Blood on the Katana Sword

Chapter 9 & 10

Make way, make way, move over, folks! Bleeding Hero, coming through! What, you New Yorkers never seen a hero covered in blood before? Try moving across the country to Hollywood in LA for a day or two, you’ll see plenty of ‘em there!

(Except that it’s pretty embarrassing to have all your blood covering one’s crotch area, stained at the front of your pants in GREAT CONTRAST with the garment’s colour, for all the world to see……)

I’m on the bus home. Everyone’s looking at me, even the bus driver glancing my way through the front mirror every now and then. The black colour of my stretchy denim jeans kinda makes the bright red stand out. I’m glad everyone can see (and probably smell too) that it’s blood and not pee. After all the HELL I went through and put my life in danger from a skyscraper for a miserable bloody sword (pun not intended), the last thing I want is look like I peed my pants and seem like a coward when in reality I ain’t no bloody coward (pun again NOT intended!!!!). I’m still transitioning, but on the outside I still look like a girl. Sort of. Can still pass of as one. A rather punk-rocky-tomboyish-type kind of girl. No one’s gonna give me a hard time for “being” a boy with blood on his pants. The best (or lamest) excuse I could come up with is that I had s*x with a girl while she was on her period and ran out of toilet paper at her place so I just slipped my clothes on and left with a red, bloody groin.

But what about the sword? Oh, the sword. I’m glad you noticed, dear fellow New Yorker, that another New Yorker is just walking around the city with a super-old sword like it’s a norm here. What? Is it a prop for a movie shoot or something? A lot of American movies were shot in New York after all, whether partially or entirely. So yeah, I’m a Superstar, and all this blood is just make up or special effects or additional colours/fabrics sewn onto my pants. Completely harmless. You want an autograph while you’re at it?

Heh. I am pretty good at excuses when I need be. Lol.

I got the sword. I got the goddamn sword. Finally. It’s mine now. I now what’s next for it. My life is slowing unfolding itself before me. All its creases and crumples and sharp points slowly smoothing out and looking and feeling good. I can see it. My future. Finally. I can solve all my problems. I feel so good I don’t care if people are staring at me, whispering and taking photos and uploading them on social media. I don't care. At all. If this is the kind of publicity the lead singer of Red Blossoms has to go through to show his courage, bravery and might in fighting for his band and their right to make music, then SO BE IT!!!!! Snap away, bus riders. Y’all be doing me a BIG favour in the near future. You’ll see. Wait for it.

Infiltrating Jeremiah’s skyscraper ain’t no easy feat, man. I hid in an empty Japanese wine barrel across the street and pushed out a cork for a lookout hole. Those delivery men (honestly!) suspecting ABSOLUTELY NOTHING when they lifted me up and carried me into the building. One of them (there were two of them) even said “Mr. Big-Rich-Boss-Watanaga must be under a lot of stress lately. He drinks when he’s stressed right? This barrel is probably the heaviest one I’ve picked up in five years!”

“He drinks when he is stressed.” The More You Know……

They carried me into a storeroom on the Mezzanine floor. A peep out the cork hole and I caught a glimpse of the capital letter M next to the elevator the delivery men walked out of. They put me down near the restaurant/dining room/kitchen where all the fragrant rice smells were coming from. When they left, I climbed out of the barrel and happened to pass by some errand boy person napping on the job in the janitor’s closet (how cozy). I nicked his employee ID card and put it on. I knew how the cards looked like after months of having Jerry swinging in it my and my bandmates’ face every time he brags about his business lines. Ugh. (But it all paid off in the end so I ain’t even mad. Thanks, Braggart Watanaga!) my card had no name or photo in the front, so I wore it in my jacket pocket so no one will notice.

And then I swore to all the Heavenly Bodies and Names I could think of, that place is like a freakin’ FIVE STAR HOTEL on the inside.

All employees have their own customised uniform to suit their roles. Even the janitors are more classily dressed than the average service-industry worker. Those sitting behind desks and computers each have a customised notepad/diary/checklist-thingy in special pocket in their coats with their name EMBROIDERED onto the front — no name tag required!!! Just an employee card that will open security doors for them on certain floors. Only certain employees can access certain rooms and hallways, it seems. Wow. I wonder who is the mastermind who planned and organized all of this?

I figured my dear friendly cousin must be sitting on his high throne in one of the top floors somewhere, being owner of the place and all. I managed to learn that his office room is on the 8th floor. There’s no 4th or 9th or even 13th floor because 4 and 9 are unlucky numbers in Japan (huh, I never thought my modern-minded business-centric cousin can be superstitious) and 13, well, the whole Western world decided it’s unlucky so we just roll with it. I knew beforehand he keeps the sword in a hidden safe in his office. How did I found out? Jeremiah Signature Braggings™, surprise, surprise. Oh, and Eric Trick Questions™ on unsuspecting employee passer-bys, noses too high in the air and uniforms too flashy and blinding to notice anything off about me. Phew!

