Blood & Tacos #3

Blood & Tacos

Issue 3

Fall 2012

Published by
Creative
Guy Publishing

ISSN 1929-011X

Amazon Kindle Edition

• Welcome Back!
  
• VIPER: Shadow Sisters of Shinjuku
  
• DOOMSDAY WARRIOR #9: America’s Zero Hour
  (review)
  
• THE CHEMISTRATOR: Drug City, U.S.A.
  
• CANNON FODDER: Cult Action Films of the ’80s
  (review)
  
• MAJOR MCCALL AND THE WIFE: Fragged
  
• COOKING LIKE A TOUGH GUY
  (article)
  
• STUDS WINSLOW and the Bitches of the Fifth Reich
  
• INTERVIEW with JOHNNY and TIME OUT SYDNEY
  
• BLOOD & SWEETGRASS: This Rez is Mine
  

Welcome back! CGP is very pleased to present another issue of blood and guts, mayhem and … tacos.

Blood & Tacos 3
includes a schwack of fist-pumping fiction from the legendary Stephen Mertz, along with Garnett Elliott, Todd Robinson, Chris La Tray and Rob Kroese. Like you couldn’t have read that on the cover.

We’re also featuring a great article this month on the Cannon studio and four exemplary films from same and reviewing Doomsday Warrior (specifically book 9). Finally, have a look at our new feature, Cooking Like a Tough Guy.

Enjoy!

By Tony Amtrak

(discovered by Garnett Elliott)

Very little is known about the elusive Tony Amtrak—mostly rumors and conjecture and rumored conjecture. Some say he was a former Italian mafioso, now in witness protection. Others claim he was yakuza, now in witness protection. The only detail the rumors share is that he was a criminal of some kind, which may account for the lags between publishing dates for his most famous series, featuring Viper. Luckily he got time off for good behavior. Or he escaped. Or witness protection.

GARNETT ELLIOTT
found this 1980 martial arts adventure under the passenger seat of a rental Toyota Corolla in Yuma, Arizona. He also found three .38 shell casings, a catcher’s mask, a Ping-Pong ball, and a woman’s pump, size 6.

Forty stories up, the Big Ginza discotheque cast a glitzy eye over smog-laden Shinjuku skyline. Getting there required a short trip on a private elevator. It also required the doorman’s approval.

He was a former sumotori, squeezed into a white dinner jacket. Thick arms folded, face impassive as an executioner’s, he pronounced judgment on every gaudily dressed, would-be clubber who approached the elevator’s mirrored interior. Those who got the nod stepped inside. Those he declined slunk away, to seek the district’s easier pleasures.

Viper Ogata watched from the lobby as a trio of burly Australians tried their luck. He in the lead had at least six inches on the doorman. Grinning, he attempted to brush past like no one was there. A hand the span of a dinner plate shot out and pressed against his chest.

“Hey now,” the Aussie said in passable Japanese, “that’s not—”

The doorman grunted. Viper stepped aside as two hundred pounds of blond gaijin went hurtling past, to strike a chrome table face first. The foreigner’s buddies hurried to help him up. They shot backward looks at the doorman, who waited with arms crossed like before. Calm as stone.

“Let’s go,” one of the Aussies said. “I know a brothel where they
want
our business.”

It was Viper’s turn.

He sauntered to the elevator, fishing in his blazer’s pocket for a cigarette. The sumotori shifted a little to the left and blocked him.

“No yakuza.”

“What?” Viper put extra incredulity into his voice. “Who do you think runs this place?”

“The Okajima family, under Boss Tsutomo. And you’re not with them.”

Viper popped the cigarette in his mouth but didn’t light it. “Look, I’m in a hurry. My friend called and said she needs my help. She works up there.” He pointed at the ceiling.

The doorman blinked at him.

“Big trees hate the wind, you know,” Viper said.

“What the hell does that mean?”

He answered with a punch, hands moving so fast the Rolex on his wrist made a golden blur. Two knuckles seemed to brush the fabric just above the doorman’s gut. The big man let out a breath. A look crossed his face like he was pondering some formidable problem. After several seconds of not breathing, his cheeks began to purple.

Viper leaned close. “The Gichin Fist,” he whispered, “first of the Seven Techniques of Ancient Ryukyuan.” He patted the doorman’s shoulder. His hand flashed out to stab the elevator button, and he stepped inside.

The doors shut with a chime. Viper paused to admire the multiple reflections of himself. Slender as a bamboo shoot, but tough like steel wire. He smoothed his tie. Music vibrated from somewhere above; it became deafening when the doors slid open and Donna Summer hit him with a wave of syncopated noise.

Bodies jerked atop the flashing red and yellow squares of Ginza’s dance floor. A spinning mirror-ball cast a thousand diamond fragments. People moved aside for Viper as he headed towards the bar, his eyes wary behind mirrored sunglasses. He refused to take them off, even at night. A young salaryman hurried by holding two beers in tall paper cups. Viper snatched one without resistance. He drained half the contents in a single swallow, nose wrinkling at the malty taste.

“Viper! Over here!”

