The Sushi King’s Daughter

An excerpt from the novel by Larry Kronish

Harada stood facing her. She sat tied in the chair, looking back, not lowering her eyes. If she’d been a proper Japanese girl she’d lower her eyes but she was staring straight at him. Girls never helped you, they always held the power. It was true. One day they would call you next door to play and drink tea, and then the next, when you could see them right from your kitchen window, the edge of the sink digging into your knees, it was as if you didn’t exist. There they’d sit with their other little friends around a table piled with bean cakes and candies and soda and sweet covered mochi and eat themselves sick. And not even call you for a week.

Why was she looking at him?

Baka! Of course she’s looking at you, you idiot, she thinks you’re her kidnapper. And then Harada realized there was something else. Neither of them had taken off their shoes! They were both inside and neither of them had taken off their shoes! She was tied to the chair but, should he take his off? Could he leave the apartment and come back in again? What if she escapes while he’s outside the door? How the hell can she escape? She’s tied to the chair. But what if…

Harada could see them all standing around him, his uncle, the Otamis, Iwao the Snake, Peach Boy, scowling down at him just before they began to beat him. Harada sighed unhappily. He pulled a zabuton over from the corner and sat down on it in front of the girl, not close, not far; the cushion flattened under his weight.

The fluorescent light in the center of the apartment’s dingy ceiling buzzed and crackled, its cold blue light glinting off the tiny gold ring in the wing of her nose, the rows of gold, silver and cheap imitation jewels along her ears, bleaching even whiter the white powder on her face smudged here and there, streaked with wavering black lines where tears or sweat had caused her mascara to run. He noticed that it was dark outside. The cheap rice-paper shutters had gone opaque and where they failed to meet the darkness was an inky line. Night came early in March. The long days of summer seemed very far away. He looked at her face again. The ties of the gag cut livid streaks in the flesh of her cheeks . She looked very young.

Fat Harada cleared his throat. “Harada, “ he said, “hajimemashite,’ pleased to meet you.”

The girl looked at him like he was crazy. He felt his face begin to burn. “Yoroshiku onegai shimasu,” he continued, “I ask for your kind and courteous goodwill.” Heat floated over his cheeks and ears. Well, what the hell was he supposed to say. “If, if you promise not to scream, I’ll undo the gag.”

The girl nodded her head.

“Would you mind if… if I took off my shoes first?”

Again the girl looked at Harada as if he were demented. She nodded her head yes.

Harada untied his laces and slipped his shoes off with a sigh of relief, or what would have been relief. He’d forgotten which socks he was wearing. Shame scalded his face and neck; it was the pair with the hole in it, his little toe peeked through. He felt utterly humiliated. His shoulder throbbed where the Snake had ground his thumb into it, his empty stomach rumbled and ached, his toe peeked out of his sock like a blind, astonished grub. God, what a horrible day.

“Mnn mmph mm!” the girl said. It suddenly occurred to Fat Harada that she probably didn’t care if he was hungry, if he was having a horrible day.

“You won’t scream, right?”

“Mm, rom.”

Harada padded around behind her, socks shushing over the tatamis’ rush weave. He picked at Ken’s knots with his fingernails, untied the strings, and like Old Ken before him, let the gag drop to the base of her neck.

“HELP HELP HELP,” she began shrieking. He whipped the gag back over her mouth, catching a hank of her hair “Itai!” and muffling her cries.

“Baka!” He felt like slapping her. He re-tied the gag. “I’m serious now. You scream, the gag stays on. You don’t scream, the gag can come off. You understand?”

Her shoulders slumped. She understood all right. He could punch her, and knock her out, load her into a taxi, carry her to Sato’s… Harada chewed his lip. Not that she’d be willing to help him. Not that the taxi driver wouldn’t double back and tell the Otamis or Iwao.

This time Harada let the gag drop to the floor.

He shushed back around to the zabuton and flattened it again. She sat, rubbing her lips together, wetting them with her tongue, staring into her lap. It was funny, he almost wished she’d try and scream. She remained still, quiet. Her lipstick had been smeared away and he noticed that her lips were actually a pale cinnamon in color. She had a small mouth, her lips were full. Nothing about her seemed usual.

“Would you… could I get you something, some water?” Harada asked at last.

“Yes, please, thank you.” Her voice was low, and cracked and scratchy from being stifled in her throat too long.

Harada pulled a paper cup from the corroded aluminum dispenser clinging haphazardly to the wall above the tiny kitchenette. It had a pattern of tiny stars that looked more like rice crackers than the cherry blossoms they were meant to represent. Harada bet she was hungry. He was hungry. Lunch was a long time ago, eons ago, buried in the distant past before the fight with Iwao, before the fight with his uncle, before being here, now, with this Sushi King’s daughter. The bowl of edamame at the railroad bar wasn’t even a memory and his stomach rumbled sad and lonely deep in his belly, too cavernously empty to even muster a distant belch or a sharp ringing ache.

Harada rinsed the cup, filled it halfway and brought it back to her. He held it to her lips and she drank it gratefully.

“Another please.” He returned to the kitchenette twice more. Each time he held the paper cup to her lips and she drank.

He sat facing her again, the zabuton’s stuffing, by this time, squeezed flat and swelling the edges. She looked tired. Maybe now she felt she didn’t have to fight anymore. He had to admire her, she’d held up pretty well. Maybe she’d listen to him now. He nerved himself to tell her.

“Excuse me,” she said.

Harada smiled gratefully. She was going to help him.

“I was wondering, that is, if you could…” She hesitated.

“Yes?” Harada encouraged.

“That is, if you could untie me… I have to—” she hesitated again, and blushed. “I have to—” She nodded her head in the direction of the bathroom.

“You have to—?” Harada asked.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Can’t you untie me?”