I went back to the elevator the delivery men went through and tried to ride to the 8th. Employee cards were needed to “beep” the elevator to go up or down to a floor. Unlucky me, my fake card couldn’t get me to the 8th floor. I tried over and over, in vain. Then a smart-dressed guy walked in and explained to me (he must be assuming I was a new employee) that only more higher-ranking workers can access higher and more private floors. The boss lives in his own private suite on the highest floor (25th) in the very same building. Obviously cards belonging to errand boys can’t get me up that high. So the guy beeped and un-beeped his card to show me how it worked and I excused myself out of the lift.

I walked pranced around the Mezzanine floor for ideas. I was about to look for a more higher-ranking-looking employee and nick his/her card when they’re not looking when someone tapped me on the shoulder. It WAS a higher-ranking-looking person and she told me (thinking I am the same rank as her) I am to deliver another barrel of “kiu” (Japanese wine) to Jeremiah’s office. SCORE! I tried not to look too excited as I accepted the task.

But only when I tried to move the goddamn-heavy barrel up the stairs (still no suitable employee card, so still no lift. #UGH!!!) is when the problem starts. It was too heavy for me to climb up SEVEN bloody freakin’ floors dragging a pile of wood nailed together with some nauseatingly smelly liquid in it up 14 FLIGHTS of steps!!!! My muscles are still not yet developing enough from the testosterone. So heavy-lifting was out of the question. I could just leave the barrel there but I needed an excuse to go up to the 8th floor in case someone spots me again. And for a big skyscraper the stairs are pretty damn narrow. So I couldn’t just side-step the barrel and begin the torturous journey upwards.

So, no choice. Here is where you can laugh, folks. As if the smell wasn’t bad enough, (f**k it) I had to drink some of the wine to make it just light enough to lift it up one flight of stairs, and then repeat 13 more times. I chugged that s**t down using a plastic cup gulp by gulp, each drop reminding me why I HATED alcohol in the first damn place. By the time I finished, I wasn’t sure if I sober enough anymore to continue on this “mission”. *BURP!* And I made my way up with the barrel in front of me.

I made it to the 4th floor and the rest of the steps was barred with ANOTHER heavy barrel for some reason. Good news, I no longer need to drag a barrel up. I can just desert it there with this one and have the blame pinned onto another guy. Bad news? Stairs are blocked and access to 8th floor via elevator still barred. f**k. I left the stairway I found myself in the 6th floor hallway. Lord can help me now how to get up two more floors. Then I saw a large open vent leading to the exterior of the building. I couldn’t see the exact spot it leads to from the inside, but the WILDEST IDEA crossed my mind.

I’m going to climb out of the vent and scale the side of the building by the window sills, hopefully unnoticed and undetected, and get up to the 8th floor like Spiderman.

Maybe it’s the influence of the alcohol from that disgusting kiu, but I couldn’t really pinpoint where all this courage and daring, dangerous plans and sheer GUTS were coming from. Maybe, all this time, for 25 years, it all had been in my genes. Generations and generations of samurais and ninjas and the tenacity of ancient Japanese people from loooooong ago cultivating and passing on their “gifts” to me. Gifts and personality traits that were buried deep within me and never really coming out and making a debut in my head until when I truly needed them. They pushed me on, step by step, inch by inch, out of the vent, onto the outside, into open air, high above ground and onto the New Yorkian skyline, body lying flat vertically against the glass structure, willing me to never look back or look down, never hesitate, and to just keep climbing upwards, to just keep pushing on.

To Just Keep Pushing On…….!

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that one slip of the hand and I’m goners. Glass is not the sturdiest or the most reliable surface to get a firm grip on. But luckily concrete window sills are there. I was recklessly climbing one of the highest buildings (if not the Empire State Building) in New York City with no specialization or safety gear of any sort. The whole time my entire life was flashing before my eyes like a movie or slideshow, but I had to keep them open or it’s curtains-closed, even though any moment could be the very last moment I relish them, scene by scene, slide by slide.

I reached 8th floor (I counted) and entered the nearest window. I heaved a huuuuuuuuge but silent sigh of relief as I let myself fall in and land on solid, carpeted ground.

Or, at least, what I thought was solid, carpeted ground.

The room I entered was dark and dingy. I couldn't see what was lying below the window. My groin area was the first to hit it. And instead of a cushioned thump, I heard a loud THUD! And the next thing I knew I felt a SHARP pain in between my legs and it stretched all the way to my abdomen area seconds later.

I must have made so much noise because suddenly I was grabbed by the arms and pulled across the floor by two much much bigger figures who didn’t even bother to ask what I was doing there or why was I moaning? As they dragged me out of the room, I opened a tear-filled eye, and that’s when I noticed they were Jeremiah’s bodyguards, and the room was storeroom next to Jeremiah’s office, which I entered through an open window. And now they’re dragging me straight to their boss’s office.

If I had went for a groin surgery earlier and gotten a p***s, things could have been much, much, much worse. But still, having a p***y v****a doesn’t make much difference in terms of pain intensity. I feel okay now. But I never thought I could bleed so much from this. Period cramps. I’ve heard of those. I’ve experienced those. But period cramps TRIGGERED from a sharp pain in the groin area? That’s something new to me until that moment.

