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ROUND 1: MATENROOT vs. DOTSUWHEATARE HOMPO
When I B on Tha Fields
“Haaah, I hate this,” Kannonzaka Doppo said, dreading the world. He groaned, sniffled, sneezed, and then groaned again. Just when he thought the terror had passed, his nose seized and out came another almighty – “Hwwa – shoo!” – straight out the system.
More embarrassed now by the force with which that last sneeze had come out, he groaned again and wilted, looking even more pathetic than usual. “I’m – haaah – I’m sorry.”
Beside him, Izanami Hifumi grinned and winked. “Splendid, Doppo-kun!” he cheered, the Number One Host rooting for his Number One Pal. “I think that was your best one yet!”
Doppo scowled, not at all appreciating how his shame had been turned into attention fodder for the world to see. “Sh – shut up, Hifumi, it’s not a contest!”
“Oho?” a low voice chuckled. “Then what are we doing out here breakin’ our backs for when we could all be grabbing some drinks? I’ll show you lot a real contest then. Heh.”
With a soft hwup!, Amayado Rei pushed himself off the gate he’d been standing slanted against and sauntered over to them. His magnificent pimp coat swooshed behind him as he passed and he looked not the least bit bothered about wearing the darned thing while out and about under the sun.
Hifumi watched him make his way towards them with a sort of envy in his gaze. He wished he could saunter as well as the old man did.
“Ah, but the work would make the drinks feel more rewarding, no?” Another low voice hummed, a baritone so deep that it would have given any other low-voiced man a run for his money.
Money, you say? Now Rei was interested.
But Jinguji Jakurai failed to notice those glinting sunglasses. He graced them all with a healing smile and a small flip of his resplendent mane. “Nothing like a good day of hard work to stir the bones, I always say.”
“Y – you’re not – ! But you can’t drink, sensei!”
Jakurai faced Doppo to gift him with another one of his dazzling smiles. “A joke, Doppo-kun, no need to worry. It is, what you might call, a rather fitting welcome gift for our guests. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Ha! Good one!” Nurude Sasara, clown extraordinaire and one of the guests in question, laughed in fluent Osakan. It was the highest of praises for someone like Jakurai, who often had trouble distinguishing a joke from a serious medical issue that needed examining. “But I dunno about you, doc – y’ask me, I’m always achin’ for a hard day’s night! A guy can get so pooped, he don’t watch how much he’s been drinkin’, ya feel me? Phew!”
“Ha!” Rei said, barking out a laugh. It wasn’t a laugh in fluent Osakan, but it got the job done.
“Hard day’s work, Sasara, he meant hard day’s work! What are you talking about, a hard day’s night?” Tsutsujimori Rosho, man with the last name and forever foil to Sasara to whom he had dedicated many a rap verse, retorted.
This, then, was how they knew the message in Rei’s laugh had come across – it had gotten Rosho to say something to counteract their intentional stupidity so the gag could keep on going a while longer.
Sasara, never one to look a gag horse in the mouth, was only too eager to push the show a little further along. “Aw, don’t stress out about it, Rosho!” Then to his audience, he stage-whispered, “See what I mean, you don’t get in a good hard day’s night? My best pal Rosho – he hasn’t always had the strongest stomach, ya realize?”
“Heh,” Rei chimed in. “This is what happens when y’wake up with a hangover and don’t do anything about it. Eh, sensei? Maybe next time, you’ll listen to this old man when he tells you it ain’t so bad washin’ down all that liquor with somethin’ stronger.”
“Something stronger?” Rosho demanded. “You were trying to give me a tequila shot! At six in the goddamn morning! What’s wrong with you?”
At that, Jakurai paused to take a break from his hoeing to properly digest that statement. “Gentlemen, I must say, if you’re really taking tequila shots so early in the morning then I’m afraid I’ll have to interfere.”
Hifumi took this as his cue to butt in, realizing now that the joke was lost on Jakurai if he was already ready to make a medical diagnosis. “Woah there, sensei! Nobody’s taking any tequila shots in the morning. Nothing to worry about!”