“Ah. Well.”

Of course, she’d probably help him, after. She’d probably see that… Once he untied her she’d certainly understand that… Ah. Hm.

Harada got up and looked into the bathroom. The toilet was in its own tiny room, sink on the wall, tiny rectangular window, now bolted shut. It wasn’t even a western toilet so he couldn’t tie her to it. Great. He’d have to leave the door open while she was squatting over it. Maybe it’d be better if he didn’t let her go.

“I really need to,” she said behind his back. Her voice had a strained quality, he bet she was gritting her teeth. (“Now mommy?” “Just a little longer Harada-chan.” “Now mommy?” “Just a little longer Harada-chan.” Two hours on that local train winding its way into the mountains and he’d finally wet his pants with an acrid humiliating gush. “Harada-kun!” his mother had yelped reproachfully, and the other passengers, giggling and shaking their heads or hissing in disapproval, had all gotten up and moved away. )

Harada locked the apartment’s front door and carried the girl, chair and all, still tied up, to the entrance of the bathroom.

Harada turned the chair around to face the bathroom. He spoke to the back of her head. “I’m going to untie your hands. When you’re able, go in and… go. When you’re done, come back out and sit in the chair.”

She dropped her head forward as if her neck were no longer strong enough to hold it up. A sudden flash of her nape shown under the dark black and ragged purple edge of her hair, shown pale in the harsh, unforgiving light. Her shoulders shook for a moment. “Thank you, thank you,” she whispered. “I—thank you.”

“But—”

“But?” She jerked her head around suspiciously, eyes hard again and teeth clenched.

“I’m sorry, the door will have to stay open.”

She stared at him, frozen, anger chasing need chasing anger across her face. Her head dropped slowly back to her chest, until all he could see again was black leather jacket collar, pale slice of neck, spiky black and purpled hair. “You son-of-a-bitch,” she breathed out in a sandy, hate-filled whisper.

Yes. Chikushoo. This was not turning out at all like he’d expected. He began to untie her.

Harada moved well back from the door, turned facing away from it, just letting the girl’s shape play hazily in the corner of his eye. The girl sat for a few minutes working her fingers, then she began to rub her legs, groaning a little now and again under her breath. Finally she stumbled stiff-legged to her feet into the bathroom, levered herself over the toilet, pulled down her panties, squatted, and let go with an agonized, ecstatic sigh. She was just a blur of black clothes and milky legs, her panties a streak of violent pink around her ankles, and not wanting to look but for a moment the black curling triangle of hair dark beneath her belly. He felt himself beginning to get an erection, turned away, they were both blushing furiously, her breath came ragged, angry, hissing over the clatter of the toilet paper roll, drowned in the swirling splash, ca-chung and whoosh of the toilet flushing.

“I’m done,” she said in a soft voice, pulling her panties back up, smoothing her skirt down over her legs, drawing up again the violent violet and white striped stockings, looking away, Harada looking away, both standing awkward, still. She stood up and edged her way out.

Harada was moving back toward the chair when suddenly she burst out of the bathroom door, flung the chair at him, it crashed into his hand. “Kuso! Itai!” he screamed. She lunged and kicked him as hard as she could in the balls!

PAIN! WHITE HOT PAIN! His balls exploding! PAIN in his balls lanced up into his stomach-heart-lungs, smashed his knees out from under him.

“YAOWW-OOOOO MY BALLS!” he howled, his hands grasping his dick mashed flat as jelly, her legs brushing past him though a teary red haze towards the door. He heard her rattle and kick it but the door would not open; the key was in his pocket.

“Baka-yaro, baka-yaro,” she screamed, pounding and kicking the unrelenting door.

The haze began to lessen. He shook his head, blinked his eyes, crawled toward her.

She kicked at him!

He let go of his shrieking balls with one hand. AHH IT HURT… and swung his meaty arm at her knocking her down.

She struggled back up.

Harada drew himself into a twisted, agonized crouch, batted her once on the side of the head thick-fisted, then collapsed groaning to the tatami again. She went down with him, lay sprawled rag-doll legs straight out against the wall conscious but glassy-eyed.

The building was quiet. No one came. They lay there, the girl blinking, Harada cupping his balls. It felt like he had a watermelon between his legs about to burst, flaming with a steady searing throb. Gradually the pain began to lessen. After a while it only hurt and he could breathe again. The girl was gingerly palpating the side of her head where he’d thrown his fist at her.

“Chikushoo,” Harada gasped, “you didn’t have to kick me in the balls.”

“You didn’t have to punch me in the head,” she moaned.

“Well you didn’t have to kick me in the balls.”

They lay quiet again. Kuso, this was definitely turning out to be a bad idea.

Harada tried sitting up. AHHH! He laid back down. He tried again. Okay, not too bad, not too bad. It could’ve been worse. It seemed she’d only got him with her ankle instead of the tip of those damned steel-toed boots. He didn’t notice his shoulder any more. Ohh, chikushoo, she’d got him good. Ch! It was almost funny.

He looked at her. She’d drawn her knees up to her chest, left arm around her legs locking them in close and tight, right hand continuing to finger her temple, which was red and beginning to rise into a golf ball sized knot. She didn’t seem to care much that her panties were showing, cupping pinkly her whole front and disappearing between the firm half-moons of her buttocks. Frankly, at this point, Harada didn’t much care either. Her scared eyes stared at him over her knees.

“You all right?”

Her fingers stroked the knot which was beginning to bruise and she winced. “I, I guess. You?”

“You really didn’t have to kick me in the balls. I wasn’t gonna hurt you.”

“What’s your name?”

“Yuko. Hannami Yuko.”

Excerpted from The Sushi King’s Daughter, a novel by Larry Kronish, published by Dymaxicon and available from Amazon in print and Kindle editions.