Fictional Short Story: Ikuo Hayashi

IKUO HAYASHI

The weathered middle-aged Japanese man looked thoughtfully at his newspaper covered packages. The mere sight of the duo made his stomach feel knotted up. A bony finger with a gold ring tapped in synch with the other three fingers along the dusty old window pane he commonly stared out through when he was nervous or in deep thought.

Ikuo Hayashi shifted softly in his seat, gripping a pointed umbrella in his left hand. With his right hand he placed the packages on the ground so he could tweak his glasses as was needed desperately, or at least so in his mind. He said nothing as the gangly, pale Tomomitsu spoke to him about escape routes and the such.

He used to save lives through his beautiful work on the heart, back when he worked at the Keio Hospital. That was, however, before the Aum Shinrikyo, before Shoko Asahara made him one of his favorite personnel and put him in charge of the Ministry of Healing. Now Ikuo would no longer saves lives. No. Instead, he would be a harbinger of death--as he understood it while his Aum brethren understood, or at least thought they understood, otherwise.

"Heeeey...Ikuo, hajimemishite?" barked the ghoulish Tomomitsu.

"Mmmf..." the middle-aged Hayashi replied.

Ikuo knew better than to tell his colleague how he was feeling. He'd be better off dead than like those he'd "treated" in the past when they were suspected of wavering loyalty. He finally spoke up to appease Tomomitsu. In fact, he assured him all was well in the best way he could.

"Moshi moshi!" came a litling voice from off to the side. It was Ikuo's alarm, greeting the day and signifying also that it was the start of the depravity to follow.

Ikuo rose to his feet from the chair and secured his belt so his business slacks would not fall. He then tended to his plain grey tie, straightening it out so it'd look just perfect. He gently placed his copper-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose while staring into his reflection from the window complacently.

Tomomitsu started yelling at Ikuo about not worrying about his appearance. Ikuo ignored the younger, more brash man as he checked his blouse so it didn't have a single crease in it. Once satisfied with the rest of him, he put on the final touch--the surgical mask. In this culture, he'd be able to blend in without suspicion as opposed to America or Canada where he'd probably be seized and searched on the spot.

Ikuo dipped down and tucked the packaged under his right arm while he grabbed his umbrella in his left. Then cam that uneasy feeling again. Thoughts of I'm a doctor! and the conflicting It's for the Aum! Do it for Asahara. Destroy the corrupt government and bring the Apocalypse!

The conflicting sides caused Ikuo to drop everything and grip the finely combed hair on his head in anguish, his knuckles turning a grim white as his fisted clenched tightly. After moments had passed, he was okay. He fixed up his hair and picked everything back up. He knew, or thought he knew, that he needed to do this. Topple the government, make Shoko Asahara king of the once glorious, but now fallen Empire of the Sun, and hasten the Apocalypse. But he still felt bothered. The voices didn't seem to stop. He left, nonetheless, without a word to partake in what would be known in the news as the Sarin Gas Attacks on the Tokyo Subway.

Sucked ass, it had no point at all. Negative 9 out of Positive 10.

Led's just mad because he doesn't have finely combed hair.