Fish stands naked on his hotel balcony. The air is heavy and charged,
the smell of electricity ticking his nostrils. A storm is coming.
He feels the hot, dull raindrops thud into his naked body, trickling
down his legs. He hardly notices them. A sluggish wind cannot quite
find the energy to rustle the curtains. He look out over Tokyo, a
maze of steel and concrete, of neon and night. The lightning cracks,
once, twice, three times. He counts under his breath, swallowing whiskey.
The thunder comes, a deep satisfying rumble. The rain intensifies.
in at the room. The corpses of champagne bottles clink. On the bed,
Rukia and Natsuki lie sleeping. They ought to sleep soundly, he thinks,
after the fucking he gave them. He steps over discarded dresses towards
the table, and snorts the last of the coke. There is a popping of
lightbulbs in his head, before the rush whispers down the back of
his throat and hits his belly. He slips on a pair of slippers and
sits on the chaise-longue.
in Tokyo for the World Weather Awards that were held last night in
the Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum. As predicted, he won both his nominations,
for Best Weather Prediction and Most Popular Weather Personality.
The trophies are somewhere on the floor, beneath wine or drugs or
clothes. He'll speak to Bruno tomorrow and organise for them to be
shipped home. More fucking awards. He thinks of Suzanne Charlton and
lets out a snigger. Poor, sad Suzanne.