“Tch,” Doppo said, clicking his tongue. “Says the guy who chugs all that champagne like there’s no – haaaa – shoo! – haaah, not again…”
“It’s his hayfever,” Hifumi explained to the gentlemen from Osaka. “Acts up every time it’s reaping season. Our dear sensei’s tried to have a look at it, but no such luck.”
“Ahhh, I’m sorry,” Doppo moaned. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. I’m so useless, a sorry excuse for a… for a… someone. What am I even doing out here? I’m just dragging the rest of you down, huh… That’s fine, just forget it, not like I’m actually worth a damn out here, haha…”
Hifumi smiled widely in sharp contrast to his friend’s rambling. “But don’t get me wrong, we love and cherish our Doppo-kun very much.”
“Stop it, Hifumi, it’s embarrassing!” But the red was all over Doppo’s face now that to call it a sun-kissed sort of red was to do it injustice.
“Heard he still reaps like a madman anyway,” Rei said, deeply intrigued. “Reapin’, rappin’. Bet it’s all the same to you anyway, huh, big guy?”
“Ah, Berserker, yes,” Hifumi affirmed, glowing with pride. “Better than any hoe in the world.”
Jakurai chuckled. “Although of course, we don’t use our hoes for reaping,” he clarified.
“Heard if you’re Berserker, y’just use your hands.”
“Sh – shut up! I do not!” Doppo exclaimed, then caught himself when he realized he’d been barking at Rei. “... Do I?”
The contrast got Sasara to laugh right out loud. “Ain’t this the darndest thing!” he said. “Rosho, he’s just like you when ya got that spell of field fright! Remember?”
This time, it was Rosho’s turn to blush. “Sh – shut up, Sasara! What are you even bringing that up for?”
“It’s almost a shame we gotta go head ta head for the Division Rice Expo, huh?” Sasara said, becoming gloomy. He’d rather enjoyed hanging out with the city folk from Shinjuku. Finding out they were just as into this rice thing as they were had been a really neat surprise.
“Oh? Is that what they still call it?”
“Sure as the sun shines, Mister Amayado!”
“So that’s how it is.” Rei hummed. “Still DRE, huh?”
“But it only rained last week, didn’t it?” said Doppo, who had misheard. “Ohhh and I bet that was all my fault, too. I’m sorry. I hate this. Why’d that bald asshole of a boss make me stay overtime at the barns again to count fucking… fucking rice grains! Just what the hell does he think I am? I’ll show him…”
“Doppo-kun,” Jakurai called from his plow. “Deep breaths for me now. It’s not time to reap the harvest yet.”
Sasara whistled. “Boy, I’d sure love t’see this Berserker in action.” He took out his fan to try and ward some of the heat away. “I tell our seeds some nice jokes, then there’s this guy who jus’ rips ‘em all outta the ground like some kinda wild animal. Phew! Sure makes a man sweat jus’ thinkin’ about it!”
Surprisingly, there was nothing fictitious about that statement. In Osaka, they believed in a good drink and an even better gag, and this extended to the way they chose to take care of their rice. This, in effect, was their strategy: Sasara would stand out in the fields to crack his jokes, Rosho would be right there with him to provide the necessary comebacks, while Rei ventured about town extorting unknowing victims so they could use the extra cash to buy more beer.
This was in stark contrast to how the team from Shinjuku did their farming, for even if they also talked to their crops sometimes, they believed more in the power of healing and the soothing magic of calm. For Jakurai and Hifumi, this was the highest form of farming their team had managed to perfect. Take care of the rice and it’s sure to take care of you – it was an old adage among their peers, but it was one this team clearly took to heart.
But that was only until reaping season, which was about the time Doppo, freshly overworked from peak season at E.L. Farming Tools, would sweep through the whole field in a hurricane of frenzy and anger to do in one day what most teams were only able to accomplish in a week.
So whose rice was superior? It was difficult to say. Difficult to tell, especially, for two teams that boasted guys blessed with the gift of gab – a nightmare for any other profession off the field, and a welcome breath of fresh air for those who understood what it meant to farm.
“Hifumi-kun,” Jakurai said from the wheelbarrow he’d been moving around in the background. Although he stood literal heads and shoulders above his teammates, he was a man who was primarily meant to support from the sidelines. But he never minded. He so loved seeing his teammates work their magic like this. “Hifumi-kun, I believe it’s time we got started.”
