Imamimi Notanobu - III

I'm conscious. That's the first thing I remember as I flare to life. To the ability to think and recognise what's around me.

What follows is: I'm alive!

And what's next: I'm alive, but am I really? And if I am alive, does that mean that The Tearer is going to kill me right now? Save me for later? Trap me in a deep hole and force me to slather myself with lotion?—h-how lewd!

I try to calm myself with a dose of humour in poor taste, before realising I should just confront my situation and deal with it.

I open my eyes. I'm on a sofa. The sofa. The one in my living room.

As I look around my familiar space, I'm met with the sight of the woman from yesterday. Standing tall in the kitchen. Eyes scanning my fridge like a hungry predator.

I don’t know why, but I just stare at her, without moving, without speaking, without really thinking about anything besides the fact that she’s there… next to my fridge… doing something.

“You have a good harvest,” she says, with an unfamiliar accent. “Your fridge is full of vegetation. Your family must be proud.”

“They are, for the most part.”

“Yeah.” I hear her smell the air. Sniff. Sniff. “I get that. My family is proud for the most part, too. Like, twenty per cent.”

“Twenty percent is a bit low to qualify as ‘for the most part’, don't you think?”

“Maybe.” She reaches into the fridge, takes out a milk carton, and drinks it whole. “Stop being scared.”

Without looking at me, this woman can discern something like that.

“Wouldn't you be nervous?”

“No.” She stops in her tracks. “Don't worry, I didn't molest you or anything while you were sleeping.”

M-molest? I’m well within my rights to be angry, but the utter absurdity of the situation is enough to draw a chuckle from me. I suppose I have a habit of forgiving those I find interesting.

“That's not exactly reassuring, you know.”

“You seemed like the type of guy who cares about his chastity.”

“How about my life? I'd say that's another reassurance I could use.”

“If you cared about your life that much, would you investigate The Tearer?”

Is that a rhetorical question? The nonchalance with which she speaks suggests otherwise, but frankly, I'm left a bit befuddled.

Still, it is a good question, and I decide to dignify it with a response.

“A lot of people do dangerous things. They just fail to consider the consequences until it’s too late. That's why, when people are about to die, they more often than not think ‘why me’, despite knowing it was stupid in the first place.”

Glug. Glug. Glug.

I hear her devour the rest of my orange juice. That’s nearly 8k yen down the drain… Doesn’t she know that fruits are expensive in this island country?!

She wipes her mouth. “This is pretty good.”

“I know, right? I blended it myself, so it has the perfect pulp to water ratio.”

Gak!

What am I getting at? Stop eating up your orange juice hype and set things straight!

Right as I'm about to air my questions, the woman closes the fridge and approaches. She plops down next to me.

Surprisingly close. So close that I can smell her sweat and all. So close in fact (despite the fact that it's not needed), that I can see her face at long last.

A slightly crooked nose. A admittedly, beautiful jawline. And the thick eyebrows of one who’s never lifted tweezers in her life. It’s the type of face you’d see on a natural tomboy. The type to make you second-guess whether they were a guy, gal or something in between.

A little soft, a little sharp, and altogether brilliant; made all the better with its weathered expression. Super hot, if I may say so myself. She could slap the wall next to me, do a kabedon, and I’d be hard-pressed not to blush.

Despite that.

Despite her handsome features, this woman honestly reminds me of how a homeless person would dress. A stylish homeless person, yes. Fitted with an admittedly cool duster coat, and woollen trousers. It’s easy to imagine her with a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of alcohol in the other.

No. Not a bottle of alcohol. Nor a cigarette for that matter.

Maybe just the run-over carcass of a dog, which she’ll skin for dinner.

Ow.

That’s mean of me. Then again, her hair is really messy. And she does smell like she could use a long shower.

Shampoo, conditioner, a skin scrub, a chemical exfoliant, some hair oil even…

Thinking about it, she could use just about anything. What a shame for all this beauty to go to waste.

“Are you convinced?”

Her breath smells so much like a petting zoo that it takes me a moment to actually understand what she said.

“Hm, oh?”

I look down. There’s a business card in her hand.

‘Imamimi Notanobu—Magical Consultation Firm’

I see. She must’ve pocketed it from my wallet and taken me to the address listed.

“See. I am not The Tearer, otherwise I would have done that already.”

That’s logical enough. I don’t imagine a serial killer would neglect the opportunity to kill someone in an abandoned area.

“But… why were you there?”

“I’m hunting this Tearer, too.”

“Okay. And, why were you growling and jumping like an ape?”

“Like a dog,” she seems to correct.

“Why were you growling like a dog?”

“Kung fu.”

“Kung fu?”

“I call it the Mad Dog Fist,” she says with a serious expression. “I intend to find this Tearer, and show them the supremacy of the Mad Dog Fist.”

I pause. “Are you not a mage? Or some hybrid? Maybe a… werewolf?”

I mime a wolf’s paws. I like to think I look cute while doing it, but the woman shows no sign of such. Rough.

“Werewolf? I said, Mad Dog Fist. Not, Warehouse Wolf Fist.”

“You’re right, jumping and growling have nothing in common with a wolf. Or The Tearer, for that matter, who seems to claw, and rip out any organs or fleshy parts.”