Dexter wasted no time and went directly to the airport. His passport was still in his chest pocket but his suitcase was back in his room. Better to leave it behind. He felt relieved, but he was still shaking. His flight wasn't leaving for a few hours so he waited by the gate until he noticed someone suspicious standing there. The stranger was sharply dressed and wore obsidian sunglasses. Dexter panicked. Looking quickly for a way out, he switched his ticket for the next flight out of town. That plane was destined for Hawaii. 'Perfect', he thought. He was leaving counterfeit paradise for the real McCoy.

The airplane was cramped and dimly lit, a long tunnel suspended in space between his departure and arrival. He was still sweating in fear from the man at the airport. The furious executive at Under the Sun Studios wasn't the one he was going to have nightmares about, but Richard’s boss was the real monster.

The infamous Lucian Maus was a kingmaker and owned half of the entertainment industry, the other half intimidated to fall in line under his ever expanding influence. He wasn’t the kind of magnate to be on the wrong side of and that was exactly where Dexter found himself to be.

The sky outside of the miniature window had become  mars black. Dexter sat tightly  in his seat contemplating his future. He had to come up with something, he had to keep fighting to prove himself. After he got his act together he would start a new project alone, he decided. At that exact moment, the aircraft shook.

A loud CRACK echoed through the void.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot spoke over the intercom. “We are approaching our destination, however, it is unsafe to land due to weather activity. We will fly past the island and land at the closest destination. There is nothing to worry about. We have enough fuel and we are completely safe.”

“Weather, right?” said an annoying man in a Hawaiian shirt next to Dex. He was making remarks like these the entire flight, but Dexter hadn't been paying attention.

Dexter looked out the window at Hawaii. The island was one big, nebulous cloud. The storm roiled beneath him, firing off neurons of activity here and there. He was determined to get back on his feet and start a new era in his career after this ordeal. At that moment the lights went out in the cabin.

Dexter arrived in Japan and was greeted by dozens of polite faces in the airport. His only outfit was wrinkled and started to smell.  Despite his appearance he was treated with hospitality. Everything else he owned was still in his suitcase back in LA, including his wallet. He said his hellos as friendly as possible and even returned a few bows, but no one understood him in the slightest.

“Hello, how are you?'” Dex genuinely asked a young business man.

“Hi.” was the quick response.

“American.” he tried.

“Hi.” the man repeated.

“Nice to meet you, which way is the bar?” he asked sarcastically.

“Hi.” another man said, and handed him petty cash mistaking his disheveled appearance for a beggar.

“Shoot me please, just shoot me.” he pleaded.

Wandering the streets his hair made him a white sheep among thousands of black sheep. He had similar luck with countless other pedestrians. Dexter was nothing but persistent, even though the entire situation seemed quite hopeless.

Everything in Japan means death; the number four, the color white, and even fooling around with chopsticks spelled demise. The only instance of language he recognized was a sign for the film  Rashomon. The large, vertical poster caught his eye immediately. Its Japanese style made the proportions look more like a door than a poster. The door welcomed him. He struggled to buy a ticket, using the money he had been handed earlier. It wouldn’t be the last time Dexter spent all the money he had in the world on a movie.

Inside, he enjoyed the movie even without subtitles and sat through all four sides of the same story. A trial in feudal Japan attempted to find the murderer of a samurai. The first witness was his wife, then the thief, thirdly the ghost of the samurai via seance and lastly a woodsman. Through all of the cross examination the truth slips away.

The end of the film was interrupted by an elderly man who started shouting drunkenly in the theater. When Dexter turned he could see that the man was shouting at him. Dex tried his best to shoo him away, but when he heard his name in between the slurred, enigmatic words he did a double take.

“Shuman? How do you know who I am?” he blustered.

The old man continued in his own tongue as the language somehow became more unintelligible. In between Dexter could pick out certain words, like the names of his own films and actors who were in them. Eventually, the man started motioning to be followed and Dexter's interest  piqued.

