The things that are good ...



















                               "We are well rid of one another,
you and I.

                                      Our marriage was a
festering sore.

                        Our life, the beating together of two
open wounds."









                                                             (i)











  The words glowed on the screen; Hasegawa stored the poem in
his terminal's memory.  There was no sound but the clicking of
the keys, and the soft susurration of breath as he lit one
cigarette from the remains of the other.  He sat in the dark for
a while, listening to Miss Junuchi - on the outside line
fielding calls of sympathy, and general enquiries after
Dekacho's health.  He was at a loss, and couldn't decide whether
these people were terminally stupid, completely insincere, or
shared his own sick humour.  The circumstances surrounding
Sachiko's death couldn't have escaped anyone's notice; her
private life wasn't.  They'd been divorced so long, it was
inconceivable that people might think he was in mourning for
her.  Still, the self-delusion of some never ceased to amaze
him: like Miss Junuchi.  She was sure he must be in the throes
of deep misery, and grief.  A soft soul, or soft in the head, if
she believed you couldn't be married for five years and not feel
something for your partner.  Pray God she never married someone
like Sengoku Syensuke, (or himself), and learned otherwise. 
However, he couldn't lie - he did feel something for Sachiko
deep, abiding, hatred; that at least hadn't changed in all their
years together, and apart.

  Fuck!  He was going to have to write something for the
obituary.  That first attempt would give welfare,
(psyche-evaluation rimmers!), too much of an insight into his
honne.  He was just going to have to retreat behind the tatemae
again, and hope that when they licked `round the shit in his
mind, they still got the message that he was on top of things. 
His highly-devoted, and overly-concerned, personal assistant had
already nagged him this far.  

  "I understand the distress you feel...  It must be so
difficult for you... Would you like me to 



                                                              1.



arrange something?" 

  He had politely put her off, and finally retreated to his
inner office to do something about the situation.  His own haiku
may be appalling - was probably not even haiku - but it was more
bearable than Okio's efforts, (at least for himself).  He'd had
a nightmare vision of seven pages filled with tear-drenched
sleeves, ducks pining for their life-mates, and grey - desolate-
mornings.  That girl needed more sex, and less maundering,
historical, novels.  At least Syensuke would cure her of any
lingering, romantic, notions... he hoped!  Maybe he shouldn't
have played Cupid quite so well.  It had proved irresistible to
wind Okio up, by running the little cock-sucker down.  Dumping
on him whenever he had had the chance.  With Syensuke it was
like fishing in a Koi pond `though.  And, of course, Okio'd be
on the videone inviting hair-for-brains to dinner, a show, a
picnic...  He just sat there and wet himself every time Varsus
transmitted Sengoku's usual plaint of why it was all impossible:
it'd never work because she was a cop, he was broke again, it
was raining again, (definite hair-gel anxiety there!).  Giving
in again.  Making little Okio do all the running, as if he
hadn't been lusting after her for MONTHS!  Piss!  It was like
having a personal inter-active soap-opera some days.  The
feeling of power when you manipulated private lives, even in
this small way, was fucking addictive.  The frightening thing
was, it was all too likely that Okio would martyr herself trying
to change Sengoku, and failing.  It would be right about then
he'd blow the shitty git's head off - but only after he
castrated the bastard with a spoon!

  He could hear Okio's dulcet tones now: another nosy department
spouse, another stream of concerned platitudes, another idiot
gently put off by her.  There were times when she drove him to
distraction; times when he could tie her down with barbed wire,
and cover her with blows.  But far more often he wanted to tie
her up in gossamer, and cover her with kisses.  He could just
picture her now, in that short skirted uniform... SHIT!  Ack! 
Why couldn't she just wear trousers like all the patrol police? 
There were days - when every time she bent over - the tendons in
his neck creaked from the strain of stopping his head turning in
her direction.  Hasegawa'd become very familiar with the
en-suite toilet facilities, and the privacy they afforded.  What
was worse, was that he had a reputation as being the safest boss
to work for.  CHRIST!  What a joke!  He only kept his hands off
the staff because Sachiko hadn't.  Besides - it would ruin his
carefully cultivated koha image, and he needed all the help he
could get with the criminal pricks he was in charge of.  He
stayed on top by being fitter, meaner, and nastier, than the
worst of them.  He was very good at it.  Fuck knew how he'd cope
the day some criminal slime-cunt got hold of someone he cared
for.  It was a hazard of the job - had been for centuries - but,
so far, not one he'd had to face.  Other Kacho's managed but... 
At least  his immediate family were safe; anyone who knew him
well - or researched his background - would quickly realise they
were on a highway to nothing there.  He hadn't even talked to
most of them since before his marriage.  But the thought nagged
at him.  Always that danger: the horror of his life breaking
apart, tattered by the wind.  Leaving him vulnerable.  Exposed. 
What an idea - when he'd spent so long, and worked so hard, at
being hated by almost everyone he knew...

