The Boys From Japan

[inkinthewell]

Here's a story for a film I've been working on for some years now. Johnny Depp, Brad Pitt, Matt Damon, Joaquin Phoenix, Ben Stiller and Al Pacino have all shown great interest for the project. Hope you'll all enjoy it.

THE BOYS FROM JAPAN
by Inkinthewell

Year 2015. Manafon has just been released. Peter Peter, a young Samadhisound employee on holidays in South America, stumbles upon a secret sect of Japan fans holding clandestine meetings. He alerts David Sylvian.
Peter is discovered and killed. David Sylvian sends Yuka Fuji to investigate. She encounters several Japan fans and their families, and is amazed to discover that they all have quintuplets: a beautiful tomboy with long blonde hair and blue eyes; a tanned chatterbox of a brat with multicoloured hair; two quiet little tough guys that keep together as if they were twins; and a curly haired kid who gets bossed about by the others.
Yuka's investigations take her to dr. Nachtportier, who has spent twenty years pursuing his crazy plan: being in possession of skin and blood samples from David Sylvian, Mick Karn, Steve Jansen, Richard Barbieri and Rob Dean, he plans to recreate the arty-new-wave-glitter-rock group Japan and record a follow-up to Tin Drum.
Yuka gives David all the information she has. David calls his brother, Steve Jansen, who lives in the next room, and they start rounding up the others. Richard Barbieri and Rob Dean say they'll join them as soon as possible. But Mick Karn tells David he can f*** off.
Once reunited, the four old-time friends travel to a farm, where the first of the clones are living, and where dr. Nachtportier is expected. They get rid of the boys' parents, and lie in wait for dr. Nachtportier.
When he arrives, a savage fight takes place, until Nachtportier gains the upper hand. The mad doctor taunts the four with his hopes of a come-back world tour. But, as he's frothing with delight about his ideas on the stage lighting, someone hits him on the head from behind. It's Mick Karn.
Dr. Nachtportier is arrested, and the five ex-members of Japan end up having a pint all together at the local pub: the Stag's Head.
Meanwhile, back at the farm, the five clones, who took loads of Polaroids during the fight, are uploading them on e-bay...

[neonico]

love it inkwell but david has to play himself and id buy it straight away

love your fantasie write further cant wait for the next episode

[inkinthewell]

love it inkwell write further cant wait for the next episode

Thanks, Neo!
Well, you asked for it, so... here's another episode! In honor of the lady that runs this forum, without whom all this wouldn't exist. Cheers K.

