(no subject)
More from the deep, dark, fangirlish recesses of my head. More this November.
I stand behind my boss’s immaculate shoulder as he stares out into the dreary Chicago skyline. I don’t know what he’s thinking about. If I were in his position, I’d be thinking about the state of the world, maybe humanity. I’m not in his position. I don’t think like he does. It’s part of the reason he hired me. For all I know he’s thinking about his money and laughing maniacally inside that high-and-tight blonde head of his. I don’t know. It’s not my job to know.
“Claire,” he says, in his trademark perfect tenor, almost all the Irish gone from his voice. He lets it slip in private, sometimes. It’s strange to think that I’m his version of “private.”
“Mr. Reprobate,” I say in response. I suppose that technically it should be Mr. The Reprobate, his full alias plus the formality of title my mother taught me and that I do not choose to ignore with the rest of American society. It bothers me when strangers ask me to call them Bill; it implies that I am supposed to allow them to call me Claire. The Reprobate calls me Claire because he pays me, though for months I insisted upon Miss Purvue. But our stations are different. And he does pay me. I don’t have the right to politesse any longer.
“If you were to stage a massive corporate takeover of most of the world’s economy, how would you go about it?” he asks me. I honestly don’t know if he’s messing with me. I never do.
“I would accrue trillions of dollars and buy out stocks in most major Chinese corporations, and in the government, somewhere that would make it difficult for them to repay me. I would wait fifteen years, then sell everything, forcing China to call in a world debt. I’d wait for the economy to crash. Then I’d buy it.”
The Reprobate inclines his face to the sky, breathing deeply. His exhale leaves a mist on the glass, which fades slowly from the edges, forming a grayed-out butterfly. “How would you accrue the capital?” he asks.
“Investment. An original product. Drugs. Theft. Assassination. There are lots of ways to do it.”
“As a woman, how would you do it?”
I stare at the back of his head, the way the light catches what hair he allows himself. I do get the impression that he somehow sees long hair as a luxury, an indulgence of the weak. I think it might be a military thing. I wonder how he sees my long, slender braids. I try not to wonder how he sees my coffee-colored skin, my black eyes and wide nose, how much he thinks of me as a subordinate and whether it’s because he does, after all, pay me, or if it’s because of the way I look.
“As a woman?”
“As a woman. Or, I suppose, as a man - would it be different?” He turns his head, twisting at the neck without budging his wide shoulders. No wrinkles on his suit jacket. They’re so well-fit that I’m not sure he could wrinkle them if he rolled down a mountainside.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“What about as a black woman? Were you white, were you male, would you do this differently? If you were me?”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t have to accrue the capital first.”
That makes him chuckle. I am almost certain he missed my vicious little point. He always does. It’s very nearly charming - but it’s not.
* * *
I just want to get one thing across, and that’s that I’m not a motherfucking ninja. Yeah, I’m Japanese. But I’m not a ninja. We’re not all ninjas.
There are plenty of Japanese martial arts, actually, other than ninjitsu, which no one even knows anything about. The ninjas you get these days are not real ninjas. Modern ninjitsu was almost completely made up in the late ’70s, because the original ninjas, the ones that fought the samurai and everything, kept. Their. Fucking. Mouths. Shut. They were ninjas. What, like they left manuals?
But I don’t practice judo, either, or karate, or fucking sumo. I don’t do mixed martial arts. I don’t even do kung fu and that’s Chinese, by the way, not Japanese, and taekwondo is Korean. KOREAN. There are different countries in Asia. Not just Japan. Most of the greats came from the mainland anyway. We got the shoguns and the samurai and, of course, the fucking ninjas, and that’s kind of it. You want real war, you go to Mongolia. Not fucking Japan.
I’m Japanese-American. Born in America, to American parents, who had more American parents. We haven’t been real Japanese since, like, the 1800s. Some guy came over to work on the railroad, married some girl. I’m not even sure she was Japanese. I’m pretty sure she was Choctaw. My parents don’t like people to know that, but you know what? It doesn’t fucking matter. I’m American. I grew up on Big Macs and Saturday morning cartoons. I don’t know Japanese. Stop asking.
