Tokyo Drift

“Are you fucking insane?” Telders said with his thumb on the rocker switch. The privacy window slid closed as the driver pulled out of the apartment complex. “The whole goddamn country is looking for you. I had half a mind to send the cops over instead.”

Two flat screen TVs, one in front of each seat, cast a bright, blue haze into the limousine.

“But I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt.” Michael poured a pale brown liquor into a highball and passed it over. “I imagine you had a pretty goddamn good reason for what you did.”

I held the glass in my lap. Through the window Tokyo tower loomed in the distance—an Eiffel Tower copy, slathered in orange and white. “I don’t know if my reasons were good.”

“Then it was necessary.”

I shrugged and tipped the glass.

“Jesus fucking Christ, man.” Telders punched a button on the remote. The TVs flickered to life. An NHK anchor was speaking over video of Japanese policemen who were pointing and commenting on a discarded, bloody sword on the deck of the Nisshin Maru. “Look at that. Fucking hard core man. Where the hell did you find a goddamn sword?”

I glanced away. “I don’t… really remember,” I mumbled.

“Fucking hard core,” he whispered.

Video of a tugboat pulling the hobbled Nisshin Maru through Tokyo Bay played while the newscaster spoke in grave, even tones. A string of kanji crawled along the bottom of the screen.

Telders paused the TV. “Alright. We’ve got to get your ass out of Tokyo.”

“And where is my ass going?”

“Hokkaido,” he said, refilling my glass. “Station Twelve. It’s not completely finished, but we can stay there until we figure out what the hell to do.”

“Home sweet home.”

Michael tapped the bottle of scotch against my glass, laughing. “Fucking Wayne Robertson. You’re a goddamn madman…. Who knew?” He rolled his eyes and upended the bottle.