Stories From Tokyo-To

Chapter 1: Beat It!

You know my name, not my story.

You know what we've built, not our beginnings.

Let me take you back... to where this all started...

Fukuoka Prefecture, Japan. Sometime after midnight, around a year and a half ago. Come to think of it, that night was probably the worst thunderstorm Fukuoka-Cho has had in years. It didn't make hopping the fence into the railroad station any easier. The sound of trains in the distance, rain pouring down on the decommissioned train cars, and my shoes on wet gravel crunching as I sprinted towards my usual spot all rang in my ears. 

Honestly, I couldn't be more thankful for it to be raining. Usually, making it here would've been a headache with all the guards around. It's a good thing they're more concerned about catching a cold than nabbing trespassers. 

Trespassing. What a stupid word. 

This section of the railroad station hasn't been used in, like, a decade. What is that? 100 years? Whatever the case, no one else but me visits the old "den." The city isn't gonna do anything about it. If they gave two shits, I'd find myself standing in a park or hospital. So, I wouldn't call it "trespassing" if no one uses it. Besides, nobody cares for it, 'cept me.

If I wasn't "borrowing" spray cans from the hardware store or being chased by old man Hasashi's dog on the way back from skipping school, you would find me here in this forgotten train repair station. But it was more than that. It was a hall of fame! Where the greats made their mark on a world that couldn't care less about their dreams or aspirations. They stuck it to the masses by tagging nearly every square inch of this place. The floor, littered with almost an unbelievable amount of empty aerosol cans, pales compared to the sheer amount of pieces, wild styles, and tags that went from each wall to the roof. It was a Rudie's Sistine Chapel. A Sistine Chapel if Daryl McCray, Jean-Michel Basquiat, and Funky Uncle had a week with an unlimited supply of cans. What I'm trying to get at is that this was my heaven. My sanctuary. It was the only place to escape and be who I truly was.

Walking through the doors made me feel like a wet dog, ready to shake my fur of the water that drenched my hair and jacket. I shivered a bit as I took off my body bag. Unzipping it revealed my two best friends. A newly licked can and a not-so-new CD player. It had some pretty shoddy Sharpie work, but we don't discuss it. I was a bit scared that water had made its way into the internals of my player, but after turning it on, my worries were laid to rest.

As "Start the Commotion" blasted in my ears, I was helpless to the funk and groove overtaking my senses. Grabbing the spray can, I went to work. You see, no one told me if what I was doing was right or wrong. I really couldn't care. I had no rules. No restrictions. Just being able to let my paint run wild while perfecting the piece I've been working on for months. 

The local Rudies, street punks to the common man, were all about tag bombing inside train cars or the public men's stalls. All 'Toys' if you ask me. The Kings and Queens that used to rule around these parts now all have jobs and families to look after. It's safe to say their graffiti days are over. Not mine, though. I was just getting started, and no one was gonna step between me and the can in my hand. I wrapped up my session, and right before I was aboutta put the finishing touches...