Book One, Scene One
Book One, Scene Two
Book One, Scene Three
Book One, Scene Four
Book One, Scene Five
Book One, Scene Six
Book One, Scene Seven
Book One, Scene Eight
Book One, Scene Nine
Book One, Scene Ten
Book One, Scene Eleven
Book Two, Scene One
Book Two, Scene Two
Book Two, Scene Three
Book Two, Scene Four
Book Two, Scene Five
Book Two, Scene Six
Book Two, Scene Seven
Book Two, Scene Eight
Book Two, Scene Nine
Book Two, Scene Ten
Book Three, Scene One
Book Three, Scene Two
Book Three, Scene Three
Book Three, Scene Four
Book Three, Scene Five
Fiction
vr 3.00
2008-02-16
"Good Twin, Evil Twin" by Abraxas | 2006-03-10
Book Three, Scene One
Zenku entered the office and leaned back against the door. He sighed; for a moment his nervousness lifted, his heartbeat settled, for an instant he felt at peace. Until he inhaled the air and coughed. There was just something foul about the air inside that building, something that was and would be always unclean. Along the floor by his feet were empty canisters of air fresheners; he bought them when he first moved into the office thinking the smell could be masked but that odor was too potent and that room was too tiny and poorly ventilated that the mix of the fumes only irritated his senses and he could not work – whatever his work was supposed to be.
And that, perhaps, was the strangest part of the whole business: he did not know exactly what his job was.
He dusted his coat and removed it, turning around to place it upon the hook of the door – a hook that had been poking too dangerously close against his skull. But, just as he was about to place the jacket onto the hook he noticed a bright, pin-prick of light. It was a peephole. He looked it stunned and yet not surprised. Had it been installed during his absence? Had it been there before and he had not realized it until now?
It was the nature of the building. From the outside it seemed rather constant if not unbearably normal – except for its height – but from the inside things would be different day to day. The fixtures, the facilities, from the layout of the floors to the position of the furniture, things changed. Moment by moment the building evolved, dismantling and re-organizing itself into complex yet efficient designs.
Accepting that it was there and that it was more or less a momentary feature he looked through the peephole – but it had been installed backward and only a person out in the hallway could use it.
Just then, as he was looking through it – trying to look through it – the form of a large, burly figure obstructed the field of view. It leaned into the other side of the peephole as if to see through it. The figure, whose face was distorted yet familiar, knocked.
Zenku was shocked by the fury of the knocking – he staggered aback as if stung, his body shaking, his heart racing.
The figure at the other side of the door did not bother for a reply – it must have seen Zenku’s reaction and as soon as the way was clear it opened the door and entered the room.
“Mr. Hitomi,” he said through a voice that was broken with the stammering of sudden fear and terror. Mr. Hitomi, he believed – because there was no reason to disbelieve – was his superior.
He recalled that day when he awoke and saw that huge, Manhattan-like building in Tokyo’s skyline. He could have sworn that it was not there that night and it proved to be impossible explaining its unexpected appearing. But he was struck by its beauty: it looked too much like a famous, old American skyscraper to be real. And, anyway, he needed a closer look. He left the apartment without breakfasting and walked about the streets gazing up at the building. Most of the people were oblivious to it but every so often there were others, others like him, looking into the sky. Were they seeing it? Or were they wondering what it was that he – no doubt looking like a crazed lunatic crossing the streets erratically – was staring at?
When he reached the sidewalk about the tower the effect the building exerted upon the citizens was magnified. Most of the people could not see the tower the way he could see the tower. The rest were the few who did notice it but they were completely and utterly afraid. They saw, they stared and when they became too afraid they fled. As though they knew what lurked within. It was an odd mixture, too, of the population: from street thugs to well-dressed professionals.
That was when he first smelled the miasma. It sickened him and he grew weak. About to swoon, he clung onto the walls, he staggered along the edifice toward the doors of a lobby that opened. That was when he first heard the voice of Mr. Hitomi and it sounded as annoyed then as it did now.
It should be said that Zenku heard the man but did not see the man.
He was asked for his name and he gave it meekly through the shattered voice of a man who could not stand erect. He was asked what he was doing coming there and when he himself could not give a coherent answer – his speech degenerated into a jumble of disorganized words – a hand grabbed his arm and dragged into an elevator. The rest was a blur until Mr. Hitomi brought him into that office and said he would be working there and that soon he would be meeting the boss, Mr. Onigumo.