*Okio, just tell that fucking piss artist from accounts to fuck
off - or you'll give him a bullet enema!*

  This was going to have to stop.  He'd just dented another
lighter, and the edge of his desk.  Huh!  Lucky fucker.  The
chronometer was still counting down.  The department always got
twitchy when criminals exploded, for no apparent reason.  He
smirked in the dark.  There'd actually been talk of a three day
amnesty, after the deaths, to let the, `criminal,
collar-wearing, dogs', have a breathing space - by blocking the
detonation signal from his office.  Thankfully upstairs had seen
sense in the end - the potential fuck-up there had been
enormous.  He couldn't prove it, but he thought Gogul had been
the one to introduce it to the, `secret', heads-of-staff 



                                                                
2.

bulletin board.  He rolled his eyes briefly skywards - seeking
strength.  It was probably that 

son-of-a-bitch who'd been sending him the bottle of synthetic,
evening-primrose oil, capsules every month, since those pictures
had done the rounds!  Cunt.  Hasegawa was still grinning at the
thought.  He gave all the bottles to Miss Junuchi, without a
word, and she disposed of them.  Hell!  She probably took them
by the handful.  Hasegawa was under no illusions that working
for him was easy, it was possibly enough to give a saint
permanent pre-menstruals.

  But... how did you celebrate the twin deaths of your hated
ex-wife, and an old, dangerous, enemy?  Especially when they had
departed this vale of tears in flagrante delicito.  Honne urged
him to lead a conga-line in celebration, right over their
graves- or waltz Okio around the office.  Somehow he doubted
he'd get away with a laughing, all-singing, all-dancing, party
before they sent for the tranquilliser guns.  It was a thought
to keep him warm at night, `though.  He could have kissed Benten
for skewering the pair of them like satay.  Shit!  He should
have shagged the sod stupid for the favour, or given him the
blow-job of his life, something anyway.    He really hoped
Benten had twisted that sword as he drove it in - he liked the
idea of those two squirming in their own shit and entrails, and
fear.  He'd probably have the crime-scene still blown up, and
framed.  Then it could sit on his home terminal, and he could
use it as wank material, or run it through his virtual sex
programme.  He could even see the ikebana he'd place next to it
- every man has to have a hobby.

  Later... and Hasegawa was still no nearer completing his
self-appointed duty.  His next job evaluation was preying on his
mind; all those past incidents mounted up, and he'd be probed
that much deeper, this time.  `Emotional over-load', and all
that shit - all because the little whore got herself killed the
world has to tremble.  No.  He'd get through it, he always did. 
Bollocks!  Now he'd run out of cigarettes again, his case was
empty.  Sighing, Hasegawa got up and walked towards the
connecting door to Okio's outer office.  Then he noticed the
large carton that had been placed on the conference table, it
was full of sim-cigs.  He sighed again when he saw the box next
to it.  Gift-wrapped; it had whisky in it.  Real whisky, by the
label.  It must have cost her close on a month's salary.  How
typically thoughtful: protecting him from cancer on the one
hand, whilst ensuring oblivion with the other.  He watched her
shadow move across the light shining under the door - his face
set in a rictus of pain.





                                                              
(ii)



  The fog of smoke in the office had already tripped the alarms
once.  He'd had to programme a manual over-ride into the
security system.  The whisky had given him a dose of hysteria,
(or maybe he was just too tired to think normally), when Okio'd
come rushing in.  Jesus!  She'd actually been scared, she
thought he'd immolated himself as a gesture of devoted
widower-hood.  He started to snort with laughter again, but
fought it off.  The stupid tart outside wouldn't go home now
until he did - that'd probably give her parents completely the
wrong idea!  And she'd be checking at intervals to make sure he
didn't inhale his own vomit.  Fucking Hell...  The last time
he'd been this drunk, was waiting for the results of the police
college entrance exams.  At least his father hadn't tried to
beat him that night... *you will learn respect.  I will make you
strong...* by then the arse-wipe was too old.  Well, so was
Juzo, and too strong, and too close to the edge.  The family'd
stayed up with him, all getting progressively drunker - with him
the furthest gone of all - until the word came through that he'd
been passed in.  Then he passed out.

  It was that night that the scarring had been found.  Someone
must have decided to undress him before putting him to bed *was
that you step-mother, you bitch?  Getting a free look?*  His
father had never said a word, but had booked him into a very
discreet, and expensive, clinic. 



                                                                
3.

The next day they'd performed a very good skin-job, and all the
keloid tissue had been removed.  He could feel the reproof
coming off of the massed ranks, in waves.  *How could you do
this to us?  What if a stranger had found out?  You're our way
out of this disgrace.  How could you be so ungrateful?*  The old
ox-cunt had died not long afterwards * joining my sow of a
mother in Hell* but not before Juzo had paid back every last rin
that the operation had cost.  Disappointingly the sense of
release Hasegaw- a'd expected to follow the greasy, old, miser's
death had never materialised.  Too many others around, trying to
keep the thumbscrews on.

  Japanese society had moved on, a lot had changed since the
turn of the millennium, (as he'd been constantly told).  Once
upon a time, a family whose head member had been scum- sucking,
pond-life - a criminal - would never have lived down the shame. 
Now - after only three generations - he was being given the
chance to redeem his own little nuclear unit.  As eldest child,
it all rode on his shoulders.  A police job, the antithesis of
the yakuza life the other branches of his family wallowed in. 
BIG.  FUCKING.  HAIRY.  DEAL.  All his life things fitted into
four categories: the things that are good for the family, the
things that are good for the police force, the things that are
good for the department, and lastly, *always fucking lastly* the
things that are good for Juzo Hasegawa.  The strain had been
immense, the control required never to do anything to ruin the
great plan.  And the constant demands of his soft body for food,
sleep, or sex.  So, he'd started to cut himself.  Never very
much, at first, and in places that wouldn't get seen: armpits
and soles of feet  When he became old enough to smoke, for it to
be acceptable - if never expected, (and his family were too wary
of him to try and stop him), and he gained privacy in his
bathing, and sleeping, arrangements - he moved on.  Now he
stubbed the cigarettes out on himself.  Usually around his
nipples; that thin, sensitive, skin.  Making rings around the
base of his cock, an unruly organ at the best of times,
(especially when it forced erections on him).  There was no good
denying that he began to get a small, sexual, buzz from it after
a while - but the biggest charge he got, was the feeling of
power.  How much pain can I take?  Can I do it again?  Can I
stay impassive?  I am in control of my life.  I am in control of
me.  I am in control.