SILVER MOON
by Inkinthewell

Cyprus. Late at night. Mick Karn is whistling away in his kitchen, joyfully cooking for himself after having recorded some new material, when someone busts in his garden. It’s Pollos, a young lad that’s done some gardening for him every now and then. He’s out of breath and his clothes are in tatters. “Please help me, mr. Karn. They want to kill me.” “Who wants to kill you?” “I don’t know, but they’ve taken Myrna, my girlfriend, and now they’re after me.”
In fact, looking outside, even though he can’t see anybody, Mick feels somebody’s presence. He goes to his studio, turns on his recording equipment, and plays back the new track he’s been working on, at full volume. Immediately, five or six shadows drop out of the darkness and run away holding their hands to their ears. “They’ve gone.” Mick assures Pollos. “Now, tell me everything.”
Pollos tells him he had been out with Myrna. When they came out of the restaurant, they were attacked by about ten men. He tried to fight them, but they were too many, and took Myrna. He followed them, but they split up: four went away with the girl, the rest went for him. And all he could do was seek refuge there.
The morning after, locked up in his studio, Mick faces the wall, where his own portrait is hanging together with those of his four mates and former band-members: David Sylvian, Steve Jansen, Richard Barbieri and Rob Dean. He presses some buttons, and all the eyes in their pictures light up, and then each photo slides away to reveal four lcd screens in which the real David, Steve, Rich and Rob can be seen. He tells them they’re needed, and to hurry up.
David Sylvian, who is in his new office in Florida, turns his chair around to wait for Steve Jansen, who lives in the next room. Once Steve’s by his side, the platform on which the chair stands lifts up and goes through a hole that opens up in the roof. The chair is now installed in front of the commands of a jet. Steve sits in the co-pilot’s chair, and they take off from the roof.
Richard Barbieri is at that moment playing with Porcupine Tree at Amsterdam, but he’s not one to shirk his duty. So, he sets his keyboards to manage by themselves, clicks a red button, and starts sinking into the ground. The crowd loves it. Steven Wilson ecstatically leads the rest of the band into ‘The Sky Moves Sideways Phase I’. Beneath the stage, a submarine is waiting for Richard. Once inside he sets off along the canals, on his way to the Mediterranean.
Flying over Costa Rica, Dave and Steve meet Rob Dean hovering above the clouds on his air-scooter. Steve opens a trapdoor in the jet’s side and lets Rob inside. Now they can fly at full speed.
A few hours later, they all join Mick and Pollos in Cyprus. The first thing they do, is go to the restaurant where Pollos and Myrna had been. It’s a Turkish restaurant, and the owner is a greasy, sweaty, big-bellied, moustachioed crook who doesn’t show any interest in their questions. Sick of the guy’s attitude, Steve lifts two red-hot spits from the fire, and begins drumming around the place, burning everything he touches. Looking at the fat man, he tells him he’s going to play ‘The Art Of Parties’ on his big belly if he won’t tell them all he knows. “No! Please don’t.” “Speak then.” “Shakanna. He knows. Ask him.”
Outside, the six talk about Shakanna. “Who’s he?” “Oh, he’s very esteemed here,” Mick explains. “He’s a sort of prophet. I don’t think he’s involved in this story, but if somebody knows what’s going on on this island that’s him.” “Let’s go talk with him,” proposes David. But Mick hesitates. “He’s not easy to handle,” he says. “Leave him to me," Rich butts in, "I know how to handle a Prophet.”
And, indeed, he succeeds in no time. Shakanna tells him that some time back a strange guy turned up on the island showing great interest for the ancient Zula rites, an extinct tribe that believed the sacrifice of a young woman on a certain day, at a certain time, in a certain place, would make them the rulers of the world. “Do you know where we can find him?” “No. He suddenly disappeared. But he never left Cyprus. I’m sure of that.” “Can anybody tell us where and when the sacrifice should take place?” “All experts agree on the date and time, but nobody has a clue about the place.” “And when should it be?” “When the first full silver moon of June has risen.” “But,” screams Pollos, “it’s today!” “Can’t you in any way help us find the place, Shakanna?” begs Mick. “All I have is this,” the old man says, and reaches for a dvd on his desk.
He shows them a video: a sort of masked witch-doctor acts like a preacher before a huge crowd of disciples. Behind him, a man beats an enormous drum. It’s night-time and the video’s quality is very poor, so it’s very difficult to understand where it has been shot. But Rob has noticed something. “Can you play it back, please?” Shakanna does. “Here! Did you hear that?” “Hear what?” “Listen carefully.” Shakanna plays the video again. “See?” cries Rob. “Yes,” says Steve, “the drummer’s missed a beat.” “No! The bird. Can’t you hear the bird?” “What bird?” “That’s an akrotaki, a very rare species that only lives on this island, and in one specific area. The Episkopi Bay.” Mick and Pollos lighten up: “By Jove!" they exclaim. "Then it must have been filmed at the Sanctuary of Apollon Ylatis. Come on, let’s go.”
And off they do go, the five plus Pollos, who runs faster than all. Night finds them concealed in the shrubs around the Sanctuary. When the tip of the silver moon becomes visible over the hills, hundreds of people emerge from the rocks. In the middle, the strange witch-doctor. Two men lead Myrna, gagged and clothed in a silver dress, to a pole and tie her to it. The witch-doctor walks up to a sort of altar and, after some hocus-pocus, he unsheathes a sharp knife and slowly approaches Myrna. All the others kneel and bow their heads.
David Sylvian holds his men. Rich has to grab Pollos and hold his hand over his mouth to keep him quiet and still. When the witch-doctor is not farther than two yards from the girl, Dave lets out his battle yell: “Rhodesia!” and they all run towards the pole. With a kick here, a punch there, a head-butt yonder, and a wild swing of a stick by Steve that cracks the heads of ten men at one time, they settle all the doctor’s disciples and surround the big man himself. While Pollos sets Myrna free and takes her in his arms, Mick pulls the mask off the doctor’s face. Behold! It’s dr. Nachtportier. And so big is their surprise that the wicked man manages to struggle free and rush into the sea, disappearing under the waves.
Dave, Steve, Rich and Rob stay in Cyprus for Pollos and Myrna’s wedding, which lasts a fortnight, and then go back home. In Amsterdam, Rich gets back on stage just in time for ‘The Sky Moves Sideways Phase I’ finale.
Meanwhile, somewhere in the South Pacific, a Chinese merchant ship hauls an exhausted dr. Nachtportier on board…