And that was when he first saw the face of Mr. Hitomi.
“Where were you yesterday, Zenku?” he asked, his voice teeming with pent-up rage. His tone was not loud or angry but its accusatory cadence could not be mistaken.
“I, I don’t know, sir, I – I – was home –”
“You remember what Mr. Onigumo said, don’t you? Don’t you? You are to report here each and every morning from eight to four. That is your job, Zenku, this is not a place to be fucking up.”
Mr. Hitomi was a strict man. He wore a black uniform – like the rest of the guards of the building – but unlike them he was armed with a pair of swords. It was strange but he did not question it. Many things about the universe were strange yet they were.
Actually, it was Mr. Hitomi’s ears that were weirder, though most of the time the man wore his black hair long and unrestrained and it was hard to catch more than a few superficial glances of his ears.
But there was that day when he brought him up to see Mr. Onigumo.
Up to that office. In that darkness. Through that shadow he noticed Mr. Onigumo’s glowing red eyes. They looked monstrously inhuman and demonic and as he stared into them the boss’s face began to lose its human appearance. His features were melting revealing the sight of things utterly and indescribably grotesque. Things that resembled an insect’s head and body. And there was an unearthly ‘breathing’ noise – a ghastly ‘hissing’ sound – that was coming from behind him. The full-length windows with their drawn up curtains were hinting at the source of it through their reflections – and though his mind erased the sight of what he saw the memory of it, just its bare and fragmented impression, was enough to freeze the life out of his body.
He remembered he tried to turn around and leave. He recalled he struggled – with Mr. Hitomi and with another man dressed in black – but he was pinned onto the boss’s desk. He punched and kicked and someway, somehow struck Mr. Hitomi and he stumbled back. And the way he flailed his arms about to break his fall brushed his hair aside and exposed his ears.
Zenku could not forget it – his ears were longer than a human’s and pointed.
“Mr. Onigumo is not a man to be fucked with. Need I remind you,” he stressed with a strong, forceful stab of his finger onto Zenku’s shoulder, “you made a deal with the boss. He’s kept his end of the bargain.”
“Kuzen,” Zenku gulped and bit his lip, bowed his head.
“Yes, Zenku, don’t you think you should be keeping yours?”
He was reminded of the events that transpired just before he met Mr. Onigumo. It was the waiting room and there were so many people there, sitting upon the wooden chairs even upon the marble floors. He learned they had been pulled right off of the street, like he had been taken, but he did not learn more than that because the secretary, whose eyes also showed to be red, kept them from speaking to each other.
They grew to be quiet and nervous for all sorts of sounds, struggles and screams, could be heard coming through the big, double-doors of the office. A few people tried to leave but a pair of twins armed with swords kept the waiting room doors shut and would not let anyone pass in or out. When it was his turn to meet the boss he entered the office with a heavy heart; he realized only too late people entered the chamber but did not leave it.
Mr. Hitomi and that other, silent man directed him to the desk and he sat. That voice, soft yet deliberate, started to speak and lulled him into a relaxed state. The miasma thickened but his body did not react against it anymore as it started to work like an intoxicant. The voice – of the figure whose face he could not see yet – coaxed a story out of him about his twin sister and how he missed having her.
Mr. Onigumo proposed a deal. He did not believe it, he could not believe it. He tried to leave but the deal persisted and he would not believe it. It was impossible – everyone from his parents to that priest told him it was impossible. The boss promised to bring her back. She would be returned and they would be together as long as he kept his end of the bargain, as long as he did the job.
“I’ll be a good boy,” he stammered. “I’ll do my job. Just don’t take her from me. I can’t live without her.”
Mr. Hitomi nodded. He dropped a pile of newspapers onto the desk. He turned but before he left he shut the door. He grabbed the hook that was upon it and with a violent twist jerked it off and let it fall upon the jacket Zenku himself let fall upon the floor by the canisters.
He opened the door and paused to look back at Zenku: “Boy, you don’t know how lucky you are. You don’t want to know what Mr. Onigumo does to those who fail him.”
He gulped and with that the door shut and he was alone.
Standing by the desk, he looked at his jacket, at his bottles of air fresheners , and up and down he looked at the wall. Illuminated by the light of the monitors – the monitors were the only source of light within that confined and window-less office – the wall was a makeshift shrine he built and maintained for his sister. Taped onto it were pictures of Kuzen. All sorts of pictures of Kuzen. There were none of her as a baby, or as a girl, or as a teen, there never were and never would be, but there were many of her as an adult.