  His father never knew that Juzo had already had two
skin-restores; before medicals, or evaluations, at college. 
*See?  There's lots you never found out about me.  Lots of
things you could never stop me doing*.  At one point his inner
thighs, arms, and chest had looked like the plastic cisterns in
the toilets of cheap bars.  Melted, and brown.  It had caused
some raised eyebrows when he turned up to gym instruction
unfashionably covered from neck, to wrist, to ankle.  But he had
cultivated too mean a reputation to be quizzed over it.  His
sexual encounters were also conducted under conditions of
extreme modesty, and were anyway... limited.  His family had
ensured that he was diverted from any possible scandal by
frequent beatings, when he was younger, and emotional blackmail
as he grew.  The withholding of praise was another age-old
weapon, that was tried and tested in the family armoury.  *You
could have done better.  Only average.*  How very Zen.  He had
even been banned from reading the more erotic manga, that was
the staple fare of other children's leisure diet.  

  And that need to control every aspect of a, `date'.  Yup. 
That usually  made certain that he rarely got past first base. 
Or, when he did, he was seldom asked twice.  The ones who did
enjoy his brand of smothering attention never voiced their
suprise that he made love in the dark, or more fully clothed
than is usually the case.  Well, it certainly fitted in with his
emerging cold, koha, image.  He found himself rapidly tiring of
these clinging vine lovers; unsatisfied - but never sure why.

  His first years on the force distanced him further from his
contemporaries.  Since it was no longer socially obligatory to
go out drinking with your colleagues, (or superiors), OR
maintain the same level of inebriation as the group - he didn't.
Things had certainly changed in Nihon, 

and Oedo, but not enough to prevent people gradually turning
their backs on him because he 



                                                                
4.

managed to look as though he was sitting in stony judgement on
the drunken roisterers, even when pie-eyed himself.  That he had
any friends left on the force was a tribute to their
selfconfidence, thick skins, or perversity.

  Hasegawa had gradually stopped going to departmental parties,
and New Year bashes; but only after several cringe-worthy
attempts.  A lack of social skills meant that he froze in
company; he lacked a shared base with many people his own age
you can only talk work, martial arts, or child-care for so long.
And, after a while, he could hear himself becoming loudly
self-opinionated.  Plus, he was amazingly inept at flirtation
with anyone - their spouse, their son, or their daughter.  His
friends had long since given up on him - though he still got
invites from the more toadying members of staff, (or the
warm-hearted Miss Junuchi), and Welfare still made sporadic
attempts to bully him into socialising more.

  Having this as a background meant that his marriage came as a
shock to everyone, (himself included); but there it was again a,
`thing that was good...', for his family.  His step-mother had
been approached by her uncle, a high-flyer in the corporation
that supplied most of the force's hardware.  Although Hasegawa
had never been able to prove it, he suspected that Mitsushiba
had intended Sachiko to be his spy on the inside.  That turd was
up to his piggy, little, cross-eyes, in crime - Hasegawa KNEW
it!  One day he was going to get hold of the smeg-head, and dip
him head first into a barrel of pig diarrhoea, until he
confessed - or drowned.  Whatever...

  And his family had accepted on his behalf.  *You must've
really wanted it - to risk so much on my reaction*.  She was the
daughter of a good family.  Heavens above - they were Royalty
really!  A child of nobility - he could hear their awed sighs
even now.  Such a step up!  He should be sooooo honoured.  Well,
he wasn't.  He'd loathed her at first sight; even though his
introduction was a 3-D at the pre-engagement meeting.  Amazing
the whole room hadn't been deafened by his warning bells going
off!  Obviously his latent, psychic, talents had known trouble
when they'd seen it.  Anyway - she was only extremely minor,
poverty-stricken, nobility.  Face it, she was a cheap slit with
a once impressive name.  And that name was only recognisable to
the otaku who scanned the society pages every day.  Like his
step-mother.  Sachiko's family had been down since the twentieth
century, but the wealth of the corporation branch kept it
marketable.  So - still unsure of the limits of his freedom he'd
agreed.  They'd still been able to make him feel obliged to
marry her.  How bad could it be?





                                                             
(iii)



  It could be worse than that.  Not even the royal family
suffered arranged marriages these days.  Society gossip was
scandalised, and - although sympathies were split between the
two, young, people involved - Sachiko was prettier, so she got
most of the concern going.  The wedding plans rolled on with the
inevitability of a slasher movie.

