Crossover Fan Fiction ❯ My Unfortunate Whale Vision ❯ THREE ( Chapter 3 )

The rest of the week passed and I got to enjoy a weekend, getting in some gym time, doing a hundred pull ups and various arm exercises. I would need to get a bigger shirt soon, and jacket, to hide my muscles again. Komachi was eating junk food and reading one of those mean teenage girl magazines with the terrible dating advice. When she saw bad ideas she liked her face would turn evil, and he’d see her with a terrible malicious grin, like Naga The Serpent from Slayers. It was a bad look.

“Komachi… you know I love you right?” I asked her.

“Hnn? What’s that, oniisan?” she asked, looking up from the article.

“Please don’t turn evil. I don’t think I could bear it. Stay good, for my peace of mind, okay?” I begged her. She considered this, then closed the magazine and put it down. Her face returned to normal over the next minute. Whew! “Thank you, Komachi.”

She ignored the TV, because Japanese television is terrible garbage, and picked up a shoujo manga, reading that instead. It was full of cheerful storyline about goodness, which was a relief to me. I went back to reading a novel. In print, at least, the female characters weren’t automatically waddling blimps, though I often found myself drifting that way if they revealed the usual greed or maliciousness women frequently did. Small wonder that the most popular forms of fiction have women that are simple, good, and recognize a rescue and reward appropriately, not two-timing or insults like the real world. If girls in stories acted like they do in the real world those stories wouldn’t sell, and would never be published in the first place. Or they would be labelled Romance instead of Fiction.

Why is half our species so relentlessly mean? How have we come to this? For thousands of years civilizations rose by oppressing women and forcing them into the role of child rearing and maintaining the family while the husband hunted or farmed. In modern times, relatively recently, women gained many rights, and they immediately used them to become so despotic and spoiled that only fools want them, and those who risk financial union end up ruined, cheated on, and basically enslaved, with the full assistance of the law. It was madness, and Japan’s birth rates had crashed to less than one child per woman. In a few generations Japanese people would be a memory. And it wasn’t just Japan that was doing this. Korea, China, America… all the modern nations with full protections and rights for women are suffering the same fate. No babies, no future. The solution, to strip women of rights, is someone only women can propose or pass, because their voting rights and their sympathizers, will prevent any well intentioned minority of men from accomplishing it. And until the law changes, men are running away from marriage. I am no different. I’ve seen the numbers in our national statistics. Even locally, the divorce rate was 80%, and women get half of everything you’ve got, and the kids you have to pay for, and a DNA test on paternity is currently illegal without her consent. And since she’s almost certainly cheated, you’ll never get that. Instead, you pay child support and her alimony, and put her kids through college without ever knowing if those kids are yours or not.

And I can see the blimps they’ll become. I’m not blind like so many of the boys in my classroom. Even Hayato, who is smart enough not to bed Drills and just string her along for months instead, won’t risk anything to get baby-trapped. Probably. He’s probably met Miura’s mother and knows what she’ll look like when she stops caring about how she looks, grow out the black roots, cuts her hair into an easy-care bob, and gains thirty kilos like all the other women do. I’ve been to the supermarket. I know what housewives look like after they pop out their first kid. Its waddling thunder-thighs and cankles everywhere.

When you can see a sort-of future, it is harder to be fooled by a temporary youthful face. Pretty for a little while. Just long enough to get a ring and own your balls and your bank account. When I gained this lingering hallucination, all the murder suicides in the evening news started making me feel sympathy… for the man. Whose kids? Her kids. Why should a judge give her a man’s bank account when she files for divorce because she was bored, or annoyed for being caught cheating again. I really wonder why family court judges weren’t assassinated routinely in retaliation. I guess that its easier to suicide than to get revenge.