[neonico]

just cool gives more please

[Barbierian]

I must admit, when I read the first instalment I wondered at what type of illegal substance you'd come (albeit inadvertently) into contact with, but the follow up was extremely entertaining and made me laugh out loud

[proggrl]

Well, I do like where David and Steve live!! Maybe I ought to pop 'round for a little visit!

[inkinthewell]

CANTONESE BOY - part 1

Like a goose followed by its ducklings, a man marched through fields of rice with five boys trailing behind him making the unearthliest racket you could ever imagine. Each of the boys, oriental in dress and mien, had a tin drum hung to his neck, and beat on it to the rhythm of his paces, thump thump left right thump thump. But each followed his own tempo, and to no good did the western man in the lead try to give them the cue shouting “Ein! Zwei! Ein! Zwei!” at the top of his voice.
When they reached a clearing on the top of a hill, the western man halted his troop and ordered to pitch camp.
He was proud of his troop. They had not yet got the knack of the instrument, but they were young and promising and working hard. His favourite was Mai An Chon. He loved that boy as if he was his own son.
The first time he saw him, from his office’s window in the Red Army HQ in Beijing, something clicked, he couldn’t say why. Being the Supreme Instructor Of The Youth Of The People, the lad was brought to him. “Mai An Chon,” the accompanying officer admonished the kid, “this is Yejianhuren, your leader. Do whatever he says.” When the officer left, Yejianhuren looked at the boy. “Where do you come from?” “Canton.” “Oh!” This took his breath away. To hide his emotion, Yejianhuren had to turn away. Then, he opened a closet and, choosing very carefully, he picked up a drum and sticks, and handed them over to the waiting youngster. “Cantonese boy,” he said, “bang your tin drum.” That was two weeks ago. Since then, the boy’s confidence with the instrument had grown, and now he was without shadow of a doubt his best tin-drummer. A natural talent. And (he laughed at himself rerunning the scene in his mind’s eye) whenever the other boys missed a beat, Mai An Chon raised his eyebrow exactly like St… Oh, that was ok, he could say it without any fear: like Steve Jansen. Yes, he was alright now. Since the Chinese submarine had picked him up in the Mediterranean, dr. Nachtporter (for Yejianhuren was none other than dr. Nachtporter) had had time to receive the beneficial influence of ancient China’s philosophies, and his compulsive fanatism for the 80’s pop-group Japan had dwindled to the normal down to earth appreciation shown by any member of the JapanSylvian.com forum. (Note: if you believe that the appreciation for the 80’s pop-group Japan shown by the members of that forum is normal and down to earth, it's only because you’re a member of the said forum yourself.)
“We’ve finished, sir,” one of the boys aroused him from his daydreaming.
“Oh. Good. Let’s light a fire, so we can eat and go to sleep.”
During supper, Yejianhuren drilled them.
“Li.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What would you do if a wolf attacked us now?”
“…”
“Gawk at him like that wouldn’t be of any good. Zhang?”
“Run.”
“No.”
“I know. I know.”
“Yes, Chen?”
“Call mum.”
“No! I’ve lost count of the times I’ve already told you this before: in case of danger don’t call mum: bang your drum!”
A chorus of “oooh”s went up in the evening sky.
One of the kids took up his drum and began to bang like mad.
“Hey, Kong, stop that! What are you doing?”
“What you just said: In case of danger don’t call mum: bang your drum.”
“But there’s no danger!”
“Oh, yes there is. Look.”
Night Guardian and the other four boys turned round to where Kong was pointing. There, the flames twinkling in its eyes making them red and wavery, a bunny rabbit sat staring at them.
“That’s not dangerous. It’s only a bunny rabbit. The sweetest little creature on earth. Stop your banging.”
The firmness in his voice convinced Kong, so he stopped beating.
As soon as Kong put down his drum, the bunny rabbit, no more under the spell of that frightening thumping that had held him back, fiercely charged the troop, chasing them all over the place till they took their belongings and moved to another hillock.
 