  Because Sachiko was nearly noble, (and because Mitsushiba was
a shit-slime of the first water), it was a full Shinto ceremony-
even though Hasegawa's family had been Christian since the
Portuguese arrived - and all the people involved wore full,
traditional, costume.  It took hours, was conducted in Japanese
over a thousand years out of date, and was stiflingly hot. 
Sachiko was more bundled in kimonos than him, and Hasegawa had
felt like a boiled lobster.  His hair had been twisted, and
tortured, into a top knot; but he had managed to get away with
threatening slow death to anyone who tried to shave the front of
his head.  In this his family showed rare good sense, and gave
in, (with a very bad grace).  He felt like an actor in a bad
ninkyo eiga, wrapped in his layers of white, grey, and black
crested - kimonos.  Great.  All he had needed was a tracery of
tattoo, at neck and wrist, like a lace border - and he could 



                                                                
5.

have passed for a highly-paid yakuza.  He should have paid heed
to the warning, it was the only time, Sachiko said, that she'd
ever wanted his body.  Then... and then... the up-and-coming,
young Kacho had been called away from his own wedding reception,
to deal with a problem at the station.  Why couldn't they have
done it before I signed the legal documents, for the state part
of the ceremony?  

  Everyone had said they understood, yeah sure, but he'd seen
murder in some eyes.  *What was the matter mama-san?  Did I
disappoint the society photographers?*  His blushing bride was
nostril-deep in a bottle of sake, even at that point, and didn't
even notice he'd gone.

  Much later, much - much - later, he'd gotten back to his new,
`home'.  The department had generously provided the happy couple
with a large apartment, in the married quarters, of the section
house; conveniently close to work.  He hadn't had a chance to
see it yet; his eldest sister had moved his belongings in that
morning, for him.  *Couldn't wait to get rid of me.  Get all
last traces of me out of the house*.  He'd wandered about
distractedly, running his fingers through his hair - at least
he'd been able to unbind that, the moment he left the reception.
All his stuff was in one of the bedrooms, and the wedding
presents - still, mostly, in their paper wrappings - were piled
on a table, in a corner of the living room.  There was no
evidence of Sachiko.  The second bedroom - after a brief
interrogation of the quarters' computer - turned out to be
programmed to Sachiko's palm, retinal, and voice, prints.  No
doubt some gadgetry of her uncle's had been installed to deter
unauthorised entry.  Namely him.  Hasegawa squared his
shoulders, *oh well - I wasn't born yesterday*, he reciprocated
with the first bedroom's locks.  Then he sat down to wait for
his new wife to come back.

  He'd actually been dozing, *I never made that mistake again!*,
when she finally arrived - and she was out of her tree!  At some
point she'd changed into a little, feminine, sailor-suit.  The
trouble was, she'd been drinking like a sailor to match.  Vomit
was caked down her front, her make-up had smeared, hair-do come
adrift, and she'd laddered her stockings.  Jesus!  She looked a
fright!  Quite a transformation for the few, brief, hours since
he'd seen her last.  As she reeled up to him, the first thing to
hit him was the smell.  He recoiled from the overwhelming odour
of spunk.  What the fuck had she been doing?  Well... that was
obvious...  But, had she screwed the entire, male, guest list -
and priest - in rotation?

  The second thing to hit him was Sachiko.

  "Who do you think you are, to look at me that way?  My fucking
father?"

  He'd rubbed his cheek as she'd explained, in careful detail,
that there were going to be no marital relations between them. 
She would never consent to being a brood-mare for some ugly,
lower-class, shit-for-brains.  She had her lovers, and by fuck,
she was going to keep them.  Furin was the only sex he'd be
getting.  He'd scowled at her, and Sachiko said it was no wonder
he hadn't married before.  A creepy doormat, like him, probably
scared small children in the park.  But that was okay, if he
stayed out of her way - she'd stay out of his.  Hasegawa'd let
her drone on, whilst he considered his options.  Not many.  This
fresh hell was obviously just the next bit of bad karma, working
itself out.  He'd had worse.  He slapped Sachiko, and pushed her
into the shower - turned the cold water spray on her, then left
to go to his own bed.





                                                              
(iv)



  After Sachiko's imitation of that Shokyosai Eisho print, (the
adulterous bride), things settled into a daily pattern of dreary
horror.  Sachiko, and himself, rarely spoke - except to trade
insults.  Juzo spent even longer at work, or in the gym and
dojo.  Welfare raised its collective eyebrow at this pattern of
behaviour in a freshly married couple.  However, people wisely
kept silent, although he was sure it was all being noted down
somewhere.  It certainly had been, in



                                                                
6. 

his family.  But, after some truly awesome arguments, they'd
declared they were no longer talking to him.  Well, not until he
was out of this temper.  They'd leave it up to him to make the
first move.  Freedom.  Of a degree.  

  And Sachiko?  Sachiko spent her days finding ever new, and
inventive, ways to embarrass - or threaten - her husband, and
his position.  He hoped it had caused her oceans of irritation
that his, `don't-give-a-fuck', attitude - stayed in place.  He
even held it against the rumours that she was sleeping with all
his superiors.  Oh, and their families.  He doubted it.  A quick
run down the list showed a good half to be dead from the neck
down, some from the neck up, a small percentage too honourable,
and a few not into women at all.  But it did leave quite a few
who were none of the above.  It would remain a mystery where she
got the time, energy, or anti-biotics, from.  Throughout it all,
whenever the stories were noised too loudly abroad, there was
Mitsushiba, on the videone.  He just couldn't understand his
niece's behaviour.  He'd cut her allowance off this time,
really.  He was going to have strong words with her.  Hasegawa
was so full of seishinshugi; she really didn't deserve him. 
Maybe if they started a family, she'd settle down.  Juzo just
let it all wash over him, he loathed her too much to care what
she did - it only reflected badly on her, anyway.  Gradually he
noticed the atmosphere building around him; people began to
assume that he would respond to her adultery, in kind.  So, for
months, whoever he talked to - outside the strict line of duty
was the subject of gossip for days.  That shut him off, he began
to socialise even less, and other people took to avoiding him to
avoid being the centre of such intense speculation.  Then again,
perhaps the biggest suprise of his life, was the amount of
offers he had, from people willing to be his means of revenge on
his wife.  None of which he took up.  He was having a tough
enough time, just getting through the day; and he still had
hands - if the urge became overwhelming.

