DEFEAT. 031 – Into Your Black Heart

[DEFEAT. is Rendar Frankenstein’s truest attempt at fiction.   Presented in weekly episodes, the novella tells the tale of Daryl Millar – a hero who dies at the intersection of pop culture, science-fiction, war epic, and fantasy]

The man in the black suit had sex on his mind and murder on his lips. He strolled about the bar casually, basking in the waves of smoke and perfume and unadulterated passion. Ah, this feels so damn good he mused, soaking up the human emotions of which he was usually devoid.

Of which he was usually incapable.

But a year had come and gone, and the man in the black suit was again granted his one day. Twenty-four hours in which he would not only be able to feel again, but to feel in a way that no human could fathom. Sensation amplification, if you will. Food and wine tingling on the tongue in such a manner as to border on erotic ecstasy. Every neon bulb in the bar shining brighter than it had been ever been designed to. The chatter and laughter and soft whisperings behind ears, every single syllable being heard with a stereo clarity that wouldn’t be mastered for decades. Aromas, even sweat and tears, hitting his nose with a candy shop sweetness.

And touching another human being – well, that’s what the man in the black suit spent the year looking forward to the most.

Even incidental contact, brushing by others as he made his way through the lounge, was enough to make him close his eyes and breathe heavily. This pushed the man in the black suit toward his emotional precipice, threatening to derail his plans if he wasn’t careful. “Oh my,” he exhaled, “I had better get to it.” He was acting with resolve. Dark, deadly resolve.

Moving towards the back of the bar, the man in the black suit scouted the scene. He was one of only a few men at the club that wasn’t a soldier. And soldiers always wooed the girls away. A symptom of the times he figured. But for every member of the armed forces present, there were at least three civilian women. So there were plenty of choices, and besides, trying to filch away a woman from one of these soldiers would’ve been bad news.

Not that the man in the black suit couldn’t kill the lot of `em. But he didn’t want the mess. Not on his one special day of the year, anyway.

A stroke of luck! He spied a dainty, raven-haired beauty sitting by herself at a table, milking a cigarette for all its worth. Her impeccable smile, her slender frame, her gossamer throat, it was all so sexually invigorating. Even her pale complexion — she wasn’t a Geisha, but her milky face wasn’t too far off — it screamed for attention in the midst of a society that generally asked all members to keep their eyes glued to the floor.

And feeling the bloodlust rising within, the man in the black suit couldn’t help but imagine how good it would feel to absolutely destroy the girl. To pillage her. Mind. Body. Soul. Consentual sex wouldn’t suffice, not on this day of hyperbolic sensation. No, he would forcefully enter her, deposit his rotten, lifeless seed, and then murder her. Approaching his prey, he conjured images of wrapping his hands around her throat and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing existence away.

“Hello. How are you this evening?”

A smile and nod of the head.

“You are quite beautiful.”

Again, a courteous smile and nod of the head.

“I would like to impress you now. That way, my charm will make you feel comfortable enough to accompany me to my lodging. Once there, I will brutalize you with a force that you could never understand.” The man in the black suit laughed all of this out, offering a misleading smile that he had used to swoon many a dame.

A third smile and head nod, this time accompanied by a muted giggle. If only her father had not forbidden her from taking English classes.

“Okay then, let me think…Oh, how about a magic trick? Here, give me your cigarette.” The man delicately snatched the half-consumed smoke, snuffing it out on the table. The prospective victim put her fingers up to her mouth, giggling with a tender curiosity. He then held extinguished cigarette between the index and middle fingers of his right hand while holding open his left hand.

“Now, look here my little Bonsai, I’m going to show you a miracle.” From the center of the man’s left palm, a bright blue flame arose. The heat startled the young woman and she found herself recoiling. But for only a second, and then she leaned forwards, trading glances between the ignited hand and composed face of the westerner before her. She was overwhelmed with awe. To her detriment.

The dark suited man then used the fire produced from his left hand to relight the cigarette in his right. He blew a ring of smoke which circled the woman before him. He then returned the cigarette to its rightful owner, placing it into her mouth himself. He let his fingers take an extra second, slowly dancing upon the half-open lips.

She was his to do with as he pleased.

The man in the black suit was about to get up from his chair, wrap his arms around the beauty before him and whisk her away to an evening of horrors. But as he made his first move, he felt a definite tapping on his shoulder, hitting him with a gravity that only came only once a year. Turning his head to see who would dare interrupt his ritual, he saw a strong fist shooting out of a gray suit coat.

He knew. Immediately.

All of his confidence, the self-assurance he called upon when demonstrating his mystical abilities, the determination to lure a hapless civilian to her death, it all drained out of him when he realized what was about to happen. Turning around in his seat, the man in the black suit locked eyes with the man in the gray suit. He knew the game was over and tried to face it with courage. He failed.

“Master Kendolph? Is that you? It’s been so long…”

Kendolph issued a command to the woman, “逃げ!”

“Master! It is an honor to –”

“Silence. You are not my apprentice, not anymore. You’ve put on the black robes. So I stand before you now not as your master, but as your executioner.”

In a flash, the man in the gray suit unsheathed his samurai sword — a weapon indigenous to the country. Kendolph had always made a point to fix his mistakes using native tools. He found something wonderfully poetic and appropriate about it.

As though even a violent action could be picturesque, when carried out with respect for the venue.

The patrons of the bar wouldn’t disagree. As blood exploded from the man in the black suit’s throat, no one screamed or cried or yelled for help. They all watched, as did Kendolph, as the final fluids made their way out of the mortal wound. The man in the black suit never fell out of his chair and so when he died, he simply slumped backwards.

Kendolph removed a gray handkerchief from his coat and cleaned the blade of his sword. Rid of the disease, the corrupted blood of a man who once held so much potential, the sword was returned to its protective sheath. And as he would never have need for it again, with this being his final journey to Japan, the man in the gray suit did the noble thing.

On his way out of the bar, which was never interrupted by a question as to why he had just conducted an execution, he gave the samurai sword to a soldier.

“May this weapon find a home in your enemy’s heart. And should you fail, may it find a home in your enemy’s hands.”