Work Text:
Okinawa, where the sun burns hot, and passion burns hotter. Few things make the blood boil like a good competition. The latest craze is skateboarding—and not your father’s skateboarding either. The street races are tame compared to the beef whispered around town. Have you heard the rumours of an underground race, where the competition skill is high and the stakes higher still? Of matches between mysterious opponents in an anything-goes, no-holds-barred battle?
Well, not to kiss and tell, but they’re true. I’ve managed to sneak my way into a few of these races and they’re even better than the rumours. Heart-pounding, neck-to-neck contests, where you never know just what might happen.
The reporter in me wants to ask these skaters about their techniques and how it’s like to actually be on the track, to feel the adrenaline speed and not just watch it. The only problem: they’re masked.
Well, not all masked, but between the strange costumes, the odd behaviour, and the distance between us, it’s hard to make out who’s who. There’s also a lot of spectators and I just can’t seem to push my way close enough to the starting or finish line to get a good picture of any of them. The closest I managed are some blurry snaps during the race.
The only thing I do know is that they’re all locals. As an investigative reporter, I’ve worked with less info before. The first place to check is the local skateboarding shop. There are several in town, but there’s one name you hear more often than others: Dope Sketch. Odds are all of these contestants have dealt with this shop, one way or another.
Dope Sketch is a small shop, lined wall-to-wall with all the goods you’d ever want. T-shirts, skateboards, magazines, stickers, knee pads, backpacks, shoes—you name it, they got it. Stepping in, you get a little of that new skateboard smell. Fortunately, it isn’t crowded for a Saturday morning, and I don’t have to wait for customers to finish before starting my questions.
Unfortunately, the manager doesn’t look like he’s in. Instead, there’s two teenage boys restocking, talking animatedly to each other as they work. The redhead is more excited than his blue-haired companion, though that doesn’t seem to deter him. After talking to them both, I find out the manager’s stepped out to pick up a package and they aren’t sure when he’ll be back.
That’s fine. Even better than the manager, I’ve got my hands on two teenage skateboarders. I was a wild child myself and who knows the secrets of a town better than those who use it?
When I ask about the underground matches, the redhead Reki immediately pales. Shaking his hands, he stutters, “N-no, nope, don’t know anything about that. R-really.”
Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned I’m a reporter. He looks so flustered. Next to him, his coworker Langa cocks his head, confused. “Reki, what do you mean? We—”
Reki lunges forward, his hand covering Langa’s mouth as he almost knocks the taller boy down. Smiling awkwardly, Reki rambles, “Make skateboards and that’s a skateboarding race so I guess they use our skateboards so maybe we met them and who knows but we didn’t go ourselves.”
He has impressive lungs, saying all of that without taking a single breath. There’s something oddly familiar about them, about that red and blue hair. But I can’t figure it out before the owner returns and the pair scurry away.
In the end, it’s a bust. The teens (who obviously attend S, perhaps they’ve even tried to race once or twice) are tight-lipped and the owner merely gives me a confused look and says he “doesn’t know anything about any illegal races. They’re illegal after all.”
Well, I can’t really fight with that logic. Next time, I’ll have to be more subtle about it. Perhaps the other local shops might know something, or at least seen unusual people go in and out of Dope Sketch. There’s a flower shop nearby, so I try my hand there first.
As expected, I’m hit with a wall of floral scents upon entering. A tall, unassuming man in an apron is creating a bouquet. He gives me a soft smile and when he talks, he’s soft-spoken and timid.
“Have you heard anything…odd?” I ask, not sure how to bring this up. This man has clearly never done anything rowdy in his life.
“Odd?” he repeats.
“Yeah, like…uh…” How does one bring up an illegal skateboarding competition to a completely normal person? And without giving away who I am? Luckily, I remember I do have photos, blurry as they are, and I quickly check my phone for the clearest one. The skateboarder looks like a KISS reject, but surely that will make it easier to find him. “Have you seen anyone like this?”
“Like—” He makes a strangled sound. His manager, coming in from the back, asks what’s happening and before I can get in another word, this man all but smashes my phone onto the counter. “Nope.” His voice is higher than it should be. “Never.”
Maybe the picture scared him? I certainly wouldn’t want to meet this skateboarder in a dark alley. Spooked, the employee all but shoves me out of the florist, giving me directions to the local restaurant down the street to try my luck there.
Poor guy. Hope he doesn’t suffer from any nightmares. At least he gave me a place to try next. I’m surprised by the location, though. Sia La Luce is a high-class Italian restaurant. It’s not a place I normally go to, a little too fancy for a reporter fresh out of college (and luck). Maybe their appetizers will be affordable.
The restaurant is cozy, all warm wood and small tables. The handsome chef can’t seem to turn off the flirting, inviting me to sit by the counter the second I enter. There’s another customer there, an equally handsome pink-haired man who sullenly eats pasta at the counter. Perhaps he’s a regular for the chef doesn’t seem to mind the grumpy glares tossed his way every now and then.
Learning my lesson from last time, I ask with a different photo this time. A less scary but equally recognizable one, I use one of a tall, blue-haired man who looks like he stepped out of the circus ring. Immediately, the customer’s smile strains and I sense a murderous aura. Meanwhile the chef quickly places a small plate of bruschetta and stuffed cherry tomatoes in front of me.
Confused, I look up at him. “I didn’t order yet.”
“It’s on the house,” the chef says, winking as he leans forward. “Can’t let a pretty girl starve, can I?”
I hate to admit it, but yes, I flushed. You try looking at a handsome guy, smiling and winking, and react differently. Somehow, the murderous aura only seemed to get stronger as time passed, even though the pink-haired man didn’t answer any of my questions. The chef kept interrupting, talking instead and giving me food when I turned to the other guy.
Perhaps he didn’t want me to bother his customers.
After a day of investigating, I’m afraid I’ve found nothing. I’ve added my photos to this blog post, in case any of you readers might recognize these amazing skateboarders. Don’t worry, I won’t get discouraged! I’m a journalist and we’re a stubborn lot. Next time, I’ll try to stand closer to the matches. Or maybe I can just pick up skateboarding. I already know where to get the goods, after all.