Mun's AIM: obfuscobble
Muse's Name: Murata "Kirito" Shinya
Muse's Band: Angelo (ex-Pierrot, Dizzy Lizzy)
Muse's LJ: heel_future
Muse's AIM: heelfuture
Muse's Age: 38
Muse's Affiliation: Sixth Yamaguchi-gumi
Muse's Position: Kumicho
Muse's Job: Mild-mannered neighborhood bookstore owner
"Shall I deal again?" The voice delivering the decision to continue was calm, level, suave and in control, with a hint of malice and Hokkaido-ben. He was slightly bored, body exuding a false relaxation that belied his innate attentiveness as it sprawled across the armchair, but his eyes were sharp and analytical as they stared forward into the dark room, a cool brown brooding behind the harvest yellow of the two low lamps illuminated around the game of hanafuda. He had just made nine points in cards, long dark tan fingers lingering lovingly over his take as their left hand counterparts bent gracefully outward around a fresh cigarette, its grey fumes floating slowly upwards in an intoxicating languidity to join their ilk in the nicotene-choked room. The stillness and silence were stifling in this bile-coloured atmosphere as light struggled to strike the harsh angles and age withered hollows upon the strict machine of Murata Shinya.
"Do you wish to continue or no, Superior?" Shinya spat out the last syllables, a sneer digging comfortably into his face where it had been allowed to burrow in after years of disdain. He could afford to let his hatred show now, for he was in control as he always knew he was. Failure was never an option, and servitude was for the weak. He was the master, the machinator, the maleficent majesty mocking the multitudes of milquetoast sycophants who sniveled before the nattering nabobs of nepotism now nullified with calculating care and decisive destruction.
He had dropped school and left Sapporo for Kobe so many years ago, a good for nothing lad with the dazzling lights of power in his eyes. He had one goal, and one goal only: to seize power and become the leader by any means possible. His approach to problems had matured over the years, but stayed fundamentally the same: initiate the situation with subtlety and ingratiation for sweet integration then strike the ignorant with the new world order. Erase the opposition so that none remain to question your name. And no one questioned the name of Kirito, only cowered to its power in cloaked whispers. To those above him, he was a loyal follower and trusted advisor, to those under him, which was everyone else for in his mind he had no peers, he was a feared visionary treading their line between hate and admiration. He preferred to work behind the scenes, weaving lies and wielding information as power. It hadn't always been that way, for once he was a lowly subordinate with nothing but a fire of zeal to sustain him under the disgraces of his position. He once had to batter and racketeer, catburglar and woman-handle, and to spill the blood of others in plain sight. He once could not sweet talk his way into assignments pinpointed for social success, and he once had to pretend to admire those above him and give them credit for their failings.
In truth, they all merited only death for the indignities they committed towards their country and their fellow man. It was a shame to cater to foreigners, save to take their dirty money, and a shame to take upon their likenesses and customs. The spirits of the honourable would cry out in indignation at this affront to Japan and all it stood for, the soul of its people who even now threw away their traditional ways for money and hedonism. Shinya liked to see himself as a modern day samurai, one devoted to the proud and noble warrior spirit of Japan that the Yakuza once represented as a stable underground government. For all the ignominy associated with the yakuza in modern times, they had once stood for more noble intentions, a local government, protection for the people, all at a price of course. But no government comes without a price, yet what price is too much for the execution of just and swift law for the good of all? It is far less than the price to be paid for defying that law.
Kirito cast a glance at the sixth Kumicho. The other, older man sat very still with a deathly stare to match Kirito's own. He was a good opponent in and out of game, and likewise equally gifted with extraordinary luck in hand with his strategy, so that for years Shinya had lived under his palm. They were more equal now, although the balance of power was still quite uneven. The elder Kumicho grimaced coldly, commanding as always.
"Of course, Superior, I shall as always take your silence for affirmation." Kirito dealt a new hand, the thick shellac cards piling precisely and swift. Three cards in his opponent's hand; he awaited a move from his senior, the sixth kumicho. This was a quick game, Oicho-Kabu, decisive and filled with chance like life, much like the life he almost threw away, only to reclaim through his own determination. "I understand that you think on your turn with great and deep ponderings, Senior," Kirito continued, pondering his past when he was almost broken. As a wakachu so long ago, his shatei had screwed up spectacularly, the idiot, and all were to bear his disgrace. Lips thinned a slight fraction remembering the indignity of forced prostitution when they were so often forced open. But he had struck back when the time had finally presented itself, the chance to escape that horrible position, and he had in one glorious gory night avenged his humiliation and brought back the head of a Sumiyoshi-kai Saizo Komon and the hands who stood in his way. It was a very heavy drenched kimono to drag, but it looked so lovely when presented to his superiors back home with only three years of absence needed to deliver it. All part of his plan of course. We'll say that. Yes sir, I'll suck your cock if you'll let me advance after this Salomic gift. But I won't ever forget. I won't ever forget your bloody face... "Ah! of course, I need to refill your drink." Murata rose after respectfully bowing, and shuttled the cup of fire poison to refill its sickly orange contents. He would never let his tongue touch the vile stuff. He would never do things that were beneath him again. He returned to the table, setting the glass down just as the Sake Cup clattered onto the table. "What an interesting and inappropriate discard, Superior." Shinya smiled, picking up the card and standing above the sixth Kumicho. "But it seems that you lack options and thus..." He observed the card in the faint light, turning his back to his opponent and flicking the ash off his cigarette. "You find lost your fortune. All you have left is a yakuza, dabe sa?" His voice rose, rhetorically questioning from amid the cloud of smoke that the fresh mists of a spent round from his Tokarev had embraced. A soft chuckle churned in Kirito's chest fore he whipped aft, silver-plated heel planting firmly in the Kumicho's face to the floor, where it twisted and danced with wild abandon. The new indignant master shunted the cigarette into the hole still left in uncompressed forehead by its bloody and fresh brother, burning revenge for Seta daring to bleed on the hem of his hakama. They needed washed now, just as he washed away his own fears and failures in his vehemence and violence. And now, triumphantly, he took up the glass to let its combustion cascade onto the corpse followed by a falling match.
Murata left the room, closing the door after himself softly, and walked calmly but quickly down the hallway of the abandoned building. Joined in good time by two subordinates, he left one final command. "Clean it tomorrow."
Comments: I've aged Kirito a wee bit to make his assumption of power more understandable. Please imagine him quite more weathered than his younger face above. I could not see Kirito accepting anything less than Kumicho, so my apologies if this application is a bit forward. Background explanation can be found in the above text. I will make any nessicary changes willingly and with vitesse.