The words echo all around me. My flailing arms catch the legs of nearby chairs and tables to slow my attacker down. Bad idea. With an angry roar, my attacker reaches down to grab my belt buckle and jerks upward, hard. I find myself hoisted at least seven feet in the air like I weigh next to nothing. I already know what’s going to come next.

I scream, anyway.

And then I’m flying, sailing over all the tables and chairs, praying that I land on something soft. In the dim light, I can see the stage getting closer and closer, and I briefly think to myself that the curtains look like they might soften my landing.

Unfortunately, I don’t make it — not by a long shot. My body twists in the air and the first thing I feel in my back is the solid slam of hard wood before I bounce off and land on a table, breaking my fall, and everything goes black.

Sweltering heat and the scent of trees hit the Yokai as she steps off the plane, grateful to finally be out of that cold, stale, boxy compartment. She bows to the flight attendants who bid her farewell, and saunters down the metallic staircase that leads straight into the heart of a tropical jungle. Palm trees and coconut trees sway above her in the ocean breeze. The ocean. She can hear it nearby. Waves … and music. Better change here, while there’s no one around. She drags her giant suitcase to a shady spot and digs out a black bikini from among the massive bottles of water, clothes, sandals, and a heavy orange block that appears to read “American Cheese.” She quickly puts the bikini on before anyone can spot her, shy despite the fact that there is no one around, and continues on, abandoning the suitcase. It will be fine out here.

The jungle makes way and opens up to a long, cement building that looks like an abandoned bubble tea shop. “Om Nom Nom Nom,” a crumbling sign reads. “Oc—n C—nti-a.” The Yokai ventures inside, meandering through dozens of neatly arranged circular tables, toward the other side of the building. The wall here is missing, exposing a crowd of creatures dancing on a gorgeous beach. She has found the source of the pleasant tropical music: a giant pink octopus in a red loincloth with the biggest head she has ever seen towers above the crowd, playing several adequate-sized marimbas. There appear to be other, smaller octopi nearby playing accompanying instruments, but it is the giant that has the crowd moving and shaking. The Yokai takes up an empty reclining chair as the octopus sings:

“I suck

Submitted by ‘Isaac’

Admitting that I suck

I suck

I suck”

The Yokai wrinkles her brow. “What an odd song.” Then she bursts out laughing. “Oh! He sucks because he’s an octopus. I got it! Speaking of octopus, man, am I hungry. Garçon!” She flags down a nearby waiter in board shorts, carrying an empty tray.