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...
My webcomic Hypersonic Music Club, which I write and Hiroyuki Takahashi draws, is a thing now and we have several (!!!) anime industry and licensing people looking at taking it to the next level. But now is sort of a crucial time where we have to show traction / buzz / interest. If anyone wants something killer cool to hang on their wall, you could actually spend a few bucks on this and I will kiss you on the astral plane!
Back to yawning face red skin disease because it pleases the gods. He is rudder and harsh, hair tonic and cough drops. She is skull with skin pulled gently over it, false eyelashes and watery mascara caught in the rain stretched out over fields of black down winter coats now past their welcome, cocooned in cold grey city, never understanding modulation because someone needs to make you humid humid humid in here. I am tired hip socket joint laying down legs in fetal position left. Everything was done and tried before a million times because maybe it pleased the gods before tonight.
Evil rusted wormwood lungs lying on the floor all day. Itchy eyes, people trying to break into my head, runny nose, running away from America. Bathing in red sundown Shimokitazawa. It’s a weird little diorama from the front of the magazine.
Flashback to something we had nearly forgotten about because the years are getting on now: Aspiring biological entity Pedro Edogawa doesn't know anything anymore and prolonged exposure to different time zones, never ending jet lag, extended periods of isolation, crowded narrow spaces, languages he can’t fully speak or read supplemented by a short list of phrases that get him through the day without any incident, spinning forward on purity café time hoping the staff has forgotten about him so he can stay forever, avoiding eye contact deliberately and instinctively, legs and feet always walking, always hurting, pretending he is invisible, just a fixed point of sensory input that glides through the tunnels and sidewalks of Tokyo3 like second hand smoke that no one seeks to pinpoint anymore, mixing in as it does with a light mist of human odor that is inescapable when he’s pressed flat against a door and window on the Doubutsu-sen with others like himself speeding backwards on tracks to a fixed series of destinations and transfers like this one right here.
Hiroyuki Takahashi is a Japanese artist whose eye-popping work is supercharged with the influence of anime and manga. Now, he is teaming up with Crunchyroll for a series of exclusive new projects. Read an interview with Takahashi and enjoy his art via an image gallery, after the jump!