  Life continued in the same vein for over a year, until Sachiko
came up with a new plan to push his buttons.  Or maybe she just
got bored with the same old... faces.  It was, inevitably, an
anonymous disk that made its way into his possession: full
colour footage, and soundtrack, of Sachiko in a variety of
positions, with both sexes of patrol officer, and other ranks. 
Laughing at him.  Laughing at him.  Now he could look back on
the whole mess and find it genuinely funny that most of the
bodies had worked on the vice squad.  At the time he'd just felt
the shutters coming down.  All those suppressed sniggers, the
looks.  Now it all made sense.  The lack of respect from his
subordinates.  He replayed the scenes - several times - sent a
copy to Mitsushiba, and destroyed the original.  He went back to
the apartment early that night.

  Hasegawa was well prepared for his loving wife, when she
returned.  Never fuck off someone who knows where all the
important pressure points, and nerve endings, are.  Avoid
pissing off anyone who can beat the crap out of you, without
leaving a mark.  Cyber police training was very thorough, and
Hasegawa had written the programme.

  Sachiko never saw the first blow coming, and by the time she
saw the second, it was too late.  The soaked towel slammed into
her, lifting her from her feet, leaving her gasping.  She was a
dirty fighter, and quick, but - next to her husband - she might
as well not have bothered.  Eventually she was beaten into
unconsciousness; Hasegawa had gone about it very methodically,
and coldly.  An expert in these techniques, he had even used
them before, but only ever on criminals.  From an emotional
distance, he noted her reactions.  How they differed from those
of other people.  How little she really fought back.  How used
she seemed to be to this level of violence.  The way she seemed
to anticipate this being a prelude to sexual activity, by how
she positioned herself.  Appeasing, queen cat in season, yowling
for it.  Still he continued the beating, until her body finally
gave out.

  When she came round, he quietly told her that he would do the
same again, every time she got caught out like that.  He did not
intend that anyone should suffer the delusion that they could
use her behaviour against him, even if they both knew that that
was a highway to nothing.



                                                                
7.

  Sachiko had regarded him in a peculiar way, too intent on his
lecture, he'd been caught unaware by her kiss.  She laid her
arms about his shoulders, sitting down he was closer to her
height, and she slid her tongue between his lips.  Teasing his
mouth with hers.  Biting, and pulling, at his lips with her
teeth.  Sharp, pearly, little fangs.  And - as her tongue did
its work - her knee coaxed his thighs apart, allowing her small,
expert hands to find every opening in his clothing.  Stroking. 
Teasing.  He sat rigid as she nibbled the soft skin under his
ears, and scratched his nipples through the cloth of his shirt. 
His traitorous body was at it again, the shock of this turn of
events not enough to prevent his cock insisting on its pleasure.
Sachiko rubbed at his erection, biting him harder, laughing with
triumph as she undid his flies.  *Always laughing at me... she
was always laughing at me...*  She ran her fingers along his own
little Judas smoothing the seeping moisture back along the
shaft.  She sank down his body until her head nestled in his
lap.  He forgot to breath when her lips rubbed the head of his
chimpira... *I can take this.  She won't get the better of me...
please?*  That tongue ran lascivious dances, those fangs sank
in, his whole body tautened.  Hasegawa's eyes crossed with the
strain of not going right away - he wouldn't give her the
satisfaction, he would beat this!  Strength of will, and several
paragraphs of police code, later - he had been able to go soft
without ejaculating.  He looked down at his darling wife, in
scorn, her lips still ringed the base of his prick, and said,
"I've had better".  They must have made a picture no artist
could paint: all baffled anger on one face, and on the other? 
Sweaty, clench-jawed, breathlessness.  Munch-like artistry.  The
marriage took another downward spiral, even as the sexual
intimacy increased.

  A moderate level of physical violence, became an everyday
event.  At times it seemed like a contest; and - tangled up with
the rage - were the times when they grappled each other like
demons on heat.  Sachiko turned out to be a fellow
self-mutilator, so it became that easy to slip into patterns of
pain.  Artistically hurting each other.  He rubbed harsh
astringents into her labial piercings - she carved his back. 
They rubbed ice over each other, then held naked flame against
the area, to hear the water sizzle.  For practical reasons both
tried to avoid permanently damaging the other - but accidents
happened in bouts of... enthusiasm.  It was a chore to hide
these scratches, bruises, and burns - but if they occurred they
needed careful disguising.