This entire topic is making me upset. I went to my room and started doing pushups. When I reached 100, I hit a stop watch and started the planking exercise, which is a lot like pushup position, only holding it to strengthen your core muscles, your abs. This is where you get six-pack abs. Since I’m not six feet tall and I don’t have a six figure income, I am safe from girls. Just so long as they never find out how fit I am. I don’t want them to harass me. I think Pinky probably wanted to. I remembered later that she was the one with the dog I’d saved from that car. I stopped after six minutes because my leg was starting to hurt.

I selected some light summer clothes and headed for the furo to wash, soak, and relax these muscles. After that I’m getting some ice water with lemon, no sugar, and a hard boiled egg with salt. I need my protein while I rest.

I eventually settled down and my mind slowed from its twisting circles of outrage and let go. Find your stoic self. Embrace indifference. Let this crap go. It isn’t my problem. I am single, I am free. I am not rescuing maidens and I am not being punished for it anymore. My leg twinged. I relaxed again and the pain faded once more.

I emerged from the furo, rinsed off, dried, and dressed in my light summer clothes. I took my exercise clothes to the washer and started a load, then headed for the kitchen and that egg. There was iced black tea, but it was sweetened, like my sister likes. I opted for water and lemon with ice. Good. Egg peeling depends on whether you cool them after boiling in cold water or not. If you do, the shell peels off nicely. If you don’t it sticks and makes a mess. I did it the right way. Salt, bite; white and a bit of yolk. Good egg.

“You’ve been kind of angry lately, bro,” announced Komachi on entering the kitchen. She poured herself the iced black tea and sat down opposite me at the table, sipping her drink.

“Yeah. Stuff at school. I don’t like this club much,” I admitted.

“Is it morally reprehensible to help people?” she asked me seriously. It was a smart question.

“Eh. Maybe? It is arrogant to help people who don’t want it, but she’s setup this club that they come to us to make requests.”

“So what is the problem?” Komachi asked me.

“The first person we helped was the girl with the dog, when I broke my leg. She wanted to bake cookies and she’s… really bad at it. I think she wanted to bake them for me, but was too ashamed to say so directly. Maybe she feels guilty about what happened.”

“Maybe if you weren’t so angry all the time since the accident you wouldn’t be scaring her off, or making her feel so guilty?” Komachi suggested.

“Sister, I’m angry because I’m in pain, and the club is on the second floor, up a couple flights of stairs. And I still think that helping people instead of myself is a Darwin award.”

“You like that phrase too much, brother,” Komachi chided. “Think of this as a training exercise for your future job somewhere.”

“I’m planning to be a contractor, not an employee, sister. There won’t be any hint of loyalty or obligation, no drunken after-work parties to suffer through. No staying late because the boss never did his work during regular hours. That’s the garbage that keeps our parents out, and left me to raise you.”

“I’m grateful for that, niichan, but you’re describing a very lonely life,” she said.

“When all the women I see resemble middle aged blimps with sour and hateful expressions, being alone is a blessing, Komachi-chan,” I answered. I cleaned up my plate and rinsed it and my glass, brushed my teeth, and headed for my bedroom to read something that didn’t upset me. Maybe some Japanese history with warring shoguns and midnight raids of neighboring villages.

The following Monday had me rising with the dawn, readying myself for school and prepping bento for myself and Komachi. The parents headed out for work before I was halfway finished, and I doubt I’ll see them again this week. What a miserable existence. I headed for the bus stop and Komachi walked with the boy Taishi Kawasaki, brother of my classmate with the ane-san tendencies and the secret smoking habit. Sometimes I’d see the nicotine stains on her teeth and fingers, and wrinkles would appear, sagging her previously pristine features into age before her time. Even a flower of youth like her joined the other girls when I could smell that tobacco on her clothes. Sensei was oblivious, since she smoked herself and her sense of smell was probably wrecked by it. The chubby woman, to my vision at least, would make good use of a Pet Food discount card, for the cat in her future.

