The Wild Geese || DAZAI OSAMU/CHUUYA NAKAHARA

[四] FLESH OF APPLE, BROKEN.

Your sleek, black car pulls up to the front of an antique store, owned by an old woman at the very end of an unsuspecting street. You could imagine yourself as a child visiting this place: a far darker you in the timeline, trailing after a man with a wine-blood coat speaking amicably with the storeowner, the personified Tower of Babel speaking in runes before the devil himself introduced you to the world he belonged in.

You lean against your car door, lighting a cigarette and try to alleviate the pressure beginning to form in your temples. There was a slight ache in your shoulder from where the wound was still stitching itself together. You take a breath to ground yourself down, posit a strong center of gravitation deep within you, so that your emotions remain in a steady circular ripple, continuously revolving in a fixed motion.

You flick the cigarette onto the ground and crush it with the heel of your boot. The bell over the door rings when you go and open the door. There was a strange oil lamp hanging on an elaborate hook near the door, giving off a strange but welcoming fragrance. The woman behind the mahogany counter was old but friendly, and her passive disposition made it seem as though you were talking to a dummy over a human being. She had a noble aquiline face, more European than Asian, and there was a frightening calculatedness to her that made it seem as though her shop was her own personal web, each breath sending a twinge to her many threads.

"Hello, Miss," She said immediately. "You've been here before." She peered at you over the top of her spectacles. "Is there anything special I can do for you? Or are you here to just window-shop?"

"I was passing," you said, vaguely. "Though I was wondering if you had a specific glass keychain."

"Have a look around," She gestured a soft-palmed hand around the uncomfortably full store. There were numerous dusty framed paintings hanging on the wall; old furniture strewn around the floor space; trays of souvenirs, earrings, rings, and watches; glass cases of ancient luxury handbags; ripped handkerchiefs; shattered gold watches that had the decency to look like they were still working; and other miscellaneous rubbish. "Anything else?"

"A dozen perfume bottles and one ruby ring."

Her eyes glaze over with a strange sense of professionalism. "You've come to the right place for that."

"Well, I buy my handbags at the department stores."

The code exchanged, the old woman presses a button under the counter, where the bookshelves behind her split open into a double door. The hallway beyond the dusty, brown store was clean, sterile and grey, being guarded by two brawly men each holding a submachine gun in their arm. The counter splits open to let you through. The two men salute when you trudge past them.

You walk into a room that you're more than familiar with: a large, grandiose floor space that had three large paintings whose gaze doomed down pleasantly upon those who were unfortunate enough to involve themselves in this occupation, the nobility in their faces and clothing contrasting that of the debauchery in the room they were enclosed in. The walls were a deep crimson with gold patterns that of a royal embroidery. Shelves and shelves of firearms, all varying sizes and weights, hanging down like the carcasses of a slaughterhouse. They gleam and almost seem damp under the harsh light.

A man standing on the corner attending to his products before he quietly puts a firearm down. He turns around, and upon seeing the cold, stoic familiar face of yours he gently breaks out into a slightly sardonic albeit welcoming smile.

"Good afternoon," He greets. "Are you here alone?"

"Yes," You reply. You gesture to the firearm behind him. "I'm here for something. Something grand. Something precise."