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Akira groaned.
“Come on, Akira. We’ve got a couple other places to hit before we can turn in.” said Ryo, already walking ahead of the wall that Akira had collapsed against.
“I don’t know how you have the stamina for this. How many demons are there in Glasgow anyways?”
For the past year, Akira and Ryo had been on a worldwide mission. Sometimes Akira wondered if Ryo’s main objective wasn’t actually to eradicate demons, but to get shit-faced in as different major cities as possible. Right now, they were in Glasgow, Scotland. On first impression Akira thought it was a charming city, but courtesy of Ryo he had yet to experience much past sticky nightclub floors and cheap £3 cocktails.
“Look, the Savoy isn’t far from here. We’ll check (sure, ‘check’, Akira thought.) there, then you can-” Ryo trailed off when realised he was speaking to the air.
“Akira?” he called, turning this way and that before he noticed him far back along the street. Akira stood, transfixed at something just beyond the Buchanan galleries shopping centre. Was there a demon? Ryo put his hand on the grip of his shotgun, concealed within his trench coat (or MacKintosh, as it was called in Scotland.)And then he saw it, all lit up like a beacon in the dark night, a glowing yellow sign reading ‘Best Kebab’. Little did he know, his best friend had just stumbled upon a staple attraction of Glasgow City.
“I could really go for a kebab right now. You know, it’s not good to drink on an empty stomach,” Akira drooled.
“I guess we can make a little stop, if you’re that hungry,” Ryo sighed. Akira needed to hear no more. He started walking to the kebab shop in a drunken trance, retracing the historical steps of many an inebriated Glasgow visitor.
When the pair entered the infamous kebab shop, they were greeted by the sight of a policeman leaning up on the counter and speaking to the owner. While Akira purveyed the menu, Ryo entertained himself with the intriguing exchange in front of him.
“...Next time, don’t engage.” The shop owner spoke angrily back to the officer, but in a hushed tone that made it clear he didn’t want the customers to hear.
“They’re just bamming you up.” Bamming? Ryo was confident in his English even after living for so long in Japan, but since he arrived in Glasgow he hadn’t been so sure.
“I know, I know.” Akira was sure taking his time reading the menu. Ryo watched him silently mouthing the English syllables. Hang on, could he even read it?
“I can only do so much.” The officer shrugged and left. The shop owner seemed neither relieved nor worried to see him go, and he didn’t even bother acknowledging his two new customers when the shop was now otherwise empty.
“What do you want?” Ryo asked Akira.
“Kebab and chips. Two of them.” Most people might assume one of those portions was for Ryo. Ryo knew better. He approached the counter, and the owner looked almost offended by his presence. In turn, Ryo felt just a little offended by his offense. It was like a cycle. Ryo ignored the feeling and ordered.
“Hi, two donner with chips and a bottle of Irn Bru.”
“And some pakora,” Akira added.
“And some pakora. Please.”
“That’s £32,” the owner said flatly. The mention of the price stunned Akira out of his hunger-induced daze.
“£32!?!?” he remarked. On the other hand, Ryo seemed entirely unphased.
“One second, just let me grab my cash.” He unzipped his wallet, and fumbled around for the money. To the shop owner’s dismay, the blond began counting out pennies and pounds one by one, arranging them in a row on the counter like a copper caterpillar.
“Okay, okay okay. You can pay afterwards.”
Ryo smiled suavely until the owner turned away to start preparing the food. Then he dumped all the coins back into his wallet and leaned against the counter nonchalantly.
“You’re not paying?” Akira remarked.
“I’m not paying.”
The two of them sat back and watched the empty city beyond the shop window. A group of boys in puffer jackets and snoods walked by and then stopped, apparently amused by something they saw in the shop window. Ryo felt slightly on edge watching them. His shotgun felt heavy in his coat, but he resisted the urge to grab it. Minutes later, the owner returned and tossed the polystyrene containers on the counter.
“Pay up.”
Akira gathered the food up in his arms while Ryo mimed digging for the money in his pockets. But before he could make a run for it, one of those younger boys started banging on the window.
“Don’t eat it, it’s fockin shite!” the boy warned with a cheeky grin, his shouts muffled but audible through the glass window.
“OI! OI YOU!” the owner deftly leapt over the counter, an unwieldy machete- no, a kebab carving knife in his hand. He pushed past Ryo, sending him to the floor and shot out of the door like a madman. The words he heard come out of the shop owner’s mouth at that point were both unrepeatable and barely intelligible.
The boys screamed and scattered along the streets, chased by the unforgiving force of nature that was Mr. Best Kebab. Akira helped Ryo up with his free hand.
“For that, I’m stripping the cash register too.”
“Maybe you should’ve listened to those kids.” Ryo said as Akira began on his second serving of kebab meat. To Ryo at least, the look and smell of Akira’s meal was beyond unappetising. Whatever Akira's reply was, it was entirely muffled by the quantity of chips he had shoved in his mouth.
“What’s the point? You only listen to your stomach anyways.” he said under his breath. He picked up the bright orange Irn Bru can and cracked it open with a satisfying fizzle. He had become quite fond of the sweet, syrupy drink during their short stay in Scotland. Akira found it too sweet.
He took a swig.
“Ahhh, Scotland.”