I Was In The Yakuza

If you ever met a cop, especially one that has been undercover, they will tell you how nerve-wracking it can be when undercover. They need to fit in with the worst of the worst, and they can’t break for a second, or no one ever finds them and the entire operation gets blown to shit. Any group will get you that. Russian Mob, Chinese Triad, Italian Mafia, even American Gangsters, but the worst of the worst to get put in, is the Japanese Yakuza, and I know exactly why.

The Yakuza demand and deserve both a lot of fear and a lot of respect. Back when Japan was just some backwards savage land, these guys became self-proclaimed Robin Hoods, except they took from everyone and gave to themselves. They have probably been the longest running crime organization in human history, and they are arguably still going strong, which is where I come in.

Two months ago, I infiltrated the Yakuza as an undercover cop, helping to get a read on their operations, and during my time there, I think I put my life in danger. All because of one man named Osaku Haruma. Osaku Haruma had been working with the Yakuza ever since he was 19, and he was 24 at the time I met him. Young, tough and determined, and he turned my life into a fucking nightmare.

Osaku Haruma is more prominently known by a different name to any poor soul that crosses him or the Yakuza. Oni. To you non-Japanese speakers out there, its a rough translation for demon, and I would not be surprised if he was one.

I first met him after a failed raid on a dock hideout they used for storing items. Mainly drugs. The Yakuza fought back and I was called in once everything had cleared up. The police were forced to make a tactical retreat and as the Yakuza were recovering what they could and tend to their wounds, we found one of the officers from the raid, wounded.

I was called in, and had arrived just before a sleek, yet old white car. The man driving it looked normal enough, and was with typical Yakuza style he dressed well and had his body covered in intricate tattoos. Him and I shared a small nod as I went over towards the man who had called me in, Osaku following me.

We found the poor bastard tucked away in the back of one of the sheds, other Yakuza members keeping him pinned down and taunting him in Japanese. Everyone froze and backed up when they saw Osaku, for a reason I didn’t yet know.

He stepped over towards the guy, crouching down and they kept talking while someone else filled me in on what happened. Two words rang out from Osaku’s lips, that chilled some to the car, and causing the others to let out a disturbing chuckle.

“Flaming Dragon.” He said, standing back up. “Get the duct tape and gasoline, gents.” He grinned a grin that keeps me up at night, especially after knowing what would happen next.

Two men bowed, before running off to go collect the items as Osaku lifted up the man, carrying him off to another shed. Me, only having been in for a few weeks asked the obvious question. “What’s a Flaming Dragon?” Osaku turned back to me as I and the other followed, still grinning. “Something of my own making. Think waterboarding, but with more fire.” I could feel the mutual spine chill and a lump in my throat between me and the poor officer.

Osaku stepped into the shed, practically throwing the man into a chair. He walked over, giving him a stiff uppercut as to keep him still and stunned. The two others arrived with the required items. Osaku set them on the floor next to him, grabbing himself a chair and sitting across from the man.

He reached into his jacket pocket, asking him what would be considered routine interrogation questions. Who he was, where he came from, why he was chosen to come here, how anyone knew about it in the first place. The offhand glance he gave me said he knew I was undercover. He also knew that if he spilled the beans, I would be joining him and we would be no closer to catching anyone in the Yakuza.

He lied, saying that someone reported suspicious activity in the area and that they got sent in. Osaku didn’t buy a word of it. He let out a small sigh, finally pulling out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He offered a cigarette to the man who refused, only for Osaku to put it in his own mouth and light it up. He stood up, grabbing the duct tape and wrapping it all around the man, keeping him tied down to the chair.

“Do you have any family? Will they weep about you when they find out you aren’t coming home? Girlfriend, wife? Kids?” He asked, but the man seemed in shock at the question, freezing up so he didn’t reply. Osaku shrugged it off, taking off his expensive white suit jacket, showing off a nice red t-shirt underneath. He balled up the jacket, tossing it aside before lifting up the can of gasoline, unscrewing the lid.