“Right!” Hifumi answered and drew his fancy suit tighter to himself, blowing kisses to Doppo for luck. Doppo groaned but picked them all up anyway so they wouldn’t make a mess.
“We are a strong team,” Jakurai said, perhaps to Shinjuku to get their spirits up; perhaps to Osaka to give them a fair warning. “And we are men, aren’t we? So we must farm.”
“... What?” Rosho said when it seemed like nobody else was going to question the absurdity of the statement’s timing.
“It’s showtime for you too, Mister Funnyman,” Rei said and slapped Sasara straight across the backside. “Don’t let us down now, y’hear?”
“When have I ever let ya down, huh?”
“Do you want me to give you a list?”
Sasara ignored Rosho and whipped out his Hypnosis Microphone. “Right, right!” he greeted the large expanse of soil. “Thanks fer showin’ up, real lovely t’meet you all the way out here!”
“Ah, my kittens, did you miss me?” Hifumi said, now whipping out his Hypnosis Microphone on his own side of the field. “Don’t worry now, Hifumi’s right here! I’ll show you all a good time.”
“Ha! Over my dead barley!”
“That will be the last joke you’ll ever make, you clown!”
Behind them, the rest of their teammates had drawn out their own Hypnosis Microphones as well and were now starting to size each other up.
Sasara and Hifumi grinned at each other and bowed.
And then, they began to rap.
2ND ROUND: BAD ASS AGRICULTURE vs. MAD TRIGGER CROPS
Nuthin’ But a “Grainz” Thang
He was the one they called Evil Monk, was the one occasionally known as Harai Kuko, was primarily the guy who went by as Nagoya Division’s esteemed leader and number one man.
In Japan, the land of all things bright and beautiful, a healthy rice meant a healthy population and a healthy population meant a healthy nation and a land of forever providence. And though the lands in Nagoya were tough and hard, that was just fine because all that meant was that tougher and harder men were required to do the work that needed doing.
Harai Kuko, he was tough. He was hard.
But so was Aohitsugi Samatoki.
He was the man straight outta Yokohama, Mister Hardcore himself, the biggest bad boy of all the bad boys. Flanked now by Yokohama Police Sergeant Iruma Jyuto and military man Busujima Mason Rio, he sure cut the imposing figure.
Kuko raised an eyebrow at him and snorted. Buddha had always said that it was the quiet man who was strong enough to move mountains, and this was no different.
Still, Kuko thought, it might have helped if his teammates had a better grasp of the situation at hand.
“Hey, you two!” he barked at the rest of Nagoya Division. “Square up! We got company!”
“Ahaha!” Aimono Jyushi said, getting the hint. He drew himself up to his full height to summon the powers of the visual and the kei to give everyone there a performance to remember. “Dance with 14th Moon tonight!”
Beside him, Amaguni Hitoya rolled his eyes and took his cigarette out of his mouth so as to properly complain about what he was seeing. “Two things,” he said. “First: Kuko, you brat, Yokohama’s been here for a while now. You didn’t notice? Second…” And here, he paused to let out a world-weary sigh. “Jyushi… what the hell are you doing?”
“Shut up! I think it’s cool!” Kuko said, really believing with his whole heart, soul, and height that the visual was cool, and so was the kei.
Across them, Rio seemed to think the same. “Indeed,” he said. “It is a most impressive pose. You would do well in a military parade, Aimono Jyushi.”
At this, Jyushi blushed and went right to pieces. “A – ah!” he said, overwhelmed with the praise. “Th – thank you, Busujima-san!”
Samatoki, who also had a cigarette in his mouth, didn’t move to take it out but he complained anyway. “Oi, Rio,” he said. “Quit fraternizin’ with the enemy.”
“Tsk. Samatoki,” Jyuto said, crossing his arms. “Don’t you have any manners? Who told you you could smoke in front of your own product?”
“Haaah?” Samatoki growled. “You’re one to talk. You smoke like a goddamn chimney whenever we – ”
“And you,” Jyuto said, talking right over his own leader to fix an icy glare on Hitoya. He squinted at the cigarette that was dangling from the lawyer’s mouth. “I don’t care which side of the law you’re on. I guess it just took me by surprise to see someone of your… stature behaving like some common thug.”