My arms and abdomen were sore and I used breaks to find a quiet corner to stretch. I need new shirts and a new jacket. Any more workouts and I’ll tear these apart just flexing. It is frustrating, but it is better than dating some parasite with malign intentions. Peachy was staring at me again. A ribbon tied bag doubtlessly held cookies she’d managed to bake without burning, probably after multiple attempts and unknown quantities of failure and tears. If I’m nice and polite I can accept her token and end this quest, letting her off the hook and I can get back to the quiet life I prefer. I don’t want a stalker, much less a guilty stalker.

As expected, she approached me during lunch break when I was returning from the bathroom.

“Hikki. These are for you, for helping the other day. Thank you. And for the other thing. I’m sorry about your leg,” she mumbled, red with embarrassment.

For once, Japanese culture has the right words for accepting a token for getting wounded in battle by the survivors’ family, which seems appropriate here. I used the forms and she knew the correct words, which was surprising, but a relief. I accepted her token and we returned separately to our classroom before the bell rang. I tucked the package away in my bag and went on with my day. My leg ached, regardless.

After class, I went to the damned club and found Peachy waving a club form and she pulled up a chair beside Yukinoshita, chattering away. I gave them space and got to work on homework, then college prep studies. I was inclined to go to one of the four universities in Chiba City, meaning I could keep an eye on my sister in her critical high school years so she didn’t end up a single mother crying alone in an empty house, and I’d be saving my parents the costs of housing elsewhere. I wasn’t excited about student loans, so I was doing a cost-benefit analysis. I might find it more cost effective to take up investing in American companies, which mostly grow, and have a more stable currency than the Yen. Thanks to the internet, foreign investing is relatively easy if you speak enough English. I certainly don’t want to invest in those endless municipal bonds favored by Shinzo Abe’s political cronies because any fool can see those are doomed to collapse when enough old ladies die. That’s Tipping Point failure, right there. The Darwin Award of economics. When everyone is ugly, you listen to what they say, and watch what they actually do. You don’t get easily conned by a pretty smile or an attractive distraction. When starlets try a hip wiggle to sell me something, what I see is a fat woman and I feel repulsed.

Club with Peachy is a fine way to distract the Ice Princess, and leaves me able to do my work. The day ends and I return home.

The following day is a repeat, only in club I find the two girls peering in the cracked doorway, commenting about scary things. I stare at the two of them as I clunk to a stop with my cane.

“Well?” I ask loudly. They jump, which not actually being as fat as they will be in the future, means they leap faster and higher than I expect, arms waving about. I am nearly brained by a flung bookbag by Yuigahama.

“Whoa! Where’d you come from, Hikki?” she complained. I glared, then relented.

“It seems something has your rapt attention. What is it?” I asked Yukino, who seems ready to speak.

“Do you know what That is?” she asked, accusing in both tone and words. As usual, her ugly expression is revealed to me as a foul face that will someday be her future. I pity her arranged marriage spouse.

I gestured to the door so she opened it enough for me to see. Inside was a classmate, the sole person who came from my junior high school, Yoshiteru Zaimokuza. He was still suffering from Chuunibyo as far as I knew. Yes, I know that’s rich coming from a man who hallucinates old fat people over fellow students, but at least my problems are based on reasonable consequences and their own mothers looks instead of highly fantasized historical fiction like Yoshiteru did. Okay, maybe these are equally weird, but I don’t chase girls I know will be ugly someday.

Hmm. I know how to handle this. I pushed the door open and hobbled in with my cane.

“Zaimokuza-san. What brings you to the Service Club today?” I asked him loudly, because he liked being loud when it was just the two of us. The girls huddled outside the door, behind me, ready to bolt if I was attacked by the apparent madman.

“Fellow warrior. I seek your wise counsel and discretion, in furtherance of mine divinely inspired art,” he proclaimed. Then laughed, a big bellowing fake laugh. I looked around, noting written pages drifting around the floor thanks to several windows being open.