“Are you going to tell me what I want to know?” He asked, and he received no reply. Osaku shrugged yet again. “Your funeral.” He gestured with his head to the other two men. They walked behind the man, pulling him back into the chair, before grabbing the back of his head and his jaw, pulling his mouth open.

Osaku began dumping gasoline all over the man’s body, before lifting it up, and began pouring it directly into his mouth. He gargled on it and shook violently, practically drowning in it. The can was emptied either all over or in him, and tossed aside. He was let go, lurching forward and began to cough up any that entered his lungs, and vomiting what entered his stomach.

Osaku reached into his pants pocket, pulling out a box of matches, opening and lighting one against the box. The man looked up at him, still coughing and choking up gasoline. “P-please...” He spoke, his eyes teary and swollen. “You should have talked when you had the chance.” Osaku replied, his voice cold and empty as he tossed the match at the man.

What I saw first was no surprise, the man was set ablaze, turning around and screaming as he tried to break free from his restraints to no avail. Then, what happened next shocked everyone in the room. A blast of fire came shooting from the man’s throat, concussing everyone around him slightly with a shockwave of heat. Fire began flying through holes burned in his neck and stomach like an organic blowtorch, and was with enough force that the chair was knocked back.

Everyone was silent, trying to get their bearings, but not Osaku. After my tinnitus passed from the blast, the first two sounds I heard were cracks of fire, and the twisted laughter of Osaku. He revelled in what he had done, full on belly laughing at the sight. I stumbled outside of the shed, vomiting onto the floor from the mixture of smells, sights, sounds, everything.

I didn’t sleep that night. I didn’t any other day I met Osaku. I soon learned how he fit into the Yakuza. He wasn’t a peddler, or a drug smuggler, or even a dealer. He was a messenger, a fear tactic, a twisted assassin who used whatever he could to accomplish his job. It seemed that the only limit for what he could do was his imagination and possibility to get the items for the twisted torture methods he used.

These inhumane acts continued, both with and without my knowledge or presence. To make matters worse, I barely knew anything about him. It was like he was a ghost, completely off of the grid. Either there weren’t any cameras where he went to work, or all the footage was voided and missing. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if Osaku Haruma was his real name.

He occasionally gave us sneak peeks into his private life, talking about women he dated, bars he went to, etcetera and etcetera. He wasn’t antisocial to anyone, mind you. He was perfectly social, telling and laughing at jokes and stories, and giving us one interesting tidbit.

“Hey, Osaku? How come whenever we need you for something, you never accept if its someone old?” I remember one of the other members asking. We were sitting at a booth in a bar, celebrating someones recently successful job. Osaku was taking a long drag on a cigarette. “Well, when I was a kid, my father was a little bit of a hardass.” He chuckled slightly, fixing his tie partially. “You see, one time he kept on telling me to respect my elders. Just ‘Osaku, respect your elders’, all day, day in and day out. One day, I asked him why, and he said ‘because your elders have gone through more than you, and than you can even fathom to go through. They took the full brunt of what life could throw at them, and they deserve their peace and their rest, no matter what form that may take.’” He said, taking another quick drag from his cigarette, tapping it into an ashtray. “About a week later, my grandfather died. He was telling me it in a form of pseudo-acceptance of his death. That has stuck with me ever since.”

Osaku became even more of an enigmatic man to me after that. He seemed like a complete and utter sociopath. He lacked any mercy or remorse as far as I could tell. Hell, I watched him shoot out the kneecaps of some 20 year old and dump acid on his face because he couldn’t pay the Yakuza. They call it a protection fee, but they only get protected from Osaku. But now, he goes on with what, respect? For his elders?

I still do remember that night though. He called me, having gotten my number from someone else telling me he needed help. He was supposed to go on and “intimidate” someone into giving us our pay, and the guy that typically helps him with cameras was out. He heard that I knew my way around electronics.

His car looked damned old, but it looked amazing at the same time. I couldn’t remember the exact model, but the inside looked brand new, despite it perpetually smelling like cigarettes, alcohol, and cologne and perfume that wasn’t his. It was the dead of night when we pulled up in front of the shop. It was small, but looked nice for an antique store.

