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PROLOGUE
I headed to the pub, feeling as if someone was calling me there. It was eleven o’clock at night; I slipped through the streets like a fugitive from the ghostly glow of the gas lamps before walking through the pub door. Tobacco smoke wafted all the way up to my chest as I descended the stairs to find Dazai already seated at the counter, twiddling a cup of liquor between his fingers. He was usually here. Without taking so much as a sip of what he’d ordered, Dazai quietly stared at me.
“Hey, Odasaku,” he said with a mirthful note in his voice.
I lifted a hand and greeted Dazai before taking the seat next to him. The bartender placed my usual on the counter before me without even having to ask.
“What are you doing here?” I said to Dazai.
“Just thinking. Y’know, philosophical and metaphysical things.”
“Like what?”
Dazai pondered for a moment before answering, “For most things in life, it’s harder to succeed than fail. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“True,” I answered.
“That’s why I should attempt suicide rather than commit it! Committing suicide is difficult, but it should be relatively easier to fail at attempting suicide! Right?”
I gazed at my glass for a few moments. “You’re right.”
“I knew it! Eureka, as they say! Well, there’s no time to waste. Let’s test the theory. Barkeep, got any detergent on the menu?”
“No,” the elderly bartender behind the counter replied while washing a glass.
“What about detergent with soda?”
“No.”
“Nothing, huh?”
“Looks like you’re out of luck,” I added.
I scoped out the pub once more. Being in the basement, this place naturally had no windows. The interior was like a quiet, inconspicuous badger’s nest packed with a counter, stools, empty bottles lined up against the wall, taciturn regulars, and a bartender wearing a crimson vest. This underground space was so crowded that people could just barely squeeze through the aisle. Everything in there was old, as if their existence were carved into the space itself.
I took a sip of my liquor, then asked Dazai, “So you’re in a philosophical mood tonight, huh? Did you mess up at work or something?”
“Yeah, I messed up. Big-time.” Dazai pouted. “It was a sting operation, see. It all started when we got word that some merry little group wanted to steal our smuggled goods during delivery. These friendly fellows were willing to snatch the bread out of our mouths, so I was certain they’d be some sort of imposing band of fearless warriors. I lay in wait to ambush them—my heart was racing with excitement. I thought if all went well, I could die a heroic death on the battlefield. But the dozen or so armed guys who showed up were a real scrappy bunch. The only thing worth mentioning is the machine gun–equipped canvas truck with a rocket launcher attached. I was so disappointed that I set up a trap in the warehouse, but when we surrounded them and attacked, they ran away crying. Thus, I unfortunately avoided death once again. What a boring waste of time…”
I figured as much. I couldn’t imagine the man ever actually making a mistake on the job.
“What group were they with?”
“We caught one of the little balls of energy before he could escape, so he’s being tortured as we speak. Probably shouldn’t be long before he talks.”
Those guys had some guts. I’d certainly consider them fearless warriors, seeing that they weren’t afraid of the relentless Port Mafia’s retaliation. And despite Dazai’s disappointment, they came with machine guns and rocket launchers. They weren’t complete idiots with no grip on reality.
Too bad it was Dazai they were up against.
We had a saying in the Port Mafia: “The greatest misfortune for Dazai’s enemies is that they are Dazai’s enemies.” If he wanted to, he could even have a picnic in the middle of a firefight. Dazai was practically born to be in the Mafia.
The man was an executive of the underground organization Port Mafia—Osamu Dazai.
To an outsider, seeing the title of Mafia exec on a guy who could easily be mistaken for some kid would be a hilarious joke. But they wouldn’t be laughing if they saw Dazai’s list of achievements?
?a dark and bloody list. Around half of the Port Mafia’s profits those past two years were all thanks to him. A mere stooge like myself couldn’t even fathom just how much money that was, nor how many lives were lost as a result.
Of course, all glory comes at a price.
“You’ve got some new injuries, I see.” I pointed at Dazai’s freshly wrapped bandages while taking a quick sip of my drink.
“Yep.” Dazai smirked as he looked himself over.
His body was covered in scars, the price he paid for his success. In other words, the man was a mess. There was always a part of his body that was under repairs. Once again, it really made me conscious of how Dazai thrived in the center of violence and death.
“What happened to your leg?” I asked while pointing, sure that the injury was from a horrific, gruesome face-off.
“I was walking and reading a book called How to Not Get Hurt Out of the Blue and fell into a drainage ditch.”
A surprisingly absurd reason.
“Then what about your arm?”
“I was speeding around a mountain path and drove off the cliff.”
“What about the bandages around your head, then?”
“I was trying to kill myself by slamming my head into the corner of a block of tofu.”
“You hurt yourself on a block of tofu?”
He must have been in desperate need of some calcium.
“I invented a method for hardening tofu. You use salt to absorb the water and place a weight on it…all in your own kitchen, see. It got so hard that you could drive a nail through it. Thanks to that, I know more about making tofu than anyone in this organization.”
A Mafia executive who’s a stickler for tofu production… The five execs really were on a whole other level.
“Was the tofu good?” I asked.
“Aggravatingly so.” Dazai grimaced with apparent disappointment. “I cut it into thin slices, then had it with some soy sauce. It tasted incredible.”
“It was good, huh…?” I was impressed. No matter what he did, Dazai seemed to reach heights that normal people couldn’t. “Let me try some next time.”
“Odasaku… You should’ve spoken up right there.”
I heard a voice coming from the entrance, then turned around to find a young, scholarly-looking man descending the staircase.
“You’re too soft on Dazai. You should be calling him out and whacking the back of his head with a hammer for every two out of three things he says, or else he’s going to go off the rails. Look around. Notice the awkward silence of all the people wanting to say something. Even the barkeep is trembling a little.”