“Is that a novel? Its all over the place. Clean that up, would you?” I ordered him. He blushed and scampered around, picking up the pages, sorting them into order and returning them into the three stacks of his manuscript. Printed pages, in the age of online documents and email attachments. At least it wasn’t a mnemonic cassette tape on doublespeed. RAM Doubler is so unreliable, and making people named Johnny remember it all for smuggling is kind of ridiculous.

“Hikki? Is it safe?” asked Yuigahama from the doorway.

I eyed my fellow history enthusiast. “Are you safe?” I asked him. He sighed, nodded in sadness and waited. The girls entered, wobbling fat and jowls bouncing. Yui had been eating a lot of cookies, so her secretarial spread had expanded her phantom hips out about ten sizes. Her boobs hung to her belt line, huge swollen things, and her double chins were far from attractive. As is often the case, middle aged bodies wore middle aged clothes, and this was no exception. Both Yui and Yukino were dressed in office wear which failed to disguise their bloated fat bodies or sour expressions. Their doubt in the face of this crazy man and his novel was not doing their faces any favors.

“So, a novel, is it?” I confirmed.

“Indeed. I am in need of a courteous review to improve mine art,” he began. I waved him silent, so he stopped.

“Why don’t you submit this to online forums?” I asked.

“Alas, such places are most unfairly biased against new artists. Their hard words were intolerable. I seek more constructive criticism,” he explained woefully.

“Yeah yeah. You want us to read this and tell you what we think tomorrow, right?” I confirmed. He nodded. I passed over copies to the two girls and kept one for myself. We started to each read the story. It was… awful.

“I don’t think we need to wait. I am ready to comment now,” said Yukino with a distasteful tone.

The following minutes left Zaimokuza in shock and tears, torn apart for creating this abomination of abused words, twisted far out of shape from any sort of useful format.

“Zaimokuza, stories have forms for good reason. Tropes exist because they allow for cultural context that audiences recognize. They are comforting metaphors and used properly make for good stories. Used badly they make for crap stories which offend the senses and leave the reader feeling abused,” accused Yukinoshita. The man clutched his chest dramatically as if he’d been shot by arrows.

“You use a lot of big words,” said Yuigahama. He thrashed once more, struck by the gentle tone of the girl. Some of her wattles retracted again, leaving her only slightly overweight, a great deal less disgusting.

“So, who were you ripping off?” I asked him. He gasped loudly and passed out, fainting dead away. I clicked my tongue in irritation.

I used my laptop to find some online forums for beginner fantasy writers and forwarded the site addresses to Yoshiteru’s email, helpfully listed on the title page of his novel.

“I think we’re done here. Wake up fatty,” I called to him. He groaned. “Check your email. You can have your manuscripts back,” I offered, shoving the stacks of paper back into his arms. He fumbled with them and staggered out the door. I heard him shouting some kind of English-language babble, probably thinking he was casting a spell at us.

“What was wrong with him?” asked Yui.

“Chuunibyo, like that one TV show a few years ago,” I answered. “Could be worse. He’s a history fan. He prefers historical fiction delusions of grandeur.”

“It could be worse? How bad could that get?” asked Yukino.

“Full blown schizophrenia usually kicks in after age 30, if it’s in the genetics and there are triggers present in the environment. Marijuana abuse is one of the common triggers and can make it hit at age 20, depending on the frequency of the drug abuse. That leads to full hallucination and inability to recognize visions from reality. The muttering hoboes that attack people or talk to lamp posts are schizophrenics. Our government considers those people not to exist, so provides no long term hospital care for them. Civilized governments house and care for them. That is how bad it can get. The anime had a relatively happy ending.”

“Ugh. Figures you would know,” complained Yukino, taking the cut about government indifference as a personal affront. She adjusted her glasses at me in anger.

“I was nearly in your class, Miss Yukinoshita,” I reminded her. I packed up my things and headed out of the clubroom, towards the shoe lockers, the bus stop, and home.