Mission accomplished. I’m in my cousin’s office. Took a strong blow in my hoo-ha in the process but I’m fine now. So, moving on. Who else but Jerry-the-Merry was there to merrily greet me in there. It’s like he could read my mind and he just knew why I came here. With a push of a remote button on his desk one of the walls in a corner began to move aside, and behind it, the Katana Sword was revealed in all its glory hidden in a secret panel, covered by nothing but plain transparent glass. Jerry pushed another button and now the floor began to transform. And then I realised I was standing in the middle of a combat room, hidden in plain sight on a typical office day. Jerry told his bodyguards to clear the room, and then he challenged me to a bare-handed combat. The last man standing in this room gets to keep the sword. He said I could use any martial art or combat skills, if I know any. And that I better pray that my period cramps don’t get in the way. I asked him, “what period cramps? How do you know?” And he pointed at my pants.

And tah-dah! I looked down and saw the loveliest painting Mother Nature ever painted me, USING MY OWN GODDAMN BLOOD AS THE MAIN MEDIUM!!!!!!

Shit on you, biology.

Thanks for acknowledging me as a man at least despite all the biological “evidence” against it, Jerry.

The fight began. He went in for the score, trying to land a blow on me every chance he got. He showed me no mercy, using Jiu Jitsu, Taekwondo, Wushu, Wing Chun, whatever fighting forms, poses and stances he knew (damn!). The last time I remembered taking martial arts was in high school and the highest level I got was blue belt or something, can’t remember. Just a FEW more grades to Red-Black, my favourite colours, though I can’t remember how many. Too bad I quit early. I was too academically focused. Those skills I could’ve picked up would surely come in handy today, in a fight against my own relative.

But back to the present. Family relations don’t matter now when personal property and heritage are in the way. Jerry was still the better fighter, i have to admit. He is much older, bigger, taller, richer, experienced, and more powerful than me. And he overpowered and immobilised me in less than half an hour (I learned that running in circles around the room, to the spectating bodyguards’ amusement, and letting my opponent chase me does work in lengthening a fight’s duration, but it doesn’t necessarily tire him out).

Then somehow he gained speed on me (does he spend a lot of time running around his office when he’s bored?) and pounced onto me from behind and pinned me to the ground. Then he started handing out punches like he hands out transphobic slurs, attacking me physically AND emotionally. He said things like I’m “not a REAL man” because I wasn’t born with a d**k and only became one for the money and sword (like, did you just contradict yourself, dickhead? More d**k in your personality than in your pants, amirite?). He also said the only kind of blood I will get on the sword and my hands is my own period blood. Well, better than being a murderer with others’ blood on my stuff!

I tried to call on my Japanese-powered genes to gimme a hand but it’s like that suddenly went silent and (back to) dormant again, leaving me cold and lonely and weak and helpless.

Shit on you AGAIN, biology.

Traditionally, a Katana Sword is meant for assassination - to split open skulls and knuckleheads and spill my enemies’ blood on it. But since this is an unarmed combat, (too bad) that wasn’t an option. I struggled until I faced him and kicked him in his miniscule balls and he fell off me. He groaned in pain, and that’s when I realised male private parts are just as weak as the vulva. (But seriously, he deserved it) How DARE he equate the only blood not shed from violence as the most vile and degrading at all. Just ONE round of period will make you change your mind, man! I was mad as s**t and pounced back on him and began returning the favor. I was about to finish him off with my bare hands when he said “Stop! Finish me off with the Katana Sword instead. It’s just there on the wall. Take it, and do like how our family did it for generations. Use the sword for its true purpose and bring honor to the Watanaga name!”

I refused. I may share the same name with my cousin, but I am NOTHING like him. I don’t have to kill another man to prove that I am one. Blood on the Katana Sword doesn’t make me a man. I’m done with all this traditional BS. Kinda glad most of modern society has little to no room left for it.

Jerry still ain’t done with me. His mouth could still talk, so he mocked me about being “too p***y to kill a man” (p***y =/= weak. To quote off Betty White, those things can take a pounding!) and I’m an “untrue warrior” and an “unworthy heir of the Watanaga heritage” blablablablablah……

Jeremiah Braggart Watanaga. You know what? Being the more dominant lover in bed (TMI, yup) may make you feel like a man, but YOU are the one who’s a disgrace to our “clan”. I have a MILLION better ways I can use this sword and NONE of them involve hurting another person. And I walked out of that goddamn office like a boss, leaving him lying cold on the floor. His bodyguards didn’t even bother to stop me.

But before I left the building and went out into the streets of NYC, under the judgmental glare of fellow NY-ers, I advised my cousin to go on Tumblr a little more. Then maybe he can learn a thing or two, starting with how s*x and gender aren’t the same thing.

This is the longest entry in my journal, ever. But by far the most interesting.

Now I just wanna go home and shower and sleep. Kiu in large amounts is NOT my best friend unless I’m counting on something to give me a splitting headache.

ERIC WATANAGA.

“It may sound absurd, but don’t be naive.

Even heroes have a right to Bleed.

I may be disturbed, but won’t you concede?

Even heroes have a right to Dream.

And it’s not easy, to be me……”

— Superman (It’s Not Easy), Five For Fighting.