My Yakuza by A.J. Llewellyn (books for 6 year olds to read themselves TXT) 📕

A Total-E-Bound Publication

www.total-e-bound.com

My Yakuza

ISBN # 978-0-85715-372-2

©Copyright A.J. Llewellyn and John Simpson 2010

Cover Art by April Martinez ©Copyright December 2010

Edited by Delaney Sullivan

Total-E-Bound Publishing

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.

Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

Published in 2010 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.

Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has been rated total-e-burning.

MY YAKUZA

A.J. Llewellyn and John Simpson

Dedication

This book is dedicated to gay cops everywhere.

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Pretty Woman: Touchstone Pictures

Manga: Starz Media, LLC

Lincoln: Ford Motor Company

The Princess and the Pea: Hans Christian Andersen

Rambo: Lionsgate

Delta Airlines: Delta Air Lines, Inc.

Yakuza Diary: Christopher Seymour

Sudoku: Glazer & Kalayjian, Inc.

Glock:  Glock Inc.

The Wave: Wave Publishing Company

Corolla: Toyota Jidosha Kabushiki Kaisha

Tropical Swing: Bill Tapia

Howard Johnson’s: WHG TM Corp.

Shell: Shell Oil Company

fruit roll-ups: General Mills, Inc.

Avalon: Toyota Jidosha Kabushiki Kaisha

Second Life: Linden Research, Inc.

Sheraton: The Sheraton LLC

The Yakuza: Warner Bros.

UFC: Zuffa, LLC

Twinkies: Hostess Brands, Inc.

Kevlar: E.I. du Pont de Nemours and Company

Bluetooth: Bluetooth Sig, Inc.

CNN: Cable News Network, Inc.

Tempo: Ford Motor Company

Somewhere Over the Rainbow: Isreal Kamakawiwo’ole (IZ)

Velcro: Velcro Industries B.V.

Hanalei Bay Resort:  Trading Places International

truTV: Turner Broadcasting system, Inc. A Time Warner Company

K-9: Department of the Army

Apple Store: Apple Inc.

United Airlines: United Air Lines, Inc.

Dollar: Dollar Rent A Car, Inc.

Princess Kaiulani Hotel: Starwood Hotels & Resorts Worldwide, Inc.

Ala Moana Hotel: Outrigger Hotels Hawaii

go!: Mesa Air Group

Ford: Ford Motor Company

Chapter One

He didn’t have much time. Shiro wanted to pound Matsumi-san’s head into the shiny, red-lacquered bar top. Instead, he remained passive, watching Matsumi-san drain his second bottle of beer.

Lava-lamp style lights swirled across the bar as two girls in a suspended cage lip-synched to the pop singer Shakira high in one of the corners. Matsumi-san swayed to the music. Shiro signalled the bartender who brought them another round. The price of two more drinks included more snacks. This time, they received a small platter of sliced fruit.

Matsumi-san’s face went slack. “This strawberry. It reminds me.”

Shiro strained to hear over the loud music. Friday night. Tokyo was hopping. Everyone was in the mood for love, booze and karaoke.

“What does it remind you of?” Shiro asked in his half-baked Japanese.

“She is sweet, like fruit.” Matsumi-san poked at the delicate sliver of strawberry that was cut into a perfect heart shape. “Siono can make a man forget everything. Her lips are like wine, her tongue so sweet…like this strawberry.”

Dude, this is my mom you’re talking about. Shiro took a deep breath, hiding his disgust for the inebriated, middle-aged office worker, and waited. The music thumped a little louder through the bar’s four rooms.

They’d just opened the fourth room right above them. A hypnotic disco beat made Shiro’s foot inadvertently tap against the leg of his barstool. At the age of twenty-three, the disco era had bypassed him. His generation was hotwired to different times, so his body’s response to the music surprised him.

Young couples clustered in corners, up against bars and by the door. Half of the glazed-eyed men were being catered to by whores. Beautiful, alluring women, but whores all the same.

“She’s so beautiful,” Matsumi-san crooned. “Her laughter is like the river.” He moved his hand in a wavy gesture.

Oh, brother.

“Can you remember the name of the hotel?” Shiro asked again.

Matsumi-san was a sweaty guy. He palmed liquid from his forehead.

“Blue lights out front. Many blue lights.” He stared into space. “Many. That’s what I remember.” His eyes grew huge as he turned back to Shiro. “Is it true she is dead, Shiro-chan?”

That’s what Shiro had been told. He had no idea if it were true, except it seemed unlikely that Siono would just disappear. Shiro noted the colloquial form of his name and felt a sudden burst of excitement. The guy was going to remember.

Matsumi-san clapped his hand on Shiro’s arm.

“Hotel If. That was the name!”

Matsumi-san was so excited, he jumped from his stool, his hand raised high, sloshing half his beer in the air.

Hotel If. Man, how hard could it have been to remember that?

Shiro thanked him in gentle tones, catching the Masta’s eye. The man who owned the bar nodded. He had assured Shiro that they’d find a suitable female companion for the lonely guy, once he received Shiro’s signal.

 With genuine feeling, Shiro thanked Matsumi-san again and took off.

“Blue lights, remember that. Right in the middle of town!” Matsumi-san called out after him.

It had stopped raining, but the seat on his bosozoku was wet. No matter. He had, at most, ten minutes before Shun’ichi’s goons missed him. He jumped on his motorbike, hitting the street. He swung his helmet onto his head as he took the first corner sharply. One street, then another flashed by him. The half beer he’d had made him dizzy as he skidded and swerved through rain-slick streets from one brightly lit hotel to the next.

And there it was.

He stopped, one foot dropping to the road as he stared at the entrance of the Hotel If, watching a giggly young couple enter. Just one of the dozens of love hotels in Tokyo’s Shibuya district, he’d finally found it.

For days he’d snatched moments between his