oni slapped his knee and laughed.
“I knew it!” he said. “You always had a thing for those types!”
“Need I remind you that whatever our relationship was, she’s dead now?” Nick said. He sipped his drink. Tom’s smile came crashing back to Earth and he apologized. Nick shook his head.
“No worries,” Nick said, “But yes, I did know her. So when I heard she was found stuffed into a trash can yesterday I called in a favor and borrowed the investigation file for the night.”
“Find anything interesting?” Tom asked.
“Strangest thing,” Nick said between sips of whiskey, “The report said that all of the physical damage done to her happened after death. Due to trying to fit her into the can.”
“Cause of death?” Tom said.
“Suffocation apparently. But no signs of strangulation. We won’t know more until the toxicology comes back.”
“All in all, it doesn’t sound that out of the ordinary,” Tom said.
“Well the kicker is,” Nick paused to refill his glass, “Her entire body, head to paw, was stained yellow. Like she’d been soaking in lemon juice or something.”
“It wasn’t paint?”
“Didn’t appear so. From the photos I saw the stain wasn’t covering her fur, it had seeped in right down to the root. The officers at the scene seemed to agree with me.” Tom crossed his arms in thought.
“That’s pretty strange,” he said. Then he pointed at Nick’s whiskey, “Think I can get a dose of that?”
“You’ll have to get your own glass,” Nick said, smiling. Tom lumbered off to the kitchen area once again, cursing under his breath. While Tom was in the kitchen the phone rang. Nick checked his watch, almost four o’clock. Technically he was still open. He swirled his glass again and decided to let it go to the machine.
“Answering machine’s broke, remember?” Tom yelled from the kitchen. Nick cursed and answered the phone. It was his friend from the station. Another stained fox had turned up in Roppongi. Nick thanked his friend and hung up.
“Skip the whiskey Tom,” Nick said, putting on his coat, “We’ve got another one.”