  Tales must have filtered back to both families, (probably from
the doctors who regularly patched up the more serious injuries),
but in a rare display of discretion neither side mentioned it. 
And the sex - though frequently frenzied - drove Sachiko to
distraction.  In her mind Juzo's refusing to `go', was a mind
game; but by now he was incapable of going, or coming, if he was
with her.  He just couldn't let her see him that open,
vulnerable.  Fear was the best plug he had.  In time he began to
suffer bouts of impotence, now - there was a thing!  Sachiko
took to accusing him of denying her even this - as if it was
something he had any control over.  Maybe she really thought he
did.  Fucking hysterical!  Well.  Not really.  Not now he
suspected that she had wanted to be pregnant.  Had that been a
desire to have something new to torture him with?  Or a deep
seated need of her own?  Maybe both.  Too late to ask now...

  And then, he was promoted again.  Now he was given the
leadership of the newly created, `Cyber Police Corps'.  Not his
conception, not his idea to take it on.  I'd rather have gone
for that post in Child Protection.  So, why him?  Was he
regarded as the best person for the job?  Or was he expected to
fail?  Expected to die at the hands of his own `officers'?  Were
years of refusing junkatsuyu finally catching up with him?  Only
too likely.

  Sachiko gave it a year, and then he received a belated
anniversary present.  A `photograph album', appeared on his desk
one morning.  It was a beautifully crafted series of fake
images, all of which showed him arse-fucking the headless bodies
of several ex-Cyber Police.  A brief voice-over told the viewer
that their beloved Kacho could only get it up with corpses. 
After all, no-one else would have him.  How Sachiko must have
screamed when she found out he loved this anonymous, `gift'.  He
deliberately left it on his open access files, with an extra 



                                                                
8.

hard-copy, in his desk.  The dogs of the Cyber Squad regularly
broke in to see what they could dig up.  Hasegawa found it gave
him an added edge: fear, and disgust.  Miss Junuchi did not
approve.      





                                                               
(v)



  So, the `Marriage from Hell', entered its fifth year.  Sachiko
seemed to find the time, between screws, to train herself to be
a better fighter.  But, Juzo still felt confident that he could
handle her easily enough.  More so than other areas of his life;
like those dealings with the military.  Antsy bastards! 
Promotion had added appreciably to the stress in his life.  His
smoking had increased shockingly, and his drinking - although he
stuck to the synthetic drinks, less wear and tear on the liver,
and brain.  Sachiko rarely came back to the flat at the times
when he was around: coming back only to sleep, eat, or fight. 
Even their groceries were separate these days.  Sachiko had
never been domesticated enough to shop, or cook - and neither
trusted the other enough to prepare joint meals anyway.  And
just when you thought it couldn't get any worse, just when life
tottered on the brink of unbearable, there was Mitsushiba - full
of platitudes, and remedies.  Piss!  He'd hated that smug shit! 
Still hated that smug shit!  But then, it was Mitsushiba who'd
nearly destroyed him.

  He might never have heard the rumours that Sachiko was fucking
his C-Cop, shit-piles - and the rest of the criminal underworld-
if Mitsushiba hadn't told him.  Oh!  It was couched in terms of
concern; but - even now - he wondered if it had all been a
set-up.  Had Mitsushiba finally tired of Sachiko, and her lack
of spying success?  Hasegawa had been very careful to keep her
away from anything important to do with his work.  Did
Mitsushiba know that having Hasegawa in gaol would leave the
post open for someone more amenable?  It was all too possible. 
There'd even been pictures, and he should have known - if anyone
did - how images could be manipulated.  Mitsushiba had begged
him not to take it too seriously.  These were only petty
criminals.  His Cyber force were actually police, weren't they? 
He, Mitsushiba, was so disappointed with her, Sachiko.  But he
was sure that Hasegawa would rather hear this from him, than a
stranger.  Hasegawa had thanked him, very politely, (did
Mitsushiba look a little suprised?), said goodbye to a querulous
Okio, and gone back to the section house.

  He had walked in, and there she was, coming out of the
bathroom in her `fuck me' underwear.  She held a small tube of
pink liquid in one hand.  How she'd smiled as she turned towards
him, beaming radiantly, "Sachi-chan wa!"  Even now he could
shudder at the memory of his losing all rational thought.  The
cold dark had just come, and swept him away on its tide.  He
knew, by later events, that - at some point - he had nearly
killed her, had violently raped her.  Sodomised her, and forced
his shit-covered prick into her mouth, down her throat.  Held
her nose, so that she was forced to swallow her own blood, and
excrement.  That nose would have been broken by then, her
cheekbones were probably fractured as well.  It seemed he'd
promised to kick out her teeth, to make her better at giving
head.  And he'd come... and come... and come...  Then Sachiko'd
saved his life.

  By then she'd stopped screaming *why didn't anyone come to see
what the noise was?  We all work shifts - someone must have been
in!* he was trying to strangle her one-handed, but she'd managed
to choke laughter through the blood.  How did he think he was
going to like prison?  Did he have his tampons ready?  She was
going to look up from Hell, and LAUGH!  He'd take years to die
inside - her family'd see to that.  Thought he was good did he? 
She'd had better.

  It did the trick.  Hasegawa had let her go, and watched her
vomiting bile as she slid to the floor.  Her legs spread out in
front of her, and a glutinous stream of bloody snot ran from her
nose, and mouth.  Smeg!  He thought he'd killed her!  There were
clots of hair, and skin, on the



                                                                
9. 

wall behind her - where he'd been pounding her head.  And she'd
been trying to ease the air into her lungs, past her damaged
throat, the effort making her wheeze.  That lovely face was
swollen, and bruised: mottled where the blood vessels had burst-
even in what he could see of her eyes.  He stood, stunned.  Just
what was this?  What had this bitch-cunt nearly made him do? 
Stupid.  He'd taken his eyes off of her.  She was badly hurt, in
serious need of medical attention, but far more dangerous than
when they had first been married.  And he was over- confident. 
It wasn't a sim-game.