Samatoki’s nose flared. “Some common thug,” he said with a sneer. “It’s Katen, you fucker! Remember the name.”
“Oh, be quiet, Samatoki.”
“Hmph. He’s right, you know,” Kuko said, raising an eyebrow at Hitoya. “What did I say about smokin’ on the farming premises? You know it’s bad for you!”
Hitoya, now displeased at having been made the center of attention, scowled at them both but still didn’t move to take the cigarette from his lips. “You know what your problem is, you’re too old-fashioned,” he said to Kuko. “Just like your old man. I swear. Remember what I told you before about Nagoya rice being the strongest in all of Japan? Get that one to stick, you damn brat, there’s no way they’re going to sag and die because of one cigarette stick.”
“It’s not the rice I’m worried about, old man. Why can’t you get that through your brain?”
Hitoya clicked his tongue. “And you – ” This one, he addressed to Jyuto. “Keep your nose out of my business. You dirty two-faced cop. You think I don’t know about you?”
But if he thought that would get Jyuto to back down, he would be sorely mistaken. Instead, Jyuto puffed up with pride and grinned. If he could have preened on the spot, then he would have. He didn’t, because he still had his bad boy image to maintain. “Oh?” he said, nudging his glasses up his nose. “Did I hit a sore spot there by telling you to stop smoking? What’s wrong, attorney? Can’t stand following the rules?”
And in a move that shocked them all, Iruma Jyuto, Mr. Dirty Cop himself, smirked wide and smug and put his own cigarette to his lips to smoke.
Behind him, Samatoki was groaning and imploring the heavens to judge this man the same way he'd been judged. “Not the menthols,” he was saying.
Kuko stared at him, unmoved. “Tch. What the hell kind of behavior do you expect from people who use fingers for fertilizer?”
“W – what?” Jyushi said, his visual to the kei persona crumbling to pieces all around him. He rapped about dark things, sure, but this was taking things a step too far! “F – fingers? For fertilizer?”
“Now listen here, you – !” Jyuto said. He composed himself and paused, still trying to figure out where that one had come from. “Fingers for… Where did you even hear that?”
Kuko shrugged, pleased that he’d one-upped them all. “Who knows?” he said. “Word gets around, maybe. And me, I’m just a passing monk. Sometimes I hear things. Who’s to say?”
“I’m not sure where he heard that either, but that’s low – even for you, Yokohama,” Hitoya said with a grimace. “Do you know how many violations that nabs you?”
“Yes, I’m well aware,” Jyuto muttered.
“And you’d rather tell off your own teammate for smoking in front of the rice than for usin’ fingers for fertilizer,” Kuko said, shaking his head. “I bet Buddha’s got words for this but I don’t think they’re proper for the moment.”
“The human body is surprisingly full of useful nutrients to enrich the soil and its crops,” was all Busujima Mason Rio had to say on the matter.
This got Jyuto to react. “Goddammit, Samatoki,” he said. “I knew it! This is your fault, isn’t it?”
But Samatoki Aohitsugi, Mister Hardcore himself, was used to being greeted this way by their Police Sergeant so all he did was cross his arms and huff. “What is it this time?”
“That last punk you said you worked over,” Jyuto shot back. “The one you said did those grain deals behind your back. What did you do with him?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Samatoki answered breezily, his “go suck on this” survival instinct kicking in instantly because he was being questioned by a cop.
“That small fry of yours! Ryuichi something,” Jyuto clarified, getting desperate now.
“Ruito something? Why, officer, that could be anyone.” Samatoki grinned, just to be an asshole.
“Samatoki, you imbecile! This is serious!”
“It sure is,” Hitoya agreed. “That’s fifteen violations of the law at least.”
“I look like I give a shit?”
“Oh, you’re looking at a lawsuit now, Mister Hardcore!”
“Teeeen – hut!”
His cry rung clear across the fields. Rio’s large masculine voice, used many times before in farming bootcamps and reaping drills, was the stuff of pure authority and power. It got everyone to shut up, in other words – even Jyushi, who straightened up and made a snappy salute even if he’d been quiet this whole time.