She looked so beautiful and as he stared at her he began to fantasize about her. He brought himself face to face with the largest of the photographs – except it was not a photograph it was printed upon the wrong kind of paper, it was too thick, too flimsy, but that did not matter for he did not see it he saw her. He kissed her image, its black and white colors tasting bland and metallic. But he was not turned off by the flavor because he did not feel the problem. He imagined it to be the flesh of her cheek and it was the flesh of her cheek. He wanted to hold against her and to grind into her. For a moment he imagined that through the picture, through the wall upon which the picture was taped, there grew the warmth of flesh – her flesh – and it was indistinguishable from having Kuzen alive right then and there.
His bulge, growing heavy and uncomfortable, throbbed between his legs and he grinded against the wall.
She was his twin sister. She was another he. And if it was not wrong to masturbate himself, why would it be wrong to yearn for her body?
“We were like this, closer, longer than any two people could be. What can be more intimate than that? If this isn’t right, nothing’s right in this world.”
A shuffle of feet came from behind the door and the pinprick of light returned, stabbing into the side of his face.
But, after all, it was not Kuzen, it was a wall –
Zenku sat at the desk and skimmed through the stack of documents Mr. Hitomi left. They were newspapers: a few were professional papers the rest were student papers coming out of local high schools and colleges. Part of his job, he reasoned, was to search through newspapers. But for what he did not know and, then, he just searched for the things that he liked. The things that excited him. Most of the time the only things that attracted that attention were the pictures of the girls.
They were all young and gorgeous. And he loved them. The beautiful ones, with their long, black hair, with their uniforms! What was it about those white shirts and those green skirts that just begged for his hand to reach into them? What were they hiding down there, between their legs, that his fingers were dying to discover?
He looked at the photographs of the girls without reading, fantasizing about the idea of just talking to one of those teenagers. Maybe feeling about their secret, intimate parts. Maybe molesting their breasts, ravaging their vaginas while they sat atop his lap and grinded their skirts into his crotch.
That fantasy was always enough to arouse him into climax and that morning it seemed to be without exception.
“If you shaved off Kuzen’s hair you would find a tattoo of that identical hair beneath.”
If she were there she would have been very cross about him getting dirty thoughts looking at those pictures. Kissing those pictures. Bringing the faces of those pictures against the tent of his crotch. More than a few of those images disintegrate within his fingers as he grinded into them and he laughed for some, odd reason at the thought of it. But there was one that caught his eye. He could not bring himself to deflower it. He stared at it, studied it. It was a photograph of Kagome Higurashi, a high school girl; the caption told about her winning a culture festival but the camera angle gave such a view of her cleavage that it sent his hand down between his legs.
“Kuzen!” he whimpered as if agonized. Without waiting any longer he tore the image out of the newspaper and taped it over the image upon the wall that he wet with his saliva. It was bigger than the photograph beneath and showed so much. “Kuzen, you want my load, don’t you? Kuzen? Let me give you my load!”
Frantically, like an animal, he humped into the wall that was already somewhat dented from all of the times before he humped into it. He grinded, thrashing his hips and smashing his body into the wall to the point where if he were not as aroused as he was it would have been painful. In that wild and furious state of mind he kept thinking about her massaging his sac and stroking about his shaft making him grow and brining him closer and closer into orgasm. He pictured it happening like in all of that pornography he loved to watch.
“Kuzen!” His face came to rest against the picture, eyes and mouth wide open. His body was suddenly very still and exhausted. He held his breath and shuddered, feeling himself squirt into his underwear. He jerked almost flopping about the wall as the orgasm continued, shot after shot. “Kuzen,” he cooed as he fell onto his knees and revealed the wet and warped image of the face of Kagome Higurashi.
Sitting aback against the chair, he swiveled from the wall of the Kuzen shrine, dented and moist, to the banks of the monitors above the desktop.
Exhausted but alert, he stared into the monitors. It must have been the one and only thing he loved more than staring at girls: staring at girls in motion. Dynamic erotic motion. He watched them in their locker rooms and their gym classes, he watched them walking about the streets around the schools their movements were so chaotic, so varied, it was like watching raindrops fall. It was never, ever, quite exactly the same from one moment to the next.
Gradually, it produced a tent along the wettest parts of his pants.
“I can’t control me, Kuzen, and you can’t either.”
END OF SCENE
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