  He'd come round, to find himself tied with a pair of his own
cuffs, the plastic cord biting deep into his wrists.  SHIT! 
Now, here was trouble!  Sachiko lurched back into view, Christ! 
What a state!  She'd had to hold on to the walls, and furniture,
for balance but - by leaning all her weight on the lip of the
table - she managed to re-arrange a few of his features, with
her feet.  Then she tried jumping onto his gut, but she just
didn't have the body mass, and he'd seen it coming - so he was
able to tense his abdomen against the assault.  Pissed off, she
contented herself by tangoing on his balls.  Cunt!  That'd hurt!
Then, muttering, she hauled her carcass painfully back towards
the kitchen.  Now was the time to act.

  You never create a trap you can't get out of: there are more
uses for a cigarette lighter than just the obvious ones of
igniting tobacco, and blowing criminals heads off.  He'd only
just got to it in time, though - and only because Sachiko had
been so badly hurt she hadn't been thinking straight. 
Hasegawa'd nearly cut his wrists open getting his arms in front
of him so that he could reach the clothes Sachiko had cut off of
him, and left where they fell.  His precious lighter was still
in one pocket.

  The clattering noise of metal on metal alerted him to his
wife's return.  Sachiko had been carrying an impressive array of
kitchenware, wedding presents that he hadn't seen in at least
five years.  He didn't want to think, even now, of the damage
she could have done to him if he had still been incapacitated:
knife enemas, skinning, and fingernails were probably high on
the agenda.  She gazed at him in dull wonderment, just before he
gave her a parting blow that threw her, crashing, over the table
and into the storm proof windows.  He checked her, cursorily, to
make sure she was unconscious again, (and not immediately going
to die), got hurriedly dressed, and left.  He needed to get back
to the office, and he looked like a raw steak.  This was going
to be more than a camouflage, make-up, job; this was another
trip to the emergency doctor - the skin restore was going to be
ropey, but the worst ravages would remain hidden until he had
the opportunity for a proper appointment.  He was due another
evaluation in a week, maybe he should have just killed her.





                                                              
(vi)



  Later, when he had sorted out everything at work, he got back
to the marital lair.  He had entered that place like it was a
`training for ambush' exercise - everything by the book.  What a
sight that must have been for the neighbours.  The flat was much
as he'd left it, decorations by early abattoir, but he'd gotten
used to that, down through the years.  The only thing missing
was Sachiko, and she didn't come back.

  It was a whole day before he got the call, at work, from
Mitsushiba.  He looked really pleased with himself, as he reeled
out a list of the damage.  The bitch had gone snivelling back to
her family, got her mother to pick her up from the section
house- and the security'd just let her go.  Mitsushiba said they
were all very worried at the state she'd been in.  There could
be a scandal - she said she was pregnant.  What if all this
caused a miscarriage?  He'd hate to see such a well suited
couple split up over such a little thing.  Of course it was
natural that - as her uncle - he saw fault on both sides; but
even he was willing to admit that most blame lay with



                                                               
10. 

his niece.  He was at fault, more than anyone, for breaking the
news to Hasegawa in such an indelicate fashion - but he'd
honestly thought Juzo could take it: he was such a strong man,
so calm, Mitsushiba couldn't have known he'd react in such a
fashion.  Surely Juzo could see how bad this all looked?  What
would the, `Welfare & Evaluation' section, have to say?

  It was one of the best times of Hasegawa's life, when he got
to tell Mitsushiba exactly what he thought: where Mitsushiba
could go, and what he could do with his reconciliation when he
got there.  If Sachiko was pregnant it would be a litter, to
match her morals - and not one of the brood would carry his
markings.  *I was sure my contraceptive implant didn't need
renewal...* Also, if news got out, he would expose every
criminal dealing, and illicit activity, that he could find in
Mitsushiba's family - and the corporation he worked for.  Even
if he had to invent them.  Over the course of the hour long
tirade, Mitsushiba's expression gradually stiffened, until he
resembled one of the plasteel sculptures outside the court
house; and his voice, when he finally signed off, (with a
strained good wish for Hasegawa's future), was practically
robotic.  The Varsus unit could manage a better range of vocal
emotion.  

  Hasegawa served the divorce papers on Sachiko's family that
very same day - citing her adultery, and unreasonable behaviour.
It was not contested.  And his own family?  Well, they would
hardly forgive him this, would they?  But then, they still
weren't speaking to him.