Once settled down again, Yejianhuren and his boys put themselves to sleep.
During the night, the man had nightmares. Visions of oriental, long-haired, powdered and painted young men playing to a swooning crowd haunted his dreams. And the worse of it was that, behind the make-up, he had recognized Mai An Chon at the drumkit!
At dawn, Night Guardian awoke to the sun’s long rosy fingertips delicately ruffling his hair. He got up, woke Li, Kong, Zhang and Chen, looked around the camp, and stood speechless: Mai An Chon was missing, and his sleeping bag was torn to shreds.
“The bunny,” said Kong, looking at the shreds.

[inkinthewell]

CANTONESE BOY - part 2

But it was obvious that it wasn’t a bunny that had done that. How could a bunny have packed up all Mai An Chon's things?
Desperate, Yejianhuren could do only one thing. He rummaged through his rucksack until he fished out his iPod and a portable amp, connected the two, and played "Voices Raised In Welcome, Hands Held In Prayer" at maximum volume, looking up at the sky as if expecting a god to descend.
The four remaining boys looked at him in astonishment.
Not for long, though, because, out of the blue, five figures began to materialize, disturbed and shady like a badly tuned television screen at first, turning rapidly into the bodies of Richard Barbieri, Rob Dean, Steve Jansen, Mick Karn and David Sylvian. There they were, standing on the hillock in their full beauty for all to admire.
"Nachtporter! Why did you call us?" asked Steve.
"It'd better be something big," said Richard. "I was thrashing Steven Wilson 6 love, 6 love, 5 love."
"Oh, it certainly is important," explained Yejianhuren. "Mai An Chon has disappeared. They've taken him away."
"Mai An Chon?"
"Yes," said Yejianhuren, turning to Steve, who raised his eyebrow as he spotted the four scattered tin drums. "He's one of my boys, a real talent. And he reminds me so much of you, Steve. Not the least because of the eyebrow."
"Well, what about me, then?" interrupted David, lifting his eyebrow.
"No, no," Yejianhuren waved him away. "It's not the same. You can't do that while you play drums."
David had to concur.
"Carry on, old chum," Rob invited Yejianhuren.
"Yes. They took my boy away."
"They? Who's they?" inquired Mick.
"The bunnies."
"Shut up, Kong," yelled Yejianhuren as he wallopped the kid on the back of the head. "I don't know. But just look at this place. It's definitely more than one person that did it."
The men took their time in inspecting the place.
Richard kneeled down next to the ripped sleeping bag. Being extremely careful, he picked up something.
"Mick," he called. "Are you still using that glitter?"
Mick and the others circled round him.
"Only the red one. Why?"
"This can't be yours, then. It's blue," Richard concluded, showing the blue glitter he'd found. "Do you or any of your boys use blue glitter?" he asked Yejianhuren.
"By Jove, man, we're in communist China!!!!"
"Hmmm," smiled David. "That's not a bad idea for a song..."
"We've already recorded that in 1978," whispered Rob.
And David, as disgusted as if he'd found a dead rat in his bed, went: "Bleaaahh!!!"
"This is England," exclaimed Mick, thumping his foot on the ground.
They all looked at him, astonished.
"Hello! Is that satire? You're not becoming 'politically aware' like him, are you?" said Steve, pointing his thumb at his brother.
"No. What I meant is: England did this, they kidnapped the boy."
"The whole bloody nation?"
"No, not England the country, England the group."
"Whaaaat?!"
"There's a japanese glam-rock group called England, you know, long coloured hair, lots of make-up, flashy clothes..."
"Oh!" the others nodded thoughtfully.
"So," Yejianhuren burst their thoughtful nodding, "what are we waiting for? Let's go get them."
"Now?!"
"Yes."
In the end they agreed to go, taking Yejianhuren with them.
"But what about us?" said the four boys.
"You can go back home," answered Yejianhuren.
"And how are we to find our way?" insisted Kong.
"Here," said Yejianhuren giving Kong his compass, "take this. Your home is north; the needle always points north; follow the needle."
Kong looked at the compass, uncertain.
"It's not pointing north, it's pointing east," he yelled, showing him the compass.
Yejianhuren raised his eyes to the ceiling (yes, I remember they were on the hillock, I'm just being literary!), he took the compass from the kid's hand and threw it far far away. Northwards.
"Follow the compass and it'll take you home. Pest!"
"Ready?" Richard asked him.
"Yes. We can leave."
"Alright," boomed the keyboard player, taking a sort of cell phone from his belt. "Beam us up, Scottie."
And in no time, the five pop stars plus Yejianhuren vanished into thin air.
The four boys looked on, not at all surprised.
"Now where the heck is that compass?"
And, having said this, they disappeared into the tall grass, looking for their way home.
"I hope there's no bunnies in here."
"Shut up!"