I’m just saying. I’m not a ninja. We can move on if you want.
I can fight, though. I kind of have to. There are other styles than ninjitsu, of course, even if you’re Japanese. American heroes have been getting on with those for the last four hundred years. I’m more of a brawler, really, though I’m fast. I was a boxer since middle school. Any real boxing fan knows that the action isn’t in the heavyweights, it’s in the lights and the middles, scrappy little dudes who’ve got something to fucking show the world. I never had a jaw like granite like George Foreman and I couldn’t pound down a wall like he could, but there’s something to be said for being able to snap your neck back and take it. I’m a hell of a lot faster than George Foreman ever was. Don’t see me running around now selling any grills, either. Ass.
The sidekick business doesn’t appeal to everybody, but then again, working with Lachesis has never really been real sidekicking. She thinks of you more as a partner, which is awesome. I mean, she’s distant as all fuck, we’re not buddies - but we’re something like her version of that. Man, I don’t know what happened to her when she was a kid, but somebody didn’t get enough hugs, you know? She’s crazy. You think I’m crazy, she’s crazier. She’s, like, quiet crazy. Scary crazy. I thank God every day she’s on our side.
The Christian God. Because I’m a Christian. Not fucking Shinto or whatever. I don’t even know what Shinto is. That’s how not Shinto I am.
Sometimes I think about how much it must suck to be Tommy, you know, running around after Mister Liberty? That’s not even real sidekick stuff, or partner stuff, or whatever. He’s a ward. How lame does it get? He's always calling me like, Nox, oh my God, did you see Mister Liberty on the news, I just saw it, and I'm like, were you not there? And of course he wasn't. I don't get that. It's like, Tommy, if you want to get out there, put on some fucking spandex and get out there. If Lachesis has taught me anything, it's that you don't need any retarded government-funded powers to get shit done. Look at me. I'm 19, I'm human, and I kick ass. Beat that, bitch.
I stand behind my boss’s immaculate shoulder as he stares out into the dreary Chicago skyline. I don’t know what he’s thinking about. If I were in his position, I’d be thinking about the state of the world, maybe humanity. I’m not in his position. I don’t think like he does. It’s part of the reason he hired me. For all I know he’s thinking about his money and laughing maniacally inside that high-and-tight blonde head of his. I don’t know. It’s not my job to know.
“Claire,” he says, in his trademark perfect tenor, almost all the Irish gone from his voice. He lets it slip in private, sometimes. It’s strange to think that I’m his version of “private.”
“Mr. Reprobate,” I say in response. I suppose that technically it should be Mr. The Reprobate, his full alias plus the formality of title my mother taught me and that I do not choose to ignore with the rest of American society. It bothers me when strangers ask me to call them Bill; it implies that I am supposed to allow them to call me Claire. The Reprobate calls me Claire because he pays me, though for months I insisted upon Miss Purvue. But our stations are different. And he does pay me. I don’t have the right to politesse any longer.
“If you were to stage a massive corporate takeover of most of the world’s economy, how would you go about it?” he asks me. I honestly don’t know if he’s messing with me. I never do.
“I would accrue trillions of dollars and buy out stocks in most major Chinese corporations, and in the government, somewhere that would make it difficult for them to repay me. I would wait fifteen years, then sell everything, forcing China to call in a world debt. I’d wait for the economy to crash. Then I’d buy it.”
The Reprobate inclines his face to the sky, breathing deeply. His exhale leaves a mist on the glass, which fades slowly from the edges, forming a grayed-out butterfly. “How would you accrue the capital?” he asks.
“Investment. An original product. Drugs. Theft. Assassination. There are lots of ways to do it.”
“As a woman, how would you do it?”
