“Pfft!”
«Do you have any money?»
“Not a yen. But I’m sure you can fix that.”
«All right, hold on a minute.»
“So how much are you supposed to give?”
«I’m not sure. I suppose about five thousand yen.»
“Serious? Seems pretty steep.”
«Yes, but funerals are expensive.»
“A whole lot of people came when Grampa died. If they all forked over five thousand, you made out like a bandit.”
«But most of it went for the expenses.»
Shit! Now there’s a plan! Stick it to my aunt and her family, send them all off to meet their Buddha, and abscond with the funeral offerings. Might even be able to pin the whole thing on foreigners if I played it right.
Why would anybody Japanese kill an entire family? It had to be outsiders. They always jump to conclusions. Why would any adult kill cats and dogs and little kids? It had to be another kid. Must be a middle school kid, in fact. Bunch of one-track minds. I guess that Sakakibara thing where that kid killed those other kids, and that other kid in Tottori who killed three whole families—guess those had a big effect on people. Still…
«Here’s the money. I put it in the right kind of envelope.»
“Will you look at that?”
«And the suit’s upstairs, in the closet in Grampa’s old room.»
“Got it. Thanks.”
You gotta be kidding me—she really did put five thousand in here. Think I’ll just subtract three—no, four.
Whoa! This old suit stinks! Can’t go around smelling like mothballs. Old lady needs to get some of those new odorless ones…
If it’s going to be that much of a pain, maybe I won’t even go.
The Round-and-Round Devil regrets to inform you he will not be attending…
Babbabbarabba! Goronnbo!
Babbabbarabba! Hidenbo!
Tales of Detective Hidenbo, Chapter Three: Hidenbo Goes to the Funeral. Sure is hot, isn’t it, Detective Hidenbo? You can say that again, Officer Turd. This black suit’s gonna be pretty uncomfortable on a day like this. You can say that again. Who even wants to go to a funeral in this heat? But I don’t see how we can come right out and say that, can we, Detective? I suppose not, but that doesn’t change the fact I’d rather be sipping ice coffee in some café. I’m with you there, Detective, but you can’t sound quite so selfish. You can have all the ice coffee you want afterward. No foolin’? No foolin.’ Nice and icy? All the ice you want, ice cream for all I care. Just as long as it’s cold. I love it cold. Is that right? To tell the truth, my cock’s pretty cold, leastwise it’s always givin’ the cold shoulder to some dame or another. What are you talking about? Hot’s better than cold when it comes to cocks. Really? Then could you use that warm mouth of yours to heat up my cold cock, Hidenbo? Ughhhhh! He he he! Hold on!
Whoa! That’s a whole lot of police. I get it though—they just got through Armageddon but they’re worried the V of H guys are going to show up—but they never will now, not with this many cops.
Yoshiba Funeral +
Whoa! Will you look at this crowd! Too many mourners, man! But at least I won’t stand out. And it would never occur to any of them that Mr. Round-and-Round would show up here. Hee hee.
Ah, here we are.
I guess you’re supposed to bow.
And say something like “I’m very sorry for your loss.” Sounds right.
“I’m very sorry for your loss.” Bow and…bow.
«Would you please sign the guest book?»
Hideo Ozaki, Chofu City, Chofugaoka. I suppose they’d get all bent out of shape if I signed as the Round-and-Round Devil. Bet they’d beat me to a pulp even if I told them it was only a joke. Pretty scary spot for little old me. Yea, though I walk through the valley…and all that. Still, it’s kind of interesting at the same time. What would happen if I wrote my name and made a run for it? I could probably get away…Nah, maybe not. They’d probably get me. Reporters snapping my picture, and all these cops…Think I’ll just leave my little envelope and go.
Sure is a lot fancier than Grampa’s funeral. They must be getting a lot of offerings, but then I suppose it costs every yen of it to put on a spread like this. Bet the media’s paying something for the rights to the story. They pay for any old interview these days—probably a pretty good racket. You could even sell souvenirs to a mob like this—“Step right up! Get your Yoshiba Funeral Coffee Mugs! Right over here!” Bunch of fucking hypocrites, every last one of them—and the ones pretending to cry are the worst bastards. Why should they be crying? They aren’t dead, Yoshiba is—and that’s no skin off their noses. Why should they be soooo sad? And why should so many of them have turned out for this little get-together? I doubt they saw much of Yoshiba before he kicked the bucket. Maybe passed him once or twice a week in the street—at most. Some of these suckers didn’t see him once a year, I bet. Some of them probably hadn’t seen him since high school! So why should they be so bent out of shape knowing they’ll never see him again? The family—they’re the only ones who’re really sad, and they’re probably mostly wondering what they’re going to do now that the breadwinner’s gone and abandoned them. Wondering how long they can get by on the money in all those little loot bags. Oops, I mean offering envelopes. I’m not used to the lingo. Well, I hate to tell you, but there’s only a thousand yen in mine—though I’m sure it holds five thousand yen worth of sympathy…
Oh, there’s his wife. Now she can cry all she wants—she’s no hypocrite. You’ve got real problems, honey. Not much fun from now on, I have to admit. Still, with both your kids and your husband gone, you’re pretty much free to do whatever you want. Maybe