TO BE CONTINUED

[inkinthewell]

BIG IN JAPAN
by Inkinthewell

Part 1: Life in Tokyo
Tokyo. Beautiful and chaotic, modern and traditional, everchanging but always the same, it is one of the most populated cities in the world, and, one day, its population suddenly increased by six units when Richard Barbieri, Rob Dean, Steve Jansen, Mick Karn, David Sylvian and Yejianhuren, the former dr. Nachtporter, were beamed down on Asakusa. They were tracking Mai An Chon, Yejianhuren's tin drum pupil, who had been abducted from a training camp in China.
Wanting to sift through the vastest area in the least possible time, Steve formed three groups of two. But soon after they divided: Rob and Rich dived into the first pachinko they found; David and Mick slumped into a noodle-bar, sitting happily at a filthy table with fuming bowls of broth before them, stuffing their gobs with swift movements of the chopsticks, and drowning it all in rivers of sake; and only Steve and Yejianhuren actually went out looking for the boy.
"Let's start from that park over there," suggested Steve. "It's always full of youngsters playing loud music."
Thanks to a polite policeman, who stopped the traffic holding out a white baton and courteously bowed to them, and to whom they bowed back, and he bowed back to them, and they to him again, and he… Heck! The copper got them safely to the other side of the road, and now let's get on with it.
In the park, the first thing they saw was a group of greasy-haired leather-clad long-booted guys, rocking and rolling their frilled-dressed heavy-lipsticked plastic-handbagged dolls around a cheap stereo, placed right in the middle of the intersection of two pathways, blaring out old 1950s rock'n'rolling goldies.
"Hi guys, do you know where England are playing?"
The music stopped. A small, 4ft 6", tough looking guy walked up to Steve, and, standing on tiptoe, stared him straight in the eyes.
"Who?"
"England. It's a group. We want to know where they're playing."
"Never heard of them. What kinda music do they play?"
"Rock. Pop. New romantic. New wave. 1980s stuff."
The midget turned round and smirked to his friends, who all began to laugh, stopping immediately as he turned back to Steve with a nasty look.
"We don't listen to that rubbish here. Go to the next crossroads."
Still with the evil grin, he watched Steve and Yejianhuren walk away. Then, at his nod, the stereo switched back on and they were rocking and rolling, twisting and twirling all over the place once again.
At the next crossroads, there was a bunch of punks, with spiky hair and torn clothes. Appalled, Steve and Yejianhuren passed on.
When they got to the following crossroads, Steve couldn't believe his eyes and ears: here was a hoard of headbangers, with chains, spikes, motorbikes, skulls, and the whole metal paraphernalia, but the music… That was his brother singing!
"Why are you listening to this?" he screamed.
Removing the long hair from his face, one of them said, in a squeaky voice:
"We love it."
"This man is talking about us, man," added another. "He really hit the nail on the head with this song."
"Small Metal Gods," said the squeaky one. "Isn't that what we are, lads?"
"Yeeeaaahhhh!!!" burped the hoard.
"But he was speaking about his faith, the small metal gods are his hindu figurines, he wasn't talking about…"
The clank of a chain made him stop.
"On the other hand," Steve resumed, "I might be wrong. Who am I to know what the man that lives in the room next to mine does, thinks and believes in? Yes. I am sure you are right. The song is about you."
"Buuuurp!!!" yeahd the hoard.
Steve and Yejianhuren moved hurriedly on.
The fourth crossroad was deserted. There was not a soul. But the ground was littered with multicoloured leaflets.
Yejianhuren picked one up.
"Look!"
The leaflet read: "Tonight, at the Konimori Theatre, Shimasu Kenji is proud to present THE BIGGEST SHOW ON EARTH. With Michael Bolton, Francis the Mule, and many many other incredible superstars. And introducing Japan's glittering new synth-pop band: England."
"Michael Bolton?!" yelled Yejianhuren, giving the man a middle name beginning with 'F' which I'm sure won't result from any certificate.
"You know," explained Steve, "when artists are rated 'artistically dead' in the West, some come over to Japan, where they adore "have-been"s, and get the chance to live a second artistic life. That's the meaning of the expression: big in Japan."
"I know that, you moron, but Michael Bolton!" once more giving him that same middle name.
"He's not worse than Barry Manilow, or Engelbert Humperdinck."
"You must be joking! Engelbert is a genius," screamed Yejianhuren, his head fuming.
Luckily for us, Steve had no time to respond: there, in front of him, was the Konimori Theatre.
He grabbed from his belt that thing that Richard had used to call Scottie, a thing that looked so much like a cell phone and did more or less the same thing a cell phone does, but wasn't a cell phone.
"Boys," he announced, "meet us at the Konimori Theatre in 5 minutes."
Dave and Mick gulped down one more thimble of sake and ran through the door. A second later they came running out of it, a fat cook chasing them swinging a chopper over his head, and this time they went through the right door.
Rob and Rich abandoned their pachinko machines. Rob stopped at the counter, awoke the man sitting there, and handed in his pachinko balls.
"Where's yours?" he asked Richard.
"Er... I lost."
"All of them?"
"Don't you worry, and hurry up."
"What?" shrieked Rob, when the man at the counter handed him two cigarettes in exchange for all those balls.
"It's the recession, brother," grumbled the man, and dozed off again.
Richard had to drag Rob outside, but he wouldn't calm down.
"Two lousy fags," he went on. "Two lousy fags for 653 balls! God Almighty, where's this country going to?"
When they were all finally reunited outside the Konimori Theatre, Steve explained his plan.