  He later heard, through `channels', that Sachiko had been
dragged, screaming, (and not for the first time), to an abortion
clinic - several days later.  The news saddened him in an
abstract way.  Much like the time, during one of their fights,
when she screamed at him, taking the piss out of his childhood,
his home life.  He thought he'd had it tough, did he?  She could
tell him things about her father's close relationship with her. 
About his way of earning money.  About why her uncle paid her
that allowance, and what the money was supposed to keep her from
talking about.  As a policeman, Hasegawa was aware of all the
information available on child abuse, and incest.  About its
links to pornography, and prostitution.  He'd been on training
courses in how to conduct inquiries, and had the literature on
his personal hand held.  But he'd never tied it in to Sachiko's
behaviour, it was as if it was all too close to home for him to
see.  The best he'd been able to do I didn't believe her,
then... was to ask if she was reporting a crime to him.  He
would arrest anyone she pointed the finger at, there was no time
limitation for this sort of offence.  Of course she'd said
nothing, but she had gone white; was that fear, guilt, shame,
anger?  He should have pressed the matter, that was his job,
fuck it!  It was too late now.  She'd never said anything more
about it, and he'd never asked.  





                                                             
(vii)



  Not  long after the abortion news but hold on, it must have
been months later the newsfeeds were full of Sachiko, again. 
The pictures had been taken in a well known, sex revue, bar. 
Sachiko lay across a table, legs akimbo, with a well known
Oyabun completing his shag, (and probably just before his kobun
got the leavings), by giving her a champagne douche.  *It would
just put the cap on it, if I found out that he's one of my
distant relations!*  Sachiko's face had been caught in a mask of
delight, but her eyes were expressionless.  

  Hasegawa's first reaction had been... unfortunate.  He'd blown
the brains out of a C-cop who still had a few minutes to go ah
well, she probably wouldn't have made it, anyway.  Messy, messy,
messy; and - of course - rather distressing to the restaurant
full of people she'd been eating with at the time.  The sheer
volume of dry cleaning bills the department had had to pay out
after that one.  The stupid bastard had been under cover.  It
turned out that she'd been one of Sachiko's paramours, so there
was the proof that there is a God, after all.  However, it had
nearly turned out to be poetic justice on Hasegawa as well; if
it wasn't for `W&E' taking into 



                                                               
11.

account the sudden shock of the news - and past history, he
could have been for it.  Quite a few people on the force had
made noises about having such a dangerously unstable man working
there.  He was advised by W&E to take some time off, a veiled
warning if ever there was one; and he'd had to go through a
battery of psychological tests, on his return which had
thankfully - shown him to be fit to return to duty.





                                                            
(viii)



  Hasegawa had never entered, or emptied, Sachiko's room, after
her departure from the happy home.  He'd finally figured out how
to disarm the security systems, then he'd changed the security
codes for all the communal areas, including the entrances, but
as he had no need of the extra room, he done nothing more about
it.  W&E could have been asked for help, but he didn't want them
any closer than he had to have them, besides he was never in the
flat long enough for it to bother him.  Also, he figured
Sachiko, and her mother, would have taken anything she wanted
with them.  The goods in the shared areas, (like those wedding
presents), he'd left outside the front door of the section
house- somebody'd taken them.

  Now she was dead, and he wanted to remove the last sign of
their connubial bliss.  Sweep the last of that crack out of his
life.  As he hadn't apologised to his family, his
sisters/-in-law were out of the reckoning in the help stakes. 
Bastards!  All riding on the good name his career brought them,
but damn the sucker himself!

  So the cavalry had been summoned in the shape of Okio Junuchi.
He opened the bedroom door for her, as she stacked packing boxes
in readiness for the clear-out.  One look inside had him
reeling, driven back by the sight of so much pink, frothy lacy
trimmings, baby dolls, and bishonen posters.  It was nauseating;
he could only sit, chain-smoking, whilst Okio had done the
necessary.  From his position on the couch, he could see Miss
Junuchi tenderly packing the debris of that cheap whore,
tenderly, into the waiting crates.  She had even labelled them
for forwarding to Sachiko's family, and - although he couldn't
prove it - he was convinced that she'd probably popped in some
little note of sympathy *please - don't let her have addressed
it so that they think it's come from me!*  Okio'd actually asked
him if he wanted to keep any of that crap as a keepsake, a
momento of their marriage.  He could only stare at her in a
horror she'd mistaken for distress.  Was she really that dumb? 
Looking at the posters, Hasegawa could only feel sympathy for
Benten Sachiko must have ADORED having him at her mercy. 
Perfectly bishonen, perfectly her type.  And he knew in what
direction her tastes lay.

  After Sachiko had left, Juzo had taken up some serious
stress-relieving measures nothing like bolting the stable door
after the horse has bolted to complement his other gym, and
dojo, activities.  Ikebana, iai-jutsu, and yoga; Welfare had
assured him that it would work, given time, but he still tended
to rely on the things he knew - like drink, and smokes.  He'd
have been happier if the psych-rimmers could have assured him
that it would prevent him making the same fuck-ups again. 
Nothing could do that except his own vigilance - he knew that
only too well, the best he could hope for was that he wouldn't
make any bigger, better, new ones - in the future.

  And now the alcohol he'd consumed was wearing off, and it was
much later then it had been.  Shit!  He needed to get some
sleep!  Someone had tied little sandbags to his lids, and his
eyes already felt like they'd been poached.  He had a headache,
a cough, and even more stress than a faithful Miss Junuchi could
massage away.  He shut his eyes, and centred.  When he opened
them again, he knew what to write.  Okio might not have been
happy with the result - but it was an obituary poem.  He sent it
off to the newsfeeds the instant it was done, that way he'd have
no opportunity to change his mind, to chicken out and let Okio
alter it.  It came from something 



                                                               
12.

passing for a heart...





"Every life lost to violence is a waste.

 Every life shadowed by suffering is a tragedy."





                  





















































































                                                               
13.