Furyo gets kicked out of the jail on a frosty morning in a blue paper suit and covered in bandages. They gave him some socks covered in rubber tread on both sides. Furyo feels like he got in a car wreak with a cracked skull. Despite his painful headache and throbbing feet from the cold, he feels and urge to run. The familiar urge to stick to sides of the street warmed by the warm yellow sun, made being barefoot bearable. He knows he needs to find a pair of shoes and real clothes asap. Straying out of the metropolitan area into high-rises of condos with the odd single family home. Coming to an abandoned house 空き家 (Akiya) that looks like its long been abandoned for demolition. 

He tries the sliding glass door and with out any effort it opens. Inside its musty and spider webs cross the hallways. No signs of life as he traverses the large home. Coming to the stairs, he feels some apprehension. He doesn’t want to discover an old lady who has been rotting in the bath tub or had her face eaten by neglected cats. Finding the bed room, the furniture all smell like mold and drawers stick. Finding some cool kimonos for men, he takes out a couple but feels like somebody is watching him from the shadows of the hall. No one is there but his urge to run from the sound of every creak and groan of the old wood floors is almost overpowering. Smiling faces in pictures seem to be lying, trying to seem happy for the camera but with an emptiness in the eyes, an unpleasantness in the corners of the mouth.

Painters plastic covers book cases and act as airlocks from room to room. Giving the place an eerie vibe, man size silhouettes are easy to mistake thought dull plastic and dim lights. There is a sound from next door of some kind of machine, louder than a vacuum and more jarring than a fax machine. The house feels like a void of light, a bright day outside is muted here among the forgotten signs of a life lived in seclusion, a lonely death in a house not even the bank wants. Maybe this place would be better as a parking lot or souless high-rise, but there is a feeling of wasted potential and yearning for better days in the stained wood and cheap linoleum. There is signs of pet food and grandchildren of decades past. No one bothered to put away toys from 40 years ago or mittens for a cat that died before Furyo was born.

Grasshoppers and Cockroaches are the only signs of life besides ivy breaking in through the ceiling and windows. Winding curving hallways, Furyo spooks him self on glass reflections in darkness. Large gold frames around bad art you find in an asian dentists office, paintings of Art Deco women’s faces as porcelain dolls with sad expressions, pictures of Lillies right out of Pink Floyd’s The Wall, colorized lithographs of stoic Samurai women in bathing suits of a lost era. To Furyo all he sees is light and dark, his face bending like a carnival mirror. Long enough to have an existential crisis of his new prowling for crumbs and clothing habit. He almost feels the judging eyes of some old woman, a harmless ghost wondering what the fuck this prowler is doing looking through her cupboards wearing a blood covered paper jail suit? Furyo can almost hear whispering of ghostly old ladies talking about him like a leech swimming in their bathtub.

Gathering some socks and canned food with identifiable pictures he understands like beans, carrots, canned fish, strained chicken, pineapple chunks. He creeps to the backyard to soak up some sun as the house as a coldness that got into his bones. Thankfully the house had some French bottles of wine, so he sits beside a stagnant koi pond as listens to the wind. Before long the wine and the peaceful backyard make him drift off to sleep. In a couple hours, its now overcast and he hears somebody yelling. A couple construction workers in yellow and blue hardhats are throwing stones from the fence. He doesn’t know the exact words but the meaning is unmistakable. This place has become unwelcome. Quickly gathering any other useful clothes and beverages, he rushes out the front door past a demolition crew laughing at the madman wearing sparkling funeral formal wear like something from a period drama.

Raiding the homes of the recently deceased 空き家 (Akiya) is a tactic he has to remember in the future. These abandoned homes are shunned by the modern Japanese who prefer western style tiny apartments. Heading back towards the noise of the city, he is tempted to sneak onto a train. The security is not interested in people hopping over the gates as much as harassing smokers or chasing perverts away from the school girls. Coming to a map of the lines, he looks for parts of the city he picked up in conversations. 原宿 (Harajuku) the fashion district, 新宿 (Shinjuku) the central hub of restaurants for business men, 歌舞伎町 (Kabuki-chō) the red light district, 渋谷 (Shibuya) the hip tourist area for bars and record stores, 浅草 (Asakusa) where old fashioned buildings and temples still exist, 秋葉原 (Akihabara) where toy stores and video game sellers draw オタク Otaku (Nerds) in anime costumes. 

Every region of Tokyo has its time of day where they could be deserted at the wrong hour. Shinjuku, Shibuya and Kabuki-chō are known for their night time foot traffic, where as 浅草 (Asakusa), 鎌倉 (Kamakura) and 秋葉原 (Akihabara) are as much fun during daylight hours. Furyo doesn’t feel like seeing the city alone, but also doesn’t remember where Cynthia or his new 暴走族 (Bōsōzoku) pals are. Tokyo is so massive with uniform streets that are deceptively similar, its easy to walk for miles in the wrong direction if you aren’t familiar with the street names. He cant make his mind up and just zones out staring at the map until he feels a furtive hand in his pocket. 

Slapping the hand away he sees a giggling group of school girls. He isn’t sure how to react so he yells at them and waves his around around like a maniac. They retreat to a far corner of the pedestrian tunnel, still giggling and pointing. He feels stupid now and wonders why they are laughing. Looking down he doesn’t notice any obvious problem. Is his dick hanging out or are the clothes put on wrong? He can’t find any thing wrong. He marches up to the girls and exclaims “What the fuck is so funny?” The girls hand over a red wanted poster. He looks at it confused. He asks “What does it say?” In perfect English they tell him. “Panty thief, Pervert, Serial Killer!” This isn’t funny any more so he hops the gate to the 浅草 Asakusa line and decides to spend the rest of the day at the temple.