[inkinthewell]

BIG IN JAPAN
by Inkinthewell

Part 2: My new career
Steve, David and Yejianhuren were sitting in Shimasu Kenji's office inside the theatre.
"Nine Horses?" Shimasu asked, tapping his fingertips on the desk.
"Yes, we made an album in 2005."
"I was against it," grumbled David.
Steve nudged him in the ribs.
"It was quite a success. You must remember us: Burnt Friedman (Yejianhuren waved and said "Jawohl"), David Sylvian (who hid behind his brother), and Steve Jansen."
After a long, thoughtful moment, Shimasu picked up the phone.
"Hallo, Tsuki. I've got another band 'ere. Stick 'em in the list, will ya. Anywhere will do. Nine Horses's the name. Yeah. But there's only three of 'em. (Laugh.) I dunno. (Another laugh.) Alright. Cheers, mate." He put the phone down. "Go and see Tsuki. He'll tell ya all yer need to know."
Bowing their heads in gratitude, the three went out.
As they stepped outside, a skinny man with enormous spectacles came up to them.
"Nine Horses?"
"Yes."
"I'm Tsuki. Follow me."
He drove them through the chaotic backstage, where, at every step, they risked a collision with busy electricians or loaded propmen.
"You can wait here," Tsuki said, ushering them in a crowded, humid, smoky, phlegmy room. "I'll call you when it's your turn. Ehm, are yellow, red and blue lights ok for your act?"
"Yes, that will be fine, thank you."
Tsuki wrote something down on a notepad, and went. Steve and Yejianhuren lost no time, and were soon glancing at the other artists in the room, but England and Mai An Chon weren't there.
"We'll go look for them. You wait here," Steve told David, but he didn't hear him. The idea of having to go back on a stage was shattering him.
"Hi! And who are you?" asked a friendly voice.
"Nine Horses," David stuttered.
"Very pleased to meet you. I'm Francis the Mule." Then he snorted, shook his mane, and sat down on his haunches beside David.

When the theatre opened its gates, Mick, Rich and Rob, who had been queuing outside, walked in amongst a crowd of teenagers and wobbly superannuated elderly people, some of which could actually remember Michael Bolton in his heyday.
They sat in their allotted seats and waited for the curtain to rise.
"I hope this won't take long," said Mick.
"Me too. What's the first act?" Richard asked Rob, who was flicking through a programme.
"Let me see… Hey! This sounds good: Onagata Otami. She's a bird whistler."
"Oh my God!"

Steve opened a door and looked inside: empty.
"Nothing here," he told Yejianhuren, who was checking the rooms on the other side of the corridor.
"Nor here. Apart from Rick Astley."
"So that's where he's been all these years, then," Steve said, nodding at the door Yejianhuren had just closed.
"Not in here, he's in the room before this. Or the one before that... Or... er... I don't remember where he was."
"Where who was?"
"What?"
"Uh?"

Tsuki came in to fetch the next performer, but something was worrying him.
"Is Doris Day in here?" he asked.
"No," Francis said. "When am I on?"
"After him."
"No way! A mule after Nine Horses?"
Tsuki shrugged and went.
"This is ridiculous," Francis complained.
"Yes," David agreed, shivering with fear. "I can't go out there! I can't sing! I'm not well! I've no voice! I'm hoarse!"
"I never made an issue of that!" Francis snapped, feeling slightly offended.
Rocking to and fro on his chair, David was mumbling disconnected syllables to himself.

After the tenth consecutive koto player, even Rob Dean's last hairs were standing on end. But that was the last one. A man in a tuxedo came out to announce the next act.
"Tonight, we have a great surprise for you all. Roll the drums, please."
The drums rolled, and, as the cymbalist got up and was about to clash his plates to finish the roll, a sweet, neat, little old lady in the audience bounced up, pointing straight upwards with her forefinger, and screamed at the top of her voice:
"Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!"

Steve banged a door shut.
"What was that?"
"Beats me."
"Let's go back."
And back they ran.

The scream caused panic in the artists' room, and, for an instant, even David was himself again.
Tsuki came running.
"Doris!" he raged. "Why does it always have to be 'The Man Who Knew Too Much'? Why can't she ever relive one of the comedies?"
From a trapdoor in the pavement, two almond shaped eyes peeked through.
David saw them, and his brain began to elaborate that information.
"What happened?" asked Steve rushing in with Yejianhuren.
"I just saw him," David realized, standing up. "He's down there."
They all looked at the trapdoor.

The curtain had been dropped, Doris Day taken care of, and the audience was now waiting for the show to resume.
Rob and Rich were worried, and wondered where Steve and David were. Mick was eating popcorn from a gigantic paper cup.
"Where did you get that?"
"Someone left it on a chair, munch munch."
"Disgusting!"
"Munch munch."
Richard's thingamajig tweeted.
"Yes? Yes. We're coming," he put the thingamajig away. "Dave's found a trace. Let's go."
"Dave?!" Mick munched. "Steve, rather. Munch, crunch."
"No. Dave. And that's about enough popcorn for today!"
He snatched the gigantic paper cup and dropped it into the hands of a little kid.

[inkinthewell]

BIG IN JAPAN
by Inkinthewell

Part 3: Performance
Yejianhuren was already halfway down the trapdoor when Rob, Rich and Mick arrived.
"I saw him down there," David told them.
"Right. We're all going down," Steve commanded. "You're staying here."
"Why does it always have to be me?! I want to go down with you," David pleaded.
"Look, what if they come out from somewhere else while we're down there? We need someone to watch out up here. And who could do that better than you?"
"Rob! He's a bird watcher, isn't he?"
"I need him down with us."
"What for?"
"Well…"
"Well?"
"Never mind that now. You're staying here."
And down he went after the others.
"Ok. Next act get ready, please," called Tsuki. "Nine Horses on stage in 2 minutes."

It was dark down the trapdoor, you could just about see things when you were really close to them, so they were all continuously bumping into one another or something else.
"Shhh!"
"It's not my fault. Rich got in my way."
"No I didn't! I'm over here."
"Mick, then."
"You're Mick!!"
"Will you shut your mouth?"
"Hey, wait! I heard something. Something's moved."
"Where?"
"Over there."
"Here?"
"No, there."
"Where?"
Whatever it was, it scuttled away, so they followed the noise.
"I've got him."
"Let me go! Let me go!"
"Mai An Chon! Is that you?"
"Leave me. Please, let me go."
"Mai An Chon, it's me, Yejianhuren."
"Master!"
"My boy!"
"Get off me, you fag!"
"Sorry. My boy!"
The master and his pupil hugged in the dark.
"What's that?"
"What?"
"That glow down there."
"Master! Help me! It's them."
Slow but steady, the glow was coming closer and closer.

