Loser Dog of Tokyo

Thief: A person who steals, meaning they take something without permission, with full intention of keeping, selling or consuming. The art of thievery is quite simple: steal without getting caught. It is something I have been taught from the age of just five years old, and something I still consider myself a master of at age thirteen.

I am what you would call an 'enigma.'

Umeda Mika, a homeless orphan girl with a pure lack of identity in the district where I reside; Arakawa-ku in Tokyo, Japan. If you think you've heard stories about me, you haven't even scratched the surface. My nicknames seem to carry more of a burden to my 'identity' than any crimes I might have ever committed, just to keep myself from dying in somebody's front yard on a crisp winter morning. 'Pinkie' is one I've grown to hate. 'Mutt' might be one of my favorites personally, as I quite like the company of canines. 'The Loser Dog of Tokyo,' now that's one that stuck with me.

"Makeinu."
"Makeinu."
"Makeinu."

Makeinu: translating to Loser Dog. It's catchy. I really love that one.

It seems the only proof I have of ever existing is when the neighbors surrounding the bridge I live under gossip early in the morning about 'Makeinu no Tōboe,' or the 'Howl of the Loser Dog.'

It's true that I've been known to be a bit noisy, especially late at night when the world around me turns into a battlefield for survival. Hunger pangs make me shriek in agony, drunken salarymen coming home from a night out trying to rip my panties off and shove their disgusting meat poles inside of me; it makes me yelp like a dog in distress.

To the residents of Arakawa-ku, it's simply Makeinu no Tōboe, but to me, it's a frightening attempt to save myself from death.

* * *

Something I never would have conceived happened on the night of the summer typhoon, July 11th, when I had taken shelter inside the lobby of the Esprit apartments just a few hundred feet from where my cardboard shelter was whisked away by the wind. I witnessed a real yakuza shakedown.

Three men, clad in familiar rose-patterned suits, pounded heavily on the metal door of apartment number 107 on the first floor. I recognized the patterned suits; they belong to the Bara-gumi, a yakuza gang that resides just about ten kilometers away from the red-light district. I had seen these same men walking around before during the daytime, but had no idea they operated so close to the bridge after dark.

* * *

The story of the Bara-gumi varies from person to person, yet most facts stay the same.

"Ninagawa Charlotte, the fearless leader, rules over the Bara-gumi with an iron fist. Rain or shine, there is sure to be mayhem if you cross her path.
It is something of a local legend: if you see her with her crew, keep your head down; if you see her alone, run for your life. On condition that you find yourself dabbling in illegal circumstances, your best bet is to have the Bara-gumi protecting you, but you better be prepared to pay interest for the rest of your life. Everybody knows what happens if you miss your deadline; you'll be the gossip of the neighborhood until the next unfortunate victim takes your place."

* * *

I sat and waited patiently, hugging the tattered blanket around my wet body closer to my chest. Minding my business is what I do best, yet I kept the sides of my eyes peeled to the men standing just a few meters away from me. Their shouts were downright head-splitting.

"Open this fucking door right now, Sakai!"
One of the men hollered as his loafers made contact with the wall.

"Sakai-kun! Don't fuck with the Bara-gumi! One hundred thousand, or you're losing a finger!"
Another gruff man tapped his tanto blade across the door.

My eyes naturally drifted to the man behind the younger members. That man had a scar running across the corner of his mouth, and slicked back hair that glistened in the fluorescent lights hanging overhead. He didn't speak a word, yet his aura alone made the hair on the back of my neck stand straight up. Not an ounce of emotion showed in those pale, gray eyes of his.

He was absurdly handsome.

"Don't hurt me, please!"
A timid shout echoed through the closed door of room 107.
"I only have fifty-two thousand!"

"Come on out, Sakai! Fifty-two just saved half of your finger!"
The shorter member hollered again, his tongue rolling each word with a pathetic attempt to sound intimidating.

The door slowly creaked open, and the two men standing in front kicked forcefully. They dragged the man by the name of Sakai out into the hallway.

"It's all here, I promise!"
Sakai cowered in their grasp.

It was then that I saw it. Fifty-two thousand yen, sitting neatly inside a small manila envelope. That was more money than I had ever seen in my entire life, just casually being waved in the air like it was chump change. The intense parched feeling in my throat caused a faint whine to escape my lips, and my legs seemed to dart up without any semblance of an actual thought.

I need to act fast.

Like a dog chasing after a squirrel, my feet slapped heavily against the cold tile, and my hands had successfully snagged the paper envelope in record time. Briefly, just for a single moment, I made eye contact with the man bearing the mouth scar. His narrowed eyes sent a shiver of absolute fear and submission through my veins, yet my legs continued to thrust forward.

I could hardly breathe. My lungs were completely on fire, and the wet rubble beneath my bare feet gashed deeply into my skin, leaving trickles of blood down the dark alleyway path. My gasps screeched loudly, and each fumble to my knees and hands sucked adrenaline straight out of my system, replacing it with terror.

It wasn't long before I heard the heavy, rhythmic thudding of boots and loafers quickly approaching from behind me. I hadn't had a meal in days, and the fatigue was preventing me from rising to my feet once again.

What the fuck am I doing?! Stealing from the yakuza?!

I desperately crawled, my hands gripping the asphalt like a lifeline.
"No, no, no!"
I screamed as a calloused hand yanked my ankle backward, causing my jaw to slam down on the concrete below.

I let out a high-pitched groan, my arms instinctively moving to cover my head from any oncoming attacks.

I felt the men's feet connect with my stomach, the air in my lungs instantly evaporating. I coughed and choked, but the kicks landed harder with each passing second.

The short man with the tongue-rolling accent yanked my hair hard, dragging me closer to the metal water pipe against the side of the apartment's exterior.

I let out a wail of fear, clamping my hands down on my head to prevent my hair from being ripped off my scalp.
"Don't!"

As if the cries of a little girl meant nothing to these hardened warriors, my face made contact with the edge of the water pipe, a loud metallic clank echoing in the rain.

Not good... my vision is blurring. God damn it, my head hurts!
The nausea from my activities hit me like a truck. My lack of a proper meal, the physical exertion of sprinting full speed, and multiple wounds now scattered around my small frame... I vomited stomach bile onto my own chest. The stench was revolting.

I struggled to keep my eyes open, watching as the man with the mouth scar approached in the pouring rain. Neon lights shimmered across his handsome face, illuminating something close to sympathy. With a mere snap of his fingers, the men surrounding me took a few steps back, allowing him further access to my battered figure.

With bated breath, my hoarse whisper pierced through the rain.
"Somebody... help me."

"Nobody's helping you, kid."
The man spoke in a voice I would never forget. It was firm, deep, and guttural.

He pulled a cigar from his breast pocket, using his suit to shield a lighter from the rain. The scent of tobacco withered away with my consciousness, the last words I remember being,
"Toss her in the trunk, quickly. Looks like there's going to be a typhoon."