“Dragon’s Head Ryo,” Rio said. “A little less than six feet in height and weighing around 65 kilograms. Late twenties, with a history of running small black market deals for the Katen Family. Destroyed that trust by going behind the Katen Family’s back for getting greedy and keeping some of the profit for himself. Black hair, crew cut, no visible tattoos. Has a deep affinity for wearing the color brown. Claims to have purchased his shoes from Italy. His favorite food is buttered corn.”
His report had done the job. Their argument now effectively put on pause, both Samatoki and Jyuto now turned to stare at their third teammate with the most bewildered looks on their faces.
“That’s…” Jyuto started. “Yes. Yes, that’s him.”
“Fuckin’ hell, Rio,” Samatoki said, shaking his head. “I mean, thanks, but you didn’t need to give us the whole play-by-play.”
“One can never be too prepared, especially in an active war zone,” Rio intoned. “And it was necessary to report everything I had on his dossier. It did get you two to stop arguing, did it not?”
“Tch. Well, I still think it’s fuckin’ gross to even assume we use fingers for our own product and in fact, I’m pretty fuckin’ insulted you even thought you could use that against me. Just who do you think I am? Besides, I didn’t take his stupid fingers. I just worked him over a little, that’s all.”
But Kuko only snarled at the challenge, feeling a thrill sing in his bones knowing that these were the men his team would be up against. “Heh! You think I care what a yakuza boss thinks of me? Come on, Katen! Wanna try a little savin’ and salvation? It’s not too late for the likes of you!”
“That – that’s still – !” Jyushi shivered and re-composed himself, finding his voice again. “That still doesn’t answer what happened to… to Ryoga-san!”
“Who?” Samatoki said, genuinely confused.
“The – the fingers!”
“An’ I keep tellin’ you people we don’t fuckin’ use fingers on our own goddamn rice!”
“Ha! At least in Nagoya, all our rice’s natural born ‘n bred. The pure Nagoya way! No substitute for it in all of Japan!” Kuko declared.
Jyuto rolled his eyes. “What do you feed them then, little monk?” he challenged. “Prayer verses and sutras?”
“Insufficient,” Rio agreed. “No matter how hard a rice grain might pray, nothing can ever be achieved if it does not put in the physical work. It is the same way with men.”
“At – at least we don’t ki – ki – hurt people to make good rice!” Jyushi answered, defiant.
“That’s right, Jyushi! Blow ‘em away!” Kuko, his forever hype man, cheered on behind him.
Normally, this would have been the part where Hitoya intervened, but he was still staring at Samatoki with a calculating expression. And then, realization dawned on him. “Wait a minute,” he said. “You said you didn’t take his fingers. What did you do with the rest of him?”
“What the fuck did I do with the rest of who?”
Rio cleared his throat, drew in a breath, and prepared to make another report.
3RD ROUND: BUSTER BARNS!!! vs. FARM POSSE
I Can’t Live Without My Rice
Somewhere in Shibuya, a gambler was plying his trade.
“Ain’t no big deal!” Arisugawa Dice was saying, trying his hardest to sell the bit. “All y’gotta do’s choose and off ya go! Just one little decision, that’s all you need, but… which one’s the right one?”
His audience stared back at him, equal parts unmoved and captivated.
“That’s the thrill of the gamble, y’see? The highs and lows of risk takin’ and pleasure huntin’!”
“Ooh!” Amemura Ramuda cheered, clapping his hands.
But Yumeno Gentaro, who’d heard this same speech multiple times over with Ramuda, glanced at his leader and wondered why he was acting as if he were hearing it all for the first time.
Dice focused on the reactions Ramuda was giving him and drew strength from the little fashion designer’s excitement. He smiled widely at his audience and waved a sweeping hand over the three upside-down cups – only one of them covered the seed bag he’d brought along for the show and it thrilled him to know that even he had no idea which cup was the right one.
“The third cup,” Yamada Saburo said with a yawn, absolutely dead-eyed and unimpressed with the charade.
