As I continued to run, navigating the maze of alleyways, it dawned on me that I no longer had any idea where I was. One would think I wouldn’t be alone in this dilemma. That is to say, if I myself didn’t know where I was, surely my pursuers didn’t, either. Unfortunately, that proved not to be the case. Every time I tried to pause and lean against a wall to catch my breath, I heard the four men’s stifled, breathless exchanges close behind. I was forced onward, running, panting, darting from one alley to the next.
My poor capacity for quick thinking became patently clear when one alley I chose turned out to be a dead end. A sense of hopelessness descended upon me. I knew this feeling. I’d felt it before, when I sat for the entrance exam at a certain university that shall remain unnamed and took my first look at the math section.
I stood unmoving at the end of the cul-de-sac. Worn wooden fences flanked both sides. Before me was an imposing concrete wall, towering far above my head and conscientiously topped with a string of barbed wire. One could feel the landowner’s desire to teach trespassers the literal meaning of the term bloodbath. At the base of the concrete wall was a small iron door—the kind of thing a nervous white rabbit might dart through, late for his date with the queen.
I grabbed the handle of the tiny door and pulled to no avail. It could have been frozen solid for how fast it held. Behind me, I heard the four men drawing ever nearer. I began to wonder if there was a bloodhound among their party; it would explain their dogged persistence. In any case, a mixture of breathlessness and rage had reduced their communications to a series of primal grunts, and the grunting sounded dreadfully close. I certainly couldn’t retrace my steps. I’d run straight into their waiting arms, which would proceed to pummel me to a fine pulp.
At this point, I’d sapped a great deal of their time and energy. Honestly, there was no telling what they’d do once they got their hands on me now. I didn’t want to think about it. Unfortunately, it’s the unwelcome thoughts that tend to kick one’s imagination into overdrive. Mine began to paint a sweeping panorama of self-torture for my mind’s eye. There I was, wrapped up tight in a bamboo mat by my pursuers, about to be hurled to a watery grave at the bottom of the Kamo River. Or perhaps they’d leave me dangling stark naked from the university clock tower. Maybe they’d tie me up with bondage ropes using the tortoise shell pattern and then dump me on the asphalt at the center of the Hyakumanben intersection to await my fate.
I pressed my back to the concrete wall, mentally facing off against my approaching assailants. All the while, I continued to flex and strain my gray matter, trying to squeeze out some genius way to escape from the imminent confrontation. It was failing spectacularly. All that came to mind were more images of myself nude and dangling to and fro in the wind.
I searched the pockets of my coat—a very special coat my grandfather had left to me. The only unexpected find was the mangled rind of a satsuma. I turned my attention to my surroundings, searching, grasping at straws. I spotted a lonely, desiccated pile of dog feces resting in one corner. I grabbed it. I didn’t know what I was going to do with it, but my search for straw had at least yielded shit.
It was the dead of freezing night during the busiest month of the year. Orion glittered overhead, my brain filled with adrenaline, each cheek unleashed rivers of sweat, and my lips were pursed into the absurd grin of a zebra. In my right hand, the satsuma peel. In my left, the dog shit. I curled my arms before me into the imposing stance of a Nioh. I was Musashibo Benkei, riddled with arrows atop the bridge. But unlike the great hero, my legs trembled, and my heart seemed like it would give out any second. I wanted to cry but couldn’t, and tears weren’t going to help my situation anyway. I tilted my head back to the heavens, offering one final plea to the great shrines of Fushimi Inari, Kitano Tenman, Yoshida, and Kitashirakawa Tenjin to keep me safe. Please spare me from the bamboo mat. But that doesn’t mean I’d rather be stripped naked. Please spare me from the stripping, too.
“Hey!” hissed a voice. “This way!”
I looked to my side. The iron door, once closed tight, was now ajar. A man’s face peeked through. Though my brain failed to process his identity in the moment, the ratty stubble at his chin seemed awfully familiar.