Mikki waved to him from behind the crowded bar. He threaded his way over. The fat executive on the stool Viper wanted suddenly remembered an urgent appointment. Mikki leaned across the counter to light his cigarette, her western-sized breasts straining against a red sequined top.

“Sachiko’s looking for you,” she said.

“Uh-huh. Where’s she at?”

Mikki gestured towards a far booth, almost lost in the shadows. The angle afforded a nice view of her cleavage. “She’s worried about something.”

“So I gathered.”

“What’s so great about her, anyway? How does she rate a personal visit from Viper Ogata?”

“Sachiko’s an old friend.”

Mikki’s eyelashes lowered. “You making any new friends?”

“Perhaps. Be patient.”

He left his beer on the bar. Sachiko had been working the Shinjuku district for three years, a hardened pro at twenty-two. It took a lot to rattle her. But something had. She sat hunched in the dark booth, hands gripped around a tumbler of amber fluid. The sweep of her long bangs concealed her face.

“Relax,” Viper said, sliding into the cushions across from her. “I’m here. What’s all this nonsense about someone trying to kill you?”

Sachiko didn’t look up. Didn’t speak.

Viper watched the dancers making fools of themselves. “C’mon, Satch. My time’s valuable. What’s going on?”

No reply.

“Satch—” He reached over to brush her hair back. Sachiko grinned out at him in an empty-eyed rictus. A feathered dart, about three inches long, jutted from her neck. Her hair had been covering it.

Viper glanced sidelong at the dance floor. Could her assassin still be here? All he saw were drunken, gyrating idiots. A professional would do the job and leave.

Stray flashes of light from the disco-ball wandered across the table. One passed over Sachiko’s hands, where something gleamed. He lowered his sunglasses. Yes, she was holding a piece of plastic, pressed against the tumbler. He pried her index finger away and removed a white rectangle, the size of a domino. A stylized egret was stamped in gold paint on one side. The number ‘102’ on the other.

Frowning, he slipped the plastic into his blazer pocket.

“Back so soon?” Mikki’s smile drained away when she saw the look on his face.

“Wait twenty minutes and call the cops,” he said. “I was never here.”

Boss Gomyo sat with his gut wedged up against the pachinko machine. One hand worked the lever, sending tiny steel balls through the lighted pins at a steady pace. The other shoved rice crackers into his mouth. Every now and then his new flunky, Shigeda, held a cigarette to Gomyo’s lips for a quick puff.

He played, snacked, and smoked this way for a solid fifteen minutes before making a slight nod in Viper’s direction, indicating he was ready to listen.

Viper cleared his throat. “Boss, I was wondering if you could tell me what this was.” He slid the rectangle from his pocket and presented one side, then the other.

Gomyo’s eyes flicked away from the machine exactly twice. “‘Resplendent Egret Joyous Massage.’ It’s a parlor run by the Okajima clan. That’s a guest pass.”

Viper put the plastic away. “Thanks.”

“You gonna tell me where you got it?”

“Off a dead prostitute in Shinjuku. She was a friend of mine.”

Gomyo pushed himself back from the machine with a grunt. “Observe,” he told Shigeda, and turned to slap Viper so hard his sunglasses flew off and struck an old woman playing three machines down. The woman pretended not to notice. A school of bright stars swam across Viper’s vision.

“That,” Gomyo said, “is what happens to people who trifle with my time. And I
like
brother Viper, here. He’s my number one enforcer.”

Shigeda sneered. He looked all of eighteen years, wearing an open-collared dress shirt and gold chains. “I don’t see what’s so special about him.”

“Viper spent some time in Okinawa, on the lam. He met an old man there. Didn’t you, Viper?”

“Yes, boss.”

“The old man taught him a few tricks.”

“I was a poor student, boss.”

“Ah. Modesty.” Gomyo returned to his game. “Shigeda, pick up the man’s sunglasses. He gets anxious without them on.”

Shigeda scurried to obey, though his face burned red. Viper grabbed the mirrored shades from his hands.

“Go find your whore’s killer, you soft-hearted moron.” Gomyo’s attention stayed fixed on the cascade of shiny beads. “If you start a war with the Okajima people, I’ll want a whole pinky. Not just the tip.”

Viper bowed and got the hell out of there.

The Resplendent Egret parlor was sandwiched between a ramen shop and a record store the size of a bedroom closet. Viper stepped into a shabby, yet clean front room. Gilt-framed prints of birds hung on the walls.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

The old Korean woman behind the desk nodded when he showed her his pass. She led him down a hallway to a room marked 102.

“An attendant will be with you shortly, sir.”

The room smelled of disinfectant. There was a bench with a slim beige mattress on top, a folding table, and a paper robe hanging off the door. Traditional biwa music strained from overhead speakers.

A depressing place. Viper sat on the edge of the mattress and closed his eyes. He tried to imagine Sachiko working this very room, but the vision wouldn’t come. He recalled instead the first time they screwed, standing up in an alley behind the Amada Club. The alley had smelled like piss, and a family of stray cats kept brushing against his ankles during the act.

The door creaked. His eyes snapped open. A young woman in a cheap pink kimono entered. Her long hair was hennaed brown in the current fashion.