Carefully, the old man took one calculated step at a time to the back of the theater and up a set of stairs. When they finally got to an office above the theater, the geezer fumbled through his keys, dropping them more than once, and then opened the door. He was apparently the owner and he offered a chair and some tea. The room was meager but cozy. Miniature statues and plants decorated the space and were well cared for, each looking like it had a story to tell. Even Dexter’s tea cup had a crack running through it that had been filled in a bright, honey gold.

His host pulled out a cell phone and enthusiastically talked to someone on the other side. Waving his hands in the air and using profanity in ways recognizable in any language, he pleaded urgently. When the brief conversation was over he took his seat behind his desk and sipped tea quietly.

Dexter analyzed the owner's face suspiciously. He had to know if he was a generous geezer or a lunatic that was going to kill him any second now. The thick growth of beard and heavy eyes led him to believe this was a vagabond. Something beneath the surface told Dex that he was usually more put together than this and after all Dex looked much worse at the moment. The pair of dirtballs enjoyed each other's company in peaceful silence.

“Shumanson!” a voice cried out.

A woman, Dexter's age, entered the theater office and introduced herself in English as an associate of Mr. Phong, the theater's owner.

“I am Mr.Phong’s daughter, Ren.” she said, giving a deep bow.

Dexter reciprocated.

Ren was tall with long raven hair. Dexter could tell she was a business professional by her designer glasses and tie. Whatever the business was, it was put aside to accommodate her father’s wishes. She handed Dex a small phrase dictionary for his stay then acted as interpreter for her father.

“What is he saying now?” Dexter asked Ren.

“He says 'Your hair reminds him of death'.”

“Oh.”

“My father insists on having you as his guest for dinner tonight.”

“I would love to, but I must really get back to my office.”

“It would not be polite to decline such a request.” she warned.

Dexter pulled out his little booklet and flipped through it, dog-earring the pages for ‘money’ and ‘movie’. 

“Itadakimasu!” he exclaimed.

“Great, let’s go now then.” she insisted, looking at her watch.

The three of them walked down to a small ramen shop for traditional Japanese cuisine. At the counter, Dexter got a front row seat to the cooking noodles in giant, steel pots. Ren’s glasses fogged up from the steam.

“So what brings you to Japan, Mr. Shuman?” Ren initiated.

“I came here to scout locations and other business deals. I’m trying to be active in the international market.” Dexter replied.

She relayed the response.

“The international market!” Phong cried out in his native tongue.

“Japanese businessmen forced my father to fill his theaters with more popular movies. That one theater is all he has left for vintage films. Seeing you here reminded him of the old days of filmmaking.” Ren explained.

“He is interested in making films?” Dexter pressed.

“I always try to talk him out of the film business, but he does not listen.” She said.

“It’s a shame big Hollywood movies take up all of the theaters. Raquetering is what it is! Not many independent filmmakers can get a fair shake these days.” Dex ranted.

“But you get your films in theaters! Just like the old days!” the old man said with excitement.

“I suppose I do.” Dexter boasted.

“What are you working on right now?” Phong asked.
“Oh, you know. There are several projects at my studio in the works. It’s a constant forge, trust me.” Dexter boasted.

Some whispering amongst the father and daughter took place while Dexter slurped his soup.

“My father would like to finance your next film, if you are willing to accept.”

“That is generous of him. But my schedule is full until the end of the year.” Dex bluffed.

“His offer is one million US dollars for any kind of film you wish. How does that sound?” Ren asked, staring him down.

Dexter froze at the offer.

“It would be rude not to accept. That sounds like a deal.” he answered, downing a shot of sake and coughing into his fist.

“A fool and his money are soon parted…” Ren sighed.

Dexter stepped off the city bus and shuffled to his building. The boarded up windows and rough exterior did little to welcome him back home. He reached past the plaque that designated this site as “Ronin Studios” to the mailbox, packed to the brim with junk mail and solicitations. A lone piece of mail did not fit the crowded receptacle and laid on the stoop. It was a letter addressed from someone named Billy Roman.