Osaku turned, leaning over to me and popped upon the glove compartment. He pulled out a Hannya mask, and a gun that was pretty standard for Japanese police. A Sig Sauer P226. It had detailed and intricate engravings, and a suppressor already attached.

“Wait here.” He told me, standing up out of the car. I watched him walk around back the car, opening the trunk. I didn’t have to worry about being seen, his windows were far too dark for anyone to see in at this time of night. The south end of Tokyo can get scarily quiet. By now the owner was standing by the door, clearly confused as to why there was a random car parked in front of his store in the middle of the night and not moving.

Osaku stepped out from behind the car and went towards the door. The owner stepped out to start talking to him. He was invited inside and they continued talking. It continued, until it looked as if Osaku was laughing. The owner had a look of confusion, quickly overwritten by yelling pain. Don’t let the name of a suppressor fool you. Gunshots are still loud as all hell, and I was let with two loud and rapid pops as the man fell onto his back in pain, with two red blotches on his knees quickly forming.

Osaku stepped over him, kicking him in the side. He grabbed him by the back of his shirt, dragging him into a wall and kneeing him in his head. At this point, I noticed what Osaku had brought in with him. I noticed the gloves he was now wearing as he unscrewed the lid on a small jug in his hands. He carefully held the man in place and began pouring it onto his face. The man screamed and shook in pain, as a smoky effect cane off of his face as it slowly melted. Acid. He was pouring acid all over his damn face.

I couldn’t do anything. I had nothing. I was forced to sit and watch as this poor guy screamed and writhed in agony. I was an unknowing prisoner. When all was said and done, Osaku started to clean up and I went to the back to get the security camera footage.

I couldn’t bring myself to watch it, simply collecting the tapes. A thought came to mind. I could turn him in with this. At first, I didn’t have any proof of this ghost even existing, but now I have this. I knew where he frequented. He unintentionally set himself up to get caught.

When I went back to the apartment I was using for my time on the inside, I emailed them to a friend of mine in the police, before going to bed. I didn’t hear anything from Osaku for a week after. He stopped showing up, and no one even mentioned him.

Then, came the night I learned to fear him. I was sitting in my apartment, trying to get some sleep, when there was a knock at the door. I raised an eyebrow, because it was midnight. I stood up and went to the door, unlocking it but not before looking through the peephole. I was met with the barrel of a gun. I quickly shot my head and body away from the door, as gunshots rang through the peephole and the cheap wooden door.

“I know you’re in there!” I heard Osaku yell, before my door fell off of its hinges and crashed onto the floor. When he turned in, weapon drawn I was able to force it up from his hand, putting myself into safety. We wrestled over control of the gun from one another, as I stared down his Hannya mask. With a swift quick to the groin he didn’t expect, he fell back and the gun was in my control. He sprinted up towards me and I fired. He stumbled back into my wall, letting out a loud grunt as he held his chest. I looked over at him closer, and realized something.

His suit jacket was buttoned up all the way, and seemed particularly bulkier. The bastard had kevlar on. A mumbled “shit” escaped my mouth as he quickly regained himself and gave chase. I ran off into my bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it. I fired a few shots through it as I climbed through the window and ran down the fire escape.

I made my way to the police station and a short investigation later revealed a lot. The Yakuza knew I ratted out Osaku and some operations now, and they were coming for me. I was put into witness protection and stayed in Japan for a little bit, before having to be moved all across the glove. Russia, Switzerland, Egypt, Canada, Greenland, you name it.

I’ve been on the run ever since, and I can’t stay in one place for long. Every two months, I get a package. The sender is always either a fake name or someone dead. The contents are always the same. Two things. A note, written in Japanese cursing me and my family, filled with profanity and threats. And a Hannya mask, with two words painted on the inside and outside. On the outside, is Oni, the Japanese word for demon. Uragirimono, or, to non-Japanese speakers, was one word.

Traitor.