The yokai’s eyes become daggers. “Fuckin’ gaijin,” he mutters. That’s what these dumb-ass bitches go for, huh? Too drunk out of their skulls to recognize a real man when they see one? How can anyone be so stupid? This is what’s wrong with society. He considers throwing his coffee can at them, but it is too small to hit multiple targets. He lets his anger pass; he is too lazy to transform and scrap with anyone tonight. Fuck these skinny, shriekin’ little cunts. Squawkin’ crazed hens. He wishes he were a farmer and it was back in the day. Then no one would question his actions: ripping feathers, snapping necks, crushing beaks under his sandals, taking turns punting them down the street into a giant vat of frying oil. Cheaper than that KFC crap and better quality to boot. Human flesh: nothin’ like it.

The young women squish together and run across the street, bowing to a stopped taxi. They hobble toward the conbini. Their voices drop to hushed whispers. Now they are pointing at him. The yokai’s head turns as one blurts out an ill-timed, “Ehhh, samurai mitai — meccha sexy, na?”

Oh, my. This is unexpected. He nods and raises his can in wary salutation. They wave back but cannot maintain their composure. They scream like immature teenagers — “Kyaa! Kyaa, ikemen!” — and run into the conbini, knocking down a poor, inebriated salaryman on the way. The salaryman stumbles right into the spot where the yokai sits, leaving him with a slurred “Oh! Suman na,” unaware that he has phased right through one of the most notorious creatures of the night. Instead, the salaryman chalks that chill up his spine to the seasonal temperature change and continues down the street.

On the other side of the Lawson’s giant glass window some of the women jump up and down and watch him while the timid ones pretend to look at magazines. The yokai smirks. He feels his cheeks and other parts of his body grow warm. He rises to his feet, drains the last few drops of coffee down his throat, and haphazardly tosses the can at the receptacle behind him (to the chagrin of those passing by, it lands wide of the mark — he does not care; someone will pick it up; Lawson employees know what they signed up for) and rescinds his earlier insults. Gettin’ laid is gettin’ laid, he thinks to himself.

The yokai strikes a pose to play cool. He knows better than to go running into the store like a desperate sex addict. Don’t do any-thin’, he thinks. Don’t make the first move. Bitches love a challenge. Any minute now, one of them’ll come back out to chat you up. All he must do is bide his time. He believes that is what Zaniel would do. Without him, there is little else he can do in his current form except hope for the best.

Any minute now …