I stare at the back of his head, the way the light catches what hair he allows himself. I do get the impression that he somehow sees long hair as a luxury, an indulgence of the weak. I think it might be a military thing. I wonder how he sees my long, slender braids. I try not to wonder how he sees my coffee-colored skin, my black eyes and wide nose, how much he thinks of me as a subordinate and whether it’s because he does, after all, pay me, or if it’s because of the way I look.
“As a woman?”
“As a woman. Or, I suppose, as a man - would it be different?” He turns his head, twisting at the neck without budging his wide shoulders. No wrinkles on his suit jacket. They’re so well-fit that I’m not sure he could wrinkle them if he rolled down a mountainside.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“What about as a black woman? Were you white, were you male, would you do this differently? If you were me?”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t have to accrue the capital first.”
That makes him chuckle. I am almost certain he missed my vicious little point. He always does. It’s very nearly charming - but it’s not.
* * *
I just want to get one thing across, and that’s that I’m not a motherfucking ninja. Yeah, I’m Japanese. But I’m not a ninja. We’re not all ninjas.
There are plenty of Japanese martial arts, actually, other than ninjitsu, which no one even knows anything about. The ninjas you get these days are not real ninjas. Modern ninjitsu was almost completely made up in the late ’70s, because the original ninjas, the ones that fought the samurai and everything, kept. Their. Fucking. Mouths. Shut. They were ninjas. What, like they left manuals?
But I don’t practice judo, either, or karate, or fucking sumo. I don’t do mixed martial arts. I don’t even do kung fu and that’s Chinese, by the way, not Japanese, and taekwondo is Korean. KOREAN. There are different countries in Asia. Not just Japan. Most of the greats came from the mainland anyway. We got the shoguns and the samurai and, of course, the fucking ninjas, and that’s kind of it. You want real war, you go to Mongolia. Not fucking Japan.
I’m Japanese-American. Born in America, to American parents, who had more American parents. We haven’t been real Japanese since, like, the 1800s. Some guy came over to work on the railroad, married some girl. I’m not even sure she was Japanese. I’m pretty sure she was Choctaw. My parents don’t like people to know that, but you know what? It doesn’t fucking matter. I’m American. I grew up on Big Macs and Saturday morning cartoons. I don’t know Japanese. Stop asking.
I’m just saying. I’m not a ninja. We can move on if you want.
I can fight, though. I kind of have to. There are other styles than ninjitsu, of course, even if you’re Japanese. American heroes have been getting on with those for the last four hundred years. I’m more of a brawler, really, though I’m fast. I was a boxer since middle school. Any real boxing fan knows that the action isn’t in the heavyweights, it’s in the lights and the middles, scrappy little dudes who’ve got something to fucking show the world. I never had a jaw like granite like George Foreman and I couldn’t pound down a wall like he could, but there’s something to be said for being able to snap your neck back and take it. I’m a hell of a lot faster than George Foreman ever was. Don’t see me running around now selling any grills, either. Ass.
The sidekick business doesn’t appeal to everybody, but then again, working with Lachesis has never really been real sidekicking. She thinks of you more as a partner, which is awesome. I mean, she’s distant as all fuck, we’re not buddies - but we’re something like her version of that. Man, I don’t know what happened to her when she was a kid, but somebody didn’t get enough hugs, you know? She’s crazy. You think I’m crazy, she’s crazier. She’s, like, quiet crazy. Scary crazy. I thank God every day she’s on our side.
The Christian God. Because I’m a Christian. Not fucking Shinto or whatever. I don’t even know what Shinto is. That’s how not Shinto I am.
Sometimes I think about how much it must suck to be Tommy, you know, running around after Mister Liberty? That’s not even real sidekick stuff, or partner stuff, or whatever. He’s a ward. How lame does it get? He's always calling me like, Nox, oh my God, did you see Mister Liberty on the news, I just saw it, and I'm like, were you not there? And of course he wasn't. I don't get that. It's like, Tommy, if you want to get out there, put on some fucking spandex and get out there. If Lachesis has taught me anything, it's that you don't need any retarded government-funded powers to get shit done. Look at me. I'm 19, I'm human, and I kick ass. Beat that, bitch.