This is me first bit of fiction on this august mail list..hope ya 
approve. :-)

We Don't Do Okonomiyaki
A piece of FanFiction by Michael Loader
(mloader@scs.unr.edu)

   With the exception of Hosoi, all characters with Oriental names or 
named after hair-care products are the creation of the illustrious 
Rumiko Takahashi (Praise Takahashi! Praise Bob!) 
and have her copyright stamped upon their foreheads in mile high 
flaming kanji. The Teufel, the Institut Rats, and the regulars are my 
fault, and my property. So there.

   This piece, set against the background of my own Tales From The 
Blau Teufel series of fiction, attempts to show what the Nerima gang 
would look like from the viewpoint of a rather shellshocked 
nonmartial artist at ground zero. Reading the previous TFBT stories 
with give you better insight into the characters, but aren't absolutely 
necessary. Any feedback, comments, or constructive criticism would 
be appreciated, so send 'em in to the address above. Note that I said 
constructive; flames will be printed and used to wrap fish in.

   On with the show...


---------------------------------------------part one---------------


   One of the ups and downs of my job is the people. Not that I'm 
complaining about my fellow band members. Seamus and the rest of 
the Institut Rats are like family to me, albeit drunken, noisy family. 
And while the Blau Teufel Rathskellar has it's share of disagreeable 
drunks and malcontents, it's a rare and unique experience to have 
young people of over twenty nationalities gathered together and only 
doing severe damage once or twice a week. Otto and I had no bond of 
affection, but disliking the massive barkeeper was like disliking a 
mountain: You might not care for it, but what are you supposed to do? 
No, with very few exceptions, I enjoy playing for and interacting with 
the Teufel's regulars.

   It's the visitors that can be a bitch.

   Tourists, for example, lord do I hate 'em. Some couple on vacation, 
eager to see a "real German beerhall", will ignore the frantic 
warnings and pleas of the townsfolk and come in to gawk. And, with 
unfailing accuracy, that's when the weekly fight starts.

   Despite my annoyance with them, I always send a get-out-of-
traction-soon card, and have the rest of the bar sign it. 

   We get all kinds of other people, and it usually means trouble. The 
Great April Chess Riot was started by the alleged Grandmaster who 
stopped in, and the street mime who decided to rob the Teufel was 
definitely out of place. When I see someone who isn't a student at the 
nearby Goethe-Institut, like the rest of us are, I start looking for 
cover.

   Every once and a while though, we get someone who actually makes 
a positive contribution. And then, with uncharacteristic optimism, I 
fail to view the next visitor who comes in as a potential terrorist 
lunatic intent on destroying Life As We Know It. Which is a big 
mistake.

   And that, of course, was my frame of mind when the whole mess 
started.


                                   * * * * *

 

   Night was beginning to fall, and the streetlights on the Kelgasse 
were already on. Fog, as usual, blanketed the town of Baringgen. Inside 
the Teufel, the Rats and I were belting out "Boys from the County 
Hell" with a light heart. Otto stood behind the oaken bar wearing 
scowl #32 (Gut business tonight, if der ist no problem, und der will 
be). The taproom contained the normal group of merrymakers, shouting 
and laughing and drinking. A good night. And then the door swung open.

   A panting, gasping figure staggered inside. He looked to be either 
Japanese or Korean, probably the former. His clothing was tan and 
black, and he wore a orange and black bandanna around a mop of black 
hair. I guessed his age at either seventeen or eighteen. As we 
watched, he stumbled forwards, burdened by the large backpack he 
carried. An umbrella was strapped to the top of the pack. Surveying 
the now silent room, he gasped, "Can.....does anybody....know....the 
way...to...," and with a loud thud, he fell flat on his face.

   Now, while people often fall like this in the Teufel, they normally 
do so after they've been drinking for a while. Seamus turned to me 
with a bemused look on his face. "What d'ya think is wrong with 'im?"

   "Dunno," I replied. "Let's have a look."

   The other two Rats, Giles and Mahon, followed as we made our way 
across to the guy in tan. Seeing that the excitement was over, the rest 
of the taproom went back to the serious business of getting 
completely drunk.

   He was still lying facedown on the floor, muttering in unintelligible 
Japanese. Thanks to my weekly chess games with my friend Hosoi, I 
was able to speak the language, if crudely. And months of watching 
Giles, Seamus, Mahon, and the rest of the Teufel drink their way into a 
stupor had given me the ability to understand Drunken Slur. But the 
both of them together, in unholy alliance, was beyond me.

   "Oi think maybe we should, you know, help him up," Giles said.

   "Why, when he's so obviously enjoyin' himself down there?" 
returned Seamus.

   As the two of them started one of their famous insult matches, 
Mahon and I tried to haul the prone figure to his feet. He was light 
enough, but the weight of the backpack kept him pinned to the floor. I 
shook my head in disbelief. "What on earth has he got in there, 
bricks?"

   I got a grunt in response. Mahon hadn't said a word since he stopped 
singing; I still find it hard to understand how a man so tightlipped can 
then be the vocalist for a pub band. I've asked him about it once or 
twice, for an answer he just looked at me and shrugged.

   We undid the straps of the pack, and pushed it off him with 
difficulty. Each of us took one arm, and together we hauled him into 
one of the side booths and sat him down.

   "Oirish sheepfancying pond scum!"

   "English incarnation 'o venereal poxes!"

   I gave the two duelists a glare. "Hold it down!" 

   The guy in tan gave a small moan, and his eyes flicked open. He sat 
up in his chair, looking around wildly. "What...," he said unsteadily.

   "Relax," I said in a soothing tone. "You seem pretty out of it. What's 
wrong?"

   "Food. I...I haven't eaten in four days."

   I turned to Mahon. "Go and tell Otto to make three Doner Kebabs." He 
took the handful of marks I gave him and walked towards the bar.

   "Dinner's on its way. I'm Mike, by the way, and the guy who is even 
now ordering our meal is Mahon. Who are you?"

   He sat up a bit straighter. "My name is Ryoga Hibiki. Thanks for your 
hospitality, but I really have to be going." He started to rise, but I 
put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "You should at least have 
something to eat before you leave. Four days without food would kill 
some people. Surely you can wait a half hour."

  He bristled, and I hastily removed my hand. Then he sagged a bit, and 
sat back down. "You're right. I've been wandering for so long that 
another half hour won't make any difference. Besides," his eyes lit up 
with an intense gleam, "I must be in good condition when I reach my 
goal!"

   "That's the spirit! And if you're looking for a place to recover, this 
is the place!" I gestured at the taproom in general. "Good food, good 
music, good company....I think you should wait a day or two before you 
try any serious drinking, but there's that too, if you like."

   Ryoga gave me a weak smile. "I really do have to be going soon. 
Dinner, and then I'm off. But I will stay an hour or so."

   Mahon returned, bearing a platter piled with four of the savory meat 
and onion sandwiches known as doner kebabs. I've eaten in a couple of 
high-tone places in my time, but I've never had anything to match 
them. I still don't know how Otto does it. Ryoga's eyes lit up at the 
sight of them, and he made a grab for the plate.

   About three minutes later, he was done. One lonesome, solitary 
crumb lay in a corner of the platter. Ryoga leaned back in his chair 
with a sigh. Mahon and I just stared.

  "He was hungry," Mahon said. For him, that was the equivalent of 
Hamlet's soliloquy.

   "Yeah," I said. "Want more?" A feeble joke, I admit.

   "As a matter of fact, yes," Ryoga said.

   I shrugged. "Mahon, here's some more cash..."



                                                * * * * *



   He was still eating a half hour later.

   Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Otto staring at me, with scowl 
#88 (Time ist money, und du are wasting it) on his broad face. The 
thought occurred to me that pub bands had to play if they wanted to be 
paid. I stood up. "Well, Ryoga, I'm gonna have to get back to playing. 
Enjoy the show."

   He frantically grabbed my arm. "Wait, before you go, you have to tell 
me....how do you get to Furinkan High School?"

   I shook my head. "Never heard of it."

   He looked disappointed. "Well, it's a big city....I can see how you 
might not know it. Just tell me how to get to Nerima Ward."

   Again, I gave my best awfully-sorry-mister expression. "Sorry. 
Don't know where that is either."

   Ryoga shot me an exasperated glare. "How long have you lived 
here?"

   "Oh, about five months or so."

   "Then how can you not know where one of the major wards of Tokyo 
is?"

   Huh?

   "Why," I said, "should I know anything about Tokyo? I've never been 
to Japan."

   His face settled into a resigned expression. "You mean this isn't 
Tokyo?"

   I gave him a strange look. "Uh, as a matter of fact, no it isn't. I've 
always considered that one of the place's major failings, myself, but 
we try..."

   "Then where are we?"

   "The Blau Teufel Rathskellar. Baringgen. Germany. Europe. Earth."

   Ryoga gave a howl of frustration. "Damn! I knew I should have turned 
left at Benin! But I will make it yet! I shall persevere! I shall! And 
then......beware, Ranma Saotome, for that day SHALL SEE YOU DIE!!!!! 
NYAHAHA!" He slammed his fist on the table to punctuate his words.

   The table broke.

