If you’ve been following me over the past few years, you know I talk a lot about homeless people and their difficulty surviving this society. So when he caught me by the wrist that had just placed charity in his cup, I didn’t react like most would.
See, when I was a lad, my father took me to Sumatra to see Orangoutangs before they went extinct in the wild. When we found one, our guide placed a ripe banana in my hand to give it, which the ape gladly took, but also grabbed my wrist. It was a dangerous situation, because orangoutang grip and strength is about ten-fold that of a typical adult human. And like my lesson then, I didn’t yank, didn’t talk, or panic. I lowered my eyes, went limp, and smiled cautiously.
“You will be spared,” the homeless man said, and let go, disappearing back under his oversized hoodie.
An odd thing to say, *But will you be spared?,* I thought to myself, then finished the next three blocks at Matsui’s front door.
Matsui’s is a quiet place compared to the rest of the bars on Lexington Avenue, and nobody was there but the proprietor herself. When I walked in she was rooting a handful of roses deep in a vase and didn’t look up.
“Naturally,” she greeted, giving the arrangement a once-over with her nose, “Naturally I wouldn’t have called you over here if it wasn’t urgent.”
I pulled out a stool and took a seat. Hana Matsui looked about thirty. Ask anybody and they’ll tell you she’s not an easy person to talk to. She was fifty, and it would be dishonest to say she wasn’t fodder for masturbation on more than one occasion. In today’s culture, it’s difficult to avoid hearing about how racist prejudice can fuel unhealthy sexual fetishes and violence. Well, work the instrument panel and put a *W* on the liberal’s scorecard, because in my case they’re absolutely correct. It’s odd because I’m asian (Japanese), but not American born like her. Anyway, where were we? Yes, she’s hard to talk to, but thankfully we share the same…fixations.
From the other side of the bar she turned suddenly from the flowers and squared her shoulders at me. “Quota, it’s five.”
“Impossible.”
“Not impossible, required.”
“Don’t go mixing me up Hana, five is possible, probably more, but not without attention. They’re already—“
“Shhh,” she quietly touched her index finger to her suede berry lips, “Let me build you a drink Abe, then I’ll show you something that’s arrived. Might make your—our task easier.”
Like a trapdoor had been tripped, she disappeared vertically behind the bar, eyes on me until the last moment, her pretty black hair trailing above. When she reappeared, both hands held an assortment of items. In a low-ball glass she mixed one-half sake, one-half simple syrup, and a dash of lemon. While I drank the result, she poured two fingers of sake for herself.
It was good, and I nodded for another round. Stretching out, I felt the previous night’s broken rest, then placed my right hand on my thigh. The base of its palm felt the bottom bulge of my gun’s concealed holster. And a few inches to its left, my dick was hard. I looked down. I’d been admiring it perpetually the past week and was angry Ms. Matsui hadn’t mentioned it yet. Swelling had stopped not long ago. The dragon started on my shoulder and came down my forearm twisting onto my hand. Beautiful. It was drawn with an illegal ink containing lead, which makes tattoos last decades longer, and colors Instaliscious.
“Redshift’s work?”
I looked up and smiled. “Yeah, waitlist was two years.”
The freshened glass arrived. “Mine was a month,” she said, “before social media, nineties.”
This was a surprise. Redshift completed 8000 tats. Mine was #7994, and he’d retire after #10000. He’s taken a picture of every tattoo he’s every done (it’s part of the agreement you sign), and after he retires, he’ll sell them as a collage (arranged into a portrait of himself) as an NFT. It’s already been pre-sold. Since it’s on the Ethereum Network’s blockchain, the transaction is public: five billion Japanese yen. That’s about fifty million US dollars. And since he’s a resident of the Cayman Islands, no taxes. I said:
“I didn’t know you had any work.”
“That’s because it’s in a place nobody’s welcome to see.”
“Ass?”
She didn’t say anything. But she had an ass better suited on a Colombian girl. I finished the last gulp and she snatched my empty glass.
“So what is it you wanted to show me?”
She put everything back, washed both glasses, and ran a dry rag across the bar top before finally replying:
“Follow me.”
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/nj0zp9/land_of_lincoln_a_butchers_tale_part_i_oldschool
When’s part 2??