by The Duo
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The Koreans in Japan have occasionally been viewed as "problems" by Japan's sensationalistic mass media, and have yet to be recognized as "close neighbors" who created and nurtured a unique ethnic culture. There are many reasons for discrimination. Koreans are considered inferior. Ethnic relationships between the Japanese and Koreans in Japan are still very poor.
This is also true in Japanese social empirical research. Although Koreans residing in Japan constitute a valuable group for studying inter-ethnic relationships, social scientists in Japan have, for some strange reason, ignored their existence until recently. Only a few years ago have researchers of Koreans in Japan become more visible in the academic world, although the findings of their studies were not very insightful. The reality is that hardly any research on this subject, let alone studies with positive connotations and/or results, has been conducted.
My name is Kim Tae. I’m Korean and even before my car broke down out of that lonely dirt road, I was dreaming about being back home in Jeju Province. After months of living with my dad’s family and going to school in Fukumura Japan, my eigtheen-year-old self was ready to point my shoes back towards the land of my birth.
After an hour of just sitting behind the wheel of my stalled Sonata, I saw the first sign of life on that road. It was an old Toyota truck.
A Japanese boy was getting out of the truck even before I realized he had parked it about thirty feet from where my car was stalled. Clad in overalls with no shirt underneath, he didn’t seem like some Japanese stereotype. He was a fresh-faced nineteen-year-old with a well-built body. And he rode his well-built body the way the American surfers rode the waves. Smooth and unmoved by his own motion.
Even through his overalls I could see how well-developed his thigh and calf muscles were . . . also how narrow his hips were, and how flat his stomach was. His hair was a little long and the glossy black color of a vinyl record. His eyes, through thick lashes, were onyx black. Why did I feel so unnerved by this handsome kid? Though a bit more rustic in appearance, he looked an awful lot like one of my classmates at school.
It was my school that had brought me out here to this country road in the first place. Well, not my school really . . . rather the school’s administration. Just thirty minutes earlier I had been in the office of principal Neesima Hagiwara.
I had been sitting before his desk in stunned silence while he explained to me why my color picture wasn’t going to be in the Champion’s Book along with all the other members of the Karate Club
"Your photo was somehow lost, and we didn’t find it in time to add it to the edition" he said.
Mine was the only photo that was lost. Me, the only Korean in the Karate club. The only Korean who would have his picture prominently displayed in the champion’s book. Fine.
Mr. Hagiwara went on. "But we’re going to be putting out a supplement to the Champion’s Book by mid-summer and will be mailing it to anyone who wants to purchase it. And in that supplement we’ll feature your photograph."
What he was actually saying was: ‘we don’t want a big color photograph of some Hanguk youth marring our otherwise pristine high school picture collection in our pristine high school Champion’s Book. So instead we’re going to begrudgingly put your photo in a lesser version of the Champion’s Book that will be offered to the students sometime in July. And because we know that hardly any students ever purchase the supplement Champion’s Book, it’s almost guaranteed that no one of any importance will see, and be offended by, your ethnic countenance amongst our Japanese angels’
"Forget it. Either find some way of getting my picture in the real Champion’s Book, or keep me out of the supplement as well."
"Well, it’s your decision. But, as I’ve said, the Champion’s Book has already gone to the printers."
Mr. Hagiwara couldn’t help but smile at me as he said these words. Couldn’t help but to laugh at how he was able to get around revealing to the general public that there was a brother at his school. A Hanguk youth who had won awards and certificates.
I left Hagiwara’s office and just drove—trying my best to choke back my anger. I drove on the back-roads . . . where I could drive unimpeded for a while. I even remembered that my Sonata didn’t have much gas in it. Unfortunately I didn’t remember until my car was dead and I was stranded on the side of the road.
And this was where the Japanese boy found me.
"You out here all alone?" he asked me. In one hand he was holding a bat. If he thought that there was something wrong with my car, why would he—out of all the tools he could have retrieved—approach me with a baseball bat?
Suddenly I recalled why I was so unnerved. There had been some attacks on guy and girls who looked like me—fatal attacks against Koreans that occurred on lonely country roads just like this one.
The police had questioned people over the attacks. But the questioning was a joke because they already knew who committed the murders, or at least they knew who would know. But the police dared not disclose what they knew because that would be the same as confessing that they’ve known all along and could have stopped the killings at any time. The thought that law enforcement in this town had stood by and allowed six people to be murdered angered me. And, at that moment, I was already fairly pissed over the whole Champion’s Book business.
So many Koreans hate Japanese so much, do you know why? Because Japanese treated them like slaves. I don't think South Korea was really a lot better in late 1940s and early 1950s than China, but just look at the difference now. I didn’t hate the Japanese because they were Japanese …I only hated those individuals who wronged me. Wish more Japanese had the same standard.
Was this bat-armed boy one of the killers who had been marauding on the town’s back-roads?
"You aren’t they guy whose been going around killing Hanguk people, are you?" I asked the boy pointedly. A distracting technique. This took him off guard long enough for him to miss how I latched onto the metal hand-wrench under my seat.
"Name’s Kiyota Takayuik. And I just might be . . . " he said, flashing me a toothy grin.
That was it. Even if this boy wasn’t the back-road murderer, he was cruel enough to let me think that he was. And if he was cruel enough to do that, he was cruel enough to hurt me with that bat he was holding.
I picked up my car phone with my other hand, even though I knew it was a useless piece of junk in that pastoral area.
"Well, if you’re going to try to murder me, you don’t mind if I call someone for help, do you?" I asked, pretending to dial.
"Hey, give me that!" The Japanese boy yelled, and reached towards the receiver, off balance. I had clenched my hand around the hand wrench by then, making a gladiator’s fist. As the boy lunged across me, I slammed it into his jaw--right through the open driver’s seat window. Kiyota’s head whiplashed; his feet lifted into the air . . . then he collapsed to the ground, his face and torso in the grass, his waist legs and feet in the dirt road.
I got out the car. Methodically I bent down and grabbed hold of the now unconscious boy’s ankles and dragged him around to the open door of the passenger side of my Sonata. I heaved Kiyota inside and let him slump in the seat. Aware that I was going have to completely conceal my captive when I drove away, I bent the unconscious boy’s face to his knees, then shoved his muscled bulk onto the floor in front of the passenger seat. In other words, I had Kiyota practically stuffed into the cavity under the dashboard.
I siphoned gas from his truck (and someone was watching over me, for why else would it just so happen that the Japanese boy’s truck contained a siphon?) and fed my Sonata’s gas tank. Then me and my captive sped away to my Japanese Great-Uncle’s old fishing cabin located in a patch of woods near Kyushu Massif.
Once there, I dumped the unconscious Japanese boy facedown on the bed. I slowly put my hand underneath his pantleg and grabbed hold of his sock, then cautiously began to pull on it. Over the bare heel, down to and off his toes. His golden toes were absolutely perfect! After pulling off his other sock, I put both of his big toes into my mouth and sucked on them ravenously. I licked the Japanese boy’s pink soles … on both feet … and nibbled contentedly on his other toes while he remained motionless. I sucked on his juicy, succulent toes again. I kissed every inch of his bare feet all over before recalling the fact that this fiend was my enemy.
Then I grabbed Kiyota and tied his hands behind his back with one of the numerous extension cords lying around the place. Then I tied his hands together with his feet, making him a human bow on the trim single mattress. The semi-furnished cabin was empty save a lonely cat who didn’t mind me and Kiyota temporarily taking up residence in his home.
Eventually I began to notice that my vision was cloudy, dark. My hands were frozen and restless. That was antipathy in my blood. I thought about how this boy had been intent on hurting me . . . or killing me . . . or both.
I felt a headache coming on: dizziness, a pinpoint of bright light spinning round and round and growing larger behind my eyes. I had to sit down and calm myself. I sat very still right up until the moment Kiyota began to show signs of regaining consciousness.
"Welcome back," I said to him when he opened his eyes.
Kiyota started to protest as I made sure his bonds were secure, but I smiled at him. "Quiet now," I whispered. "You don’t want to wake up the little woodland creatures do you?". That was my way of letting the boy know that—if he screamed—the only person who would hear him would be animal wildlife. Which was true. But he started yelling anyway.
An oily-rag gag was shoved into his mouth once I got sick of hearing him scream himself hoarse. I laughed as I watched him twist his head in all kinds of ways in an attempt to get this gag out of his mouth. He shook his head from side-to-side, his onyx black eyes bulging.
I studied his thrashing body—showing no outward agitation, but a kind of hatred swirled inside me. My heart pounded, my confused mind raced. Until this moment I hadn’t known what I was going to do with Kiyota. But I looked into his panicked face . . . I saw him pounding me with that bat.
I had no doubt that he was indeed going to use that bat on me . . . but was his intention to kill? I didn’t know. And my not knowing is what probably saved Kiyota’s life.
I pulled off his workboots and smelly socks before retrieving an old comb from a junk drawer in the cabin. Then, without hesitation I began to slowly drag it up and down Kiyota’s right sole. Then I proceeded to stroke it rapidly on both of his wide, rough, smelly size-eleven soles.
The proud Japanese boy tried to keep his cool at first, but the metal teeth of the comb tickles him more than he is capable of enduring. Finally, exhausted . . . all pertinacity shattered . . . tortured beyond his ability to even think with clarity . . . Kiyota shrieks with muffled laughter thorough his gag and tries without success to pull his feet away from the tormenting teeth of the comb.
After I found out where they were, I began to focus on the most sensitive spots on the Japanese boy’s feet. He was laughing hysterically and pleading with tears in his eyes. He was yelling something, but with the gag in his mouth it sounded to me like he was speaking in tongues. Whatever the case, I ignored him and kept assaulting him with the comb, using it’s teeth to torture his feet mercilessly . . . relentlessly I drew designs on his soles until all Kiyota could do was shriek breathlessly.
He glanced back at me while I tormented him. His screams were absorbed only a little bit by the gag, and his eyes moved wildly from side to side. When he passed out I cut away his clothes so that he was bound facedown in all his naked glory. Then I had to wait for him to regain consciousness.
“Hmm? Wh-Where am I?” He eventually said after about ten minutes.
"Oh yeah!" I said, undoing my pants while running over. "Bonzai!" I shouted as I entered his bare naked ass with my nude genital region. Hot Shit! It was tighter than pantyhose two sizes too small. I was in heaven. I fucked him like a racehorse. Fast! I was inside his sweet Japanese ass. In and out, in and out.
"Noooooooo!" He shrieked, eyes swimming with tears of pain and terror.
I ignored him and humped his butt-crack for what seemed like forever. I fucked him like a crazy man, slamming in and out of him as hard as I could while he screamed and screamed. I fucked him like a dog for the next half-hour. I knew that this was most-likely the most horrible thing he’d ever experienced in his young life, but after I came I made him lick my salty prick in total appreciation. When he kissed my feet without me ordering him to, I was elated … I felt so in control and adored, a feeling I still get to this day when a Japanese man kisses them. And when Kiyota sucked my toes and nibbled my ankles and soles, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven! I decided then and there that I wouldn’t beat him unconscious and leave him in the cabin like I originally planned.
Instead my enemy and I fucked like rabbits and eventually became considerably more than good friends.
