So, me and TK were discussing a manga called 9 to 1, and I suddenly felt like writing a story that would deconstruct the Harem Comedy genre or, at least, plant a normal person in it and enjoy the trainwreck.
Here's the first snippet. Enjoy!
Carpaccio Arata hated intercontinental flights.
It had been the second one in his 16 years of life, and he was barely more than a toddler when he took the first one, so he only had that one mind-numbing trip of almost twenty four hours from Roma Fiumicino to Tokyo Narita with a middle stop in Moscow Sheremetyevo to judge from.
And his conclusion was: che schifo(1). The movies were crap, sleeping in the chair had given him cramps all over, and the less said about the food the better.
"Thanks! Enjoy your stay in Japan!"
"I'll try. Appreciate the sentiment, though." A small smile was all Arata could muster. The circumstances weren't exactly the happiest. The urn of ashes made his backpack weight much more than his luggage.
And his suitcase was huge.
So big that he blocked both sides of the escalator. An old lady cursed at him in spanish. He didn't speak it, but he suddenly felt like checking if his family jewels were still attached as he listened to her.
'... Will I even be able to recognize her? My own mother.' In a crescendo of grim thoughts, Arata worsened his own mood. Moto Hikari. He hadn't seen his mother in years, and the only photo his father had left of her was fifteen years old. He collected it from his pocket again.
Long black hair framed a pretty face, with a petite nose and blue eyes. She wasn’t spectacularly tall, but she made up for it with a voluptuous body which she put to good use even with the evident swell of pregnancy. His father was scarlet, in the photo. Hair, eyes and nose were the only things he took from his mother physically, his father always said.
He never got why he always sighed in relief every time he said that. His father took more than one mystery to the tomb.
Like, what the hell happened to his Five Samurai toys from when he was seven? He went to sleep on Epifania with them neatly placed in a pyramid by his bed, all back in their boxes, and the following morning they were gone! The only people in the house were him and his father!
Where was a Zenigata when you needed one?
Anyway, his mother had been a beautiful woman in her youth. 'Now she should be 42, right?' As he finally reached the ground floor, he wondered how much she could have changed.
"Arata?" A familiar voice. Musical, sweet. He turned to the right... "Arata!" His jaw met the ground.
Then it was forcefully set back in its rightful place. 'ARGH!' His neck screamed in pain because of the abuse as he was caught in the mother of all bear hugs, arms pushing him into the darkness.
Of breasts.
Giant breasts. Titanic, even.
"Arata~! My Arata! I missed you so mu~uch!" Belonging to the person who, by the scent and voice he recognized, was his mother.
Scent and voice, because he couldn't trust his eyes. There must had been something in the aircraft food. Probably the aircraft food.
He gasped for much needed air as he was released. He gasped some more. "Look at you! You're so big, now!"
'Sangue del demonio(2), my eyes work fine?!' The passing of his paternal grandparents and his father thought Arata a harsh lesson in biology, which the woman in front of him -his mother, he had to remind himself- had apparently steamrolled on with extreme prejudice. She looked like she hadn't aged a day! No changes at all from the photo he possessed!
Well, not exactly. Her breasts were bigger and she had gained a few kilos, but all in the right places. She wasn't fat, she was pleasantly plump! His mother was a grade AAA Milf who could have easily passed as someone years younger and get more attention than them, easy!
The knowledge made him strangely uncomfortable.
The green tank-top and jeans also contributed to the WTF impression. How many mothers in their forties could afford to dress like that? “How was your trip?! I bet it was tiring, wasn’t it?â€
“Ehm, yeah, a bit. Uhm...†His brain was almost done rebooting. Now, all his focus was on himself, his inner game. On what his first real words to his mother, after not having seen her for thirteen years, would be. He had to choose something that would sum up the intensity, the pathos, the emotions of that reunion. “Thanks... For picking me up?â€
Yeah, that works. The whole thing was awkward as fuck.
“My pleasure, Arata! Here, let me help you with that!†Then, something else happened that made the whole thing even more awkward for the sixteen years old jappo-italian.
As stated before, his suitcase was fucking huge, and with mass usually comes weight. He saw the workers struggling to get it out of the cargo hold without dropping it on their feet, and ultimately failing. That poor worker would go on to develop a phobia of magenta suitcases.
So you can understand Arata’s surprise, which was more of a ‘Whaaaat the fuuuuuuck?!’ when his mother didn’t just grab it, but hoisted the thing up on her right shoulder like it was... Well, not a suitcase with no less than forty kilos of weight!
Also, fuck the pounds system. So. Much.
“Let’s go! I can’t wait to take you home!†And the pull on his left arm left the shell-shocked teen with no doubt about it: his mother was strong as an ox on Popeye brand spinaches.
You’d think that his neck swearing in tongues would have been indication enough, but...
‘I think I’m starting to get why father never told me the reason why they got a divorce...’
(1) Che schifo: roughly translates to ‘it sucks’.
(2) Sangue del Demonio: literally ‘blood of the devil’.
Here's the first snippet. Enjoy!
Carpaccio Arata hated intercontinental flights.
It had been the second one in his 16 years of life, and he was barely more than a toddler when he took the first one, so he only had that one mind-numbing trip of almost twenty four hours from Roma Fiumicino to Tokyo Narita with a middle stop in Moscow Sheremetyevo to judge from.
And his conclusion was: che schifo(1). The movies were crap, sleeping in the chair had given him cramps all over, and the less said about the food the better.
"Thanks! Enjoy your stay in Japan!"
"I'll try. Appreciate the sentiment, though." A small smile was all Arata could muster. The circumstances weren't exactly the happiest. The urn of ashes made his backpack weight much more than his luggage.
And his suitcase was huge.
So big that he blocked both sides of the escalator. An old lady cursed at him in spanish. He didn't speak it, but he suddenly felt like checking if his family jewels were still attached as he listened to her.
'... Will I even be able to recognize her? My own mother.' In a crescendo of grim thoughts, Arata worsened his own mood. Moto Hikari. He hadn't seen his mother in years, and the only photo his father had left of her was fifteen years old. He collected it from his pocket again.
Long black hair framed a pretty face, with a petite nose and blue eyes. She wasn’t spectacularly tall, but she made up for it with a voluptuous body which she put to good use even with the evident swell of pregnancy. His father was scarlet, in the photo. Hair, eyes and nose were the only things he took from his mother physically, his father always said.
He never got why he always sighed in relief every time he said that. His father took more than one mystery to the tomb.
Like, what the hell happened to his Five Samurai toys from when he was seven? He went to sleep