   Now, it wasn't like it was a flimsy, wallboard and spit type of 
table. It was made of thick oak, like the rest of the furniture, and it 
was a couple of inches thick. I have seen a 400-pound man land on one 
of these tables from the ceiling (don't ask, it had to do with a wager 
involving Samoa, seventeen rhubarbs, and flightless waterfowl), and 
that table is still there. Which was the one way it differed from the 
one Ryoga had just hit; it lay in two halves, with a heap of sawdust to 
show the exact point of impact.

   My voice came out as a squeak. "That's ah,.....I mean....noble goal, 
I'm sure....uh....I'm gonna get back to work.....okay?"

   He just nodded, and sat with his head in his hands. I would have felt 
sorry for the poor guy if I weren't so scared of him at the moment. I 
hustled over to the stage, where the rest of the Rats were waiting. 
Seamus gave me a worried look. "Are ya alright, Mike? What's with 'is 
royal bar demolisher over there? What was he shoutin' about?"

   "He was upset that this wasn't Tokyo."

   Giles nodded sagely. "Homesick, then. Oi sympathize with the poor 
bugger."

   I shook my head. "No, you don't understand. He thought this WAS 
Tokyo."

   "You're right. Oi don't understand."

   I scratched my head. "I'm not sure I do either."

   "Well," Seamus said brightly, "do we know anything Japanese? 
'smight cheer 'im up."

   Giles gave him a dubious look. "Well, there's the Pachinko song. Oi 
know it oin't Japanese, but..."

   "No," I said firmly. "We aren't playing anything that relates to 
Japan, or to Tokyo. In case you hadn't noticed, our guest is a little, 
ah, 
emotional. Let's try not to have more of the Teufel destroyed than we 
can help."

  "Right," Seamus said, "we'll play 'London yer a Lady' then. On the 
count 'o three..."

   We played traditional favorites for about half an hour. Ryoga began 
to perk up, and soon he was tapping his foot in time to the music. 
Despite my fears, the floor seemed to be holding.

   After about ten songs, I excused myself and went over to Ryoga. 
"How do you like the music?"

   "It's very good," he admitted. "Different from the stuff we get back 
home, you didn't mention carp or shrews once. What is it, exactly?"

   "Most of it is from a Irish group called The Pogues, others are stuff 
we learned from customers, or wrote ourselves. We like it."

   "It does have a distinctive sound. Uh, look, you know those 
sandwiches..."

   "You'd like some more of them?"

   He had the grace to look sheepish. "Well, yes. I've never tasted 
anything so heavenly in my life. Can I have five more?"

   "Jeez, Ryoga, by the time you leave there won't be a pig left in 
Baringgen."

   Ryoga turned a interesting shade of green. "Pig? What do you 
mean?"

   "Well, where did you think the meat came from? Say, are you 
alright? You look kinda ill."

   He stood up unsteadily. "Thanks for everything, got to go, bye!" 
Trying to keep from gagging, he dashed out the door, grabbing his pack 
and umbrella as he went. Something fell from a loose strap, and 
rattled under a table. He didn't notice.

   I ran after him. "Wait," I yelled, "You dropped something!" Ryoga 
didn't seem to hear me; he was only a silhouette in the distance. I 
heard him yell something about revenge and love, and then the fog 
swallowed him up. I shrugged, and went to see what he had dropped. 

   After fishing around under a table for a few minutes, I pulled out a 
ornate, silver-traced scroll case. The case was covered with carvings 
portraying people punching other people while a rodent of some sort 
looked on in approval. Should I open it, I wondered? Curiosity warred 
with respect for privacy, and pretty soon curiosity disemboweled his 
opponent. It took me a while to open it, and when I finally did, it was 
a disappointment. The rice paper scroll was written in what looked 
like either Chinese or an early form of kana. I can't read either of 
those languages, nor did I know anyone who could.

   The rest of the band approached. "Whatcha got there, Mike?" asked 
Seamus. "Some sorta baton?"

   "No, " said, "Its some sort of scroll of ancient wisdom. I'm gonna 
put it in with the sheet music for now. If Ryoga..."

   "That's the bloke wot broke the table, right?" interjected Giles.

   "...That's right, if he ever comes back, make sure he gets it. Okay?" 
There was a chorus of agreement. I slid the scroll back into the case, 
and resealed it.

   "By the way, why'd he go runnin' off like that?" asked Seamus.

   "Dunno," I replied. "He got upset when he realized the meat in his 
dinner was from a pig. Maybe he's orthodox Jewish or something." I 
tucked the scroll case in the bag of lyrics and sheet music hooked on 
the side of Giles's drum set. After a day or two, I forgot about it.
------------------------------END PART 1---------------------------------
mloader@scs.unr.edu. All rights resreved, so call ahead to get a table. 
Fnord.