The two minutes were nearly over. David was shaking like a jelly on a train, and whining like a broken siren.
"Come on, boy," Francis encouraged him. "Stop that noise, now, please, and when they call you you go out there and sing for your blinking life."
But David didn't move. He stood in the wings, looking at the smiling tuxedoed announcer outstretch his open hand towards him as if it were a slow motion picture.
"Give it to them," Francis incited him, and pushed, a little harder, harder still, until David found himself flying onto the stage, welcomed by a lazy clap or two from the audience.
"Hem… This… this is a song I wrote for my wife."
"Boo!" went the audience, stamping their feet. "Get out! We want the koto players. Where'd ya get the white shoes? Booooo!!"
"Go on!" cried Francis from the wings. "Sing!"
Then, as if by magic, a catchy rhythmical tune spread about the theatre, and David, spellbound, began to sing.
"Get the hell out! Honey it's your birthday..."

The approaching glow could now be clearly discerned. In its midst, four oriental guys with long fluorescent coloured hair, flaming make-up and flashy clothes: England!
"Here," said Richard. "Take these," and he delivered handfuls of pachinko balls to the other five.
"Where do these come from?" asked Rob.
"I had them in my pocket."
"Oh! You… He would have given us four cigarettes with these..."
But there wasn't time for moaning, England were close.
When they were only a couple of yards away, Steve gave the order:
"Fire at will!"
And they pelleted the glowing impostors, who screeched like little girls and scurried away.
"Let's follow them, boys. And hit hard!"
"Yeah!!!"

When David finished the song, he bowed his head, completely knackered. But it had been worth it, the audience were clapping like mad, yelling and whistling in appreciation.
Even Francis the Mule was hooting and banging his hooves.
David couldn't believe it. He had done it, he had overcome his fears. But...
"Ouch!" he yelped.
Something had hit him.
"Ow! Ooo! Ohhh!"
Four small metal balls rolled at his feet, and before he knew what was happening he was with his back on the floor and four phosphorescent japanese kids all over him. Mick, Steve, Rich and Rob came right after, and hit them with all sorts of odd things they had picked up along the way.
Yejianhuren, Mai An Chon clinging to his neck, nodded with great satisfaction.

After having spent the evening in a sushi bar, the time came to split up.
"So," said Yejianhuren, shaking hands with them all, "it's been a real pleasure, and I thank you all from the bottom of my heart. Whenever you're in need, don't hesitate, call me."
"Thank you," they replied.
"And goodbye to you, young man," said Rob, patting Mai An Chon's head. "I hope to see you playing in a proper group, some day."
Mai An Chon lifted his eyebrow.
"I shall only play for my master. And the Red Army."
They laughed.
"Did you see it?" Yejianhuren asked Steve. "His eyebrow. Exactly like yours."
"Good luck, then. And goodbye."
"Goodbye."
Yejianhuren and Mai An Chon walked off.
"Hey, Yejianhuren," Richard called him. "Sure you don't need a lift back home?"
"Yes. A submarine is coming to pick us up."
"Ok. See you."
"Bye bye."
David, tending four small bruises scattered over his arms and face, eyed his four mates suspiciously.
"Are you sure you didn't hit me on purpose with those stupid pachinko balls?"
"Why should we have done such a thing, Dave?" Mick wondered. "We were aiming at England."
"Yes, but why wasn't I hit by more balls? Why only four?"
"That's what I'd like to know too. Didn't I ask that same question, lads? Why only four?"
"Yeah, that's true," giggled the others.
"You're kidding me."
"No. I'd never fool you. Honest. You're my friend."
"Oh, alright. Shall we go, then?"
Richard opened up his thingamajig.
"Beam us up, Scottie."
Nothing happened.
"Scottie. Beam us up. Scottie. Scottie! Hey, Scot!!" Rich looked at his thingamajig. "Sorry, boys, no service."
"Noooo!"

[TrangLee]

Thanks Inkinthewell this is very funny

[inkinthewell]

Thank you.

[Astronaut]

Hey Inky!!! I think you should get in contact with Micks publishers and get these stories out there to the public at large. I see a whole new career for you! These are excellent. Please write more ... x

[inkinthewell]

Cheers!