“Acchi no mizu wa nigaizo,” he sings, “kocchi no mizu wa amaizo …” Still nothing.

Across the street, two Matsumoto Kiyoshi employees shout a few announcements about their special deal: fifteen percent off the anti-hangover juice for the next couple of hours. The suddenness of their voices stirs the yokai; one eye winks open. Not so many people around now, he opens the other and allows his glowing green gaze to take in his surroundings. An ambush of women run into the coffee shop next to the Lawson behind him. They appear to be brand-name types: A Bathing Ape tote bags, Rodeo Crowns shirts, and it looks like one of their skirts says NEGRO LEAGUE down the side. They move so fast Akki can only catch a glimpse of writing on the last woman’s baseball cap: CHUBBY GANG.

The words float on the air and translate, their meaning permeates his mind, like music. He bursts out laughing, scaring the people who have just crossed the street to avoid him. Were it not for the gallons of cheap sake sloshing around in his gullet, he would not be in such a good mood. Deep down, he can feel the decades of anger built up in his veins as he has watched the nation sink deeper and deeper into what he sees as its own multicultural mire. He gulps down the last of the Boss Rainbow Mountain Blend coffee in his hand and wonders if he is the last “real” thing left awake in this city — a sobering notion that sends chills up his Herculean spine.

“Ho, ho, hotaru koi …” Akki sighs.

Across the street, another herd of young women, sweaty and fresh from a nightclub, run toward the drugstore. They could be quintuplets with their matching micro-shorts, stiletto heels, lacy white tops, milk-tea-coloured hair, and runny layers of eye makeup. They stop to examine a display of collagen drinks as two U.S. Marines, far from their base, pass by. “Mite — gaijin! Gaijin! Ehhh!” They shriek over the drugstore announcer and the city din, as they dance around the two men, fawning over their biceps. “Meccha kakkoii!” the women add once they are out of earshot.