Dice dutifully lifted Cup Number Three and nodded in approval when he saw the seed bag lying there. “Phew!” He whistled. “Nice one!”
“It’s the fourth time I got it right,” Saburo said, the boredom seeping out of his being. “Are you sure you know how to do this? You kinda suck at it.”
“Now, now, Saburo,” Yamada Ichiro, Big Bro in the House Yo, admonished him gently. “Play nice. We haven’t even started yet.”
He was, of course, referring to their upcoming match with the home team from Shibuya. And of course, Ichiro was only feigning politeness by virtue of his role as the series protagonist. In reality, he was already loose and confident in his team’s chances of winning the thing by a landslide.
If there was anyone in Japan who knew how to farm – really farm, the good, old traditional way – then it was the boys from Ikebukuro for sure. With a tried and tested home-bred way of doing things, there was no way they’d just roll over to let the kids from the Shibuya sidewalks take the win.
“Yeah, save that stuff for the battle!” Yamada Jiro, Ikebukuro Brother #2, chimed in. “We’re gonna get ‘em real good too, aniki, you just watch!”
“Shut up, Jiro,” Saburo said, rolling his eyes. As the third and youngest of his brothers, he’d long accepted his role as verbal punching bag for his exuberant mid bro, especially when he got into one of those juvenile bloodthirsty moods of his. Unlike most little brothers however, Saburo often chose to fight back.
“Least I’m spitting bars, bro.”
“At least I don’t spit like a braindead troglodyte.”
“What did you just call me?”
“Didn’t you hear me the first time?”
“No, really, say it again, dude. I dunno what it means.”
Jiro was getting all excited now at the prospect of a bloodbath and honestly, even Ichiro couldn’t bring himself to blame him. After all, he’d been the same way too, when he was his age.
But he was their Big Bro for a reason and so Ichiro chose to campaign for calm instead. “That’s enough, guys. Eyes up front. That’s where your opponents are.”
Because dig the scene, check, check it out, yo: rice fields, far as the eye can see, the sun beating down on you so bright, and the wind gently blowing the sweat away from your face. There’s magic there, something so miraculous in the air that you can smell it going gently past right in front of you.
And for Ichiro, who’d seemingly been born with the ability to sniff out the good bars from the bad, it was remarkably easy to get caught up in the excitement. He smacked a fist against his palm and relived the old days in his mind – his good days – when he was free to worry about nothing else but his farm game.
“You guys know what they say, when there’s love in the fields, there’s love in the rice. And you know what happens when there’s love in the rice?”
“It’s good rice!”
“It’s healthy rice!”
“It’s the best rice!” Ichiro finished it off, glowing pride shining on his face. “It don’t matter what those other crews say. We grow the rice our own way, isn’t that right?”
“Rap at ‘em direct!” Jiro said.
“No extra preservatives!” Saburo said.
“No preservatives, you say?” Gentaro interfered now, a calculating look in his gaze. “Hmm. I wonder…”
Jiro scowled at him. “Yeah, ‘cos unlike you losers from Shibuya, we don’t grow ‘em artificial.”
Ramuda lifted a finger to point at him and laugh. “Ichiwwo!” he said. “Your little bros are so cute! They don’t actually believe that, do they? That’s reeeeal bad of ‘em if they do!”
But Ichiro frowned and crossed his arms. “You farm your way, Ramuda, and I’ll farm mine. We’ll see who comes out on top when this is all over.”
Dice’s grin glinted in the sun. “Now that’s a bet I’m willing to take!” he said. “I like our odds, Ramuda!”
“And what a scary thought that would be, having to rely on Arisugawa-kun’s gut feeling to see us through,” Gentaro chided, although there was no real weight to his statement. “My word – but I’m afraid our comrade is right. Our chances of claiming the victory in this farm battle are quite favorable, I should say. But of course, these are but the words of a lowly writer such as myself. Do take them with a grain of salt, I beseech.”
Saburo snorted. “We’re not falling for that.”
“Make of that as you will, little warrior.”
Because Shibuya – despite what the consumers thought of them and despite the years Ichiro’d spent in a team with Ramuda – they were… well, there was no easier way to say it. They were frauds. And Ichiro liked Ramuda, he really did, but there was just something fundamentally different about the way they looked at their craft and it annoyed him to no end.
Ikebukuro was proud. They were strong. And not to say Shibuya wasn’t like that – they, too, were a strong team worthy of the farm stage – but they saw no problem in adding a little extra… help to their strategies and with his mind still rooted in all the things that made the old school cool, Ichiro couldn’t help but look down on them a little.
Aesthetics. That was what things were all about these days, it seemed. Ichiro sighed and lamented the state of farming now. What happened to the game he loved?
He turned to face his brothers. “Now, remember,” he said. “Rapping is the most important thing. You want your rice to grow big and strong like me, don’t you?”
“Yeah!” Jiro and Saburo chorused.
“You want your rice to be all tough like me, Ore Ga Ichiro!”
“Yeah!” they said again.
“Tell me, who’s the one?”
“That’s Ichiro!”
“Hell yeah!”
“Yeah!”
“And you remember,” Ramuda was saying to his team, “wrapping is the most important thing. The most importantest! In all the world! You want your rice to be the cutest, prettiest things, don’cha?”
But the responses this garnered were much less enthusiastic.
“Oh, I suppose,” Gentaro answered. “But is it not the rice itself that is the most important thing when it comes to… rice?”
“I dunno why we gotta make it look pretty,” Dice chimed in. “They’re jus’ gonna eat it anyway. What difference’s it gonna make?”
Ramuda fumed. He stomped his feet. Pounded his little fists in the air to sell the effect just a little harder. “You don’t get it!” he whined. “How are people gonna eat it if the packaging’s all boring and ugly? Blech! I know I won’t be eating any candy that’s so boring and uninspired.”
“Well, then, that’s probably your problem right there, huh, Ramuda?” Ichiro said with a proud grin, making his way over to their conference with his little brothers in tow. “With rice, it’s the rice that’s the most important thing. Any farmer worth their salt knows that.”
“Eh?” Jiro, who’d stopped mid-nod, said. “I thought you said rapping was the most important part?”
“It is!” Ichiro said, not fazed a bit. “Rapping and rice. Those are the most important things!”
It was enough to satisfy Jiro. “Oh. Okay!”
“I bet you Shibuya city guys can’t rap for beans.” Now even Saburo was jumping in on the action. “Can’t find your way out of a single rice bag even if you tried. But I guess that’s only because you’re still stuck trying to figure out what kind of rice bag it is. ”
“Oh, dear,” Gentaro said, feigning distress. “I’m afraid he’s gotten to me, lads. I fear I may be unable to go on for much longer.”
“Hang in there, Gentaro!” Dice said, actually becoming distressed.
But Gentaro regained his composure as quickly as he’d lost it. “Ah, but that was just a lie.” He preened. “My, but Dice, your imagination must be working harder than usual today if you believed I would have actually submitted to the prattlings of a mere child.”
“Hey!” Ichiro said. “I’ll have you know that my bros are the best teammates a farmer like me could ever ask for. If you underestimate them now, I can’t tell which one’ll come after you next.”
Ramuda chewed on his lollipop stick by himself, hanging back where no one could see him. “Hmph,” he muttered darkly. “You arrogant piece of… I’ll show you. I’ll show you all.”
“Hmm?” Dice said, giving him a glance. “You say somethin’ there, Ramuda?”
Gentaro spared him a glance also. It was clear he’d wanted to ask him the same, but he only lifted his book to his face and kept his silence.
Seeing their worried expressions made Ramuda perk right back up again. It was no fun if they headed into their farm battle feeling low like this! What was the use of all of their hit songs about their friendship and bonds if they couldn’t rally together as a team now? “It’s nothin’!” he chirped, shaking his head. “You guys ready to play?”
Over on their side of the field, the Yamada brothers had already whipped out their Hypnosis Microphones.
“Hell yeah,” Ichiro said by way of introduction. “Let’s get it.”
As one, the brothers from Ikebukuro started to rap at the ground.
“Wanna battle me? Yo, haha!”
“REQUIEM, I'll bury, bury myself…”
“All in all, we’re BAD MOTHERFUCKERS…”
Music to his fucking ears.
He could do this all day, Ichiro thought. So he did.