We ask that you don’t scare the children (what few there are left) with stories or even warnings about the Evil Producer, the disembodied black entity that trumps all others in the circus of Taishomei cash grab who devours you whole but can never be satisfied, taking hotel room money bath in whatever is left of you after. Stories there are so many, and yet he was real once, circling the block after dark on a Monday night after the rain, gas stations and Gusto, even the Royal Host himself feeling hermetic.
A few fighter pilots from pizza delivery roll into action as rocket powered scooters tip off the curb and into slickened street. Passing houses, apartments, mansions, maisons, hovels there are no names for, only flags of demarcation in the form of laundry hung outside, never taken back in. How easy it would be to punch in this window and grab the handle inside, or to simply knock on a door he finds one that opens; screaming crashing chaos just mere musculature away. He's here. Have fun.
We roll around and tumble inside of Shinjuku station, the earthquake going strong for 30 weeks beneath our feet now. Lights out, probably never going back on so we sneak around looking for lost tickets and recharging stations, exit and entrance gates, on our hands and knees. Pulls fast hard slow and sideways motion. An old man in bucket hat slides around on the floor, an angry turtle on its back, mumbling to himself with much annoyance, clicking noises coming out of the corners of his mouth. Arms and legs poke out of broken debris. Station agents have stacked them into piles and traffic cones on their sides become protective barriers. The trains keep running, but the schedules are very unreliable now. The tracks have to be adjusted and maintained down in the dark without any source of illumination left. They could get the power back on, but then the trains would stop, so this is still the best way to go. Survivors say that taxi cabs running somewhere above us, but it is hard to find an exit because of the intensity of the darkness. More screams echo where the bakery used to be; adult and child, but coming with less frequency now. I think we’re all starting to get used to it down here.
Out of a sensory input node and evolutionary chart we appear, leaning on a bar on Meiji dori for hours soon after, strange quality of light in the sky above: rusted cotton candy low organ sound. Shopping bag and shuffling population, girl in an afro wig with a sales sign and relentless smile. Here a baby cart filled with tiny dogs: imperial army bullet shells strewn over the side of the pram as a decorative motif. We could go to the beach, but it’s all dried up and polluted there now. This place endlessly replicates and repeats itself for reasons unknown, some kind of automated process was turned on and just left there to burn itself out. Me too.
TORIENA earlier in a children’s playground. She hangs from the monkey bars and climbs up on the slide, parking herself there, pointed in the direction of assorted construction sites springing up all around. Two kids sit on a bench the whole time playing Nintendo DS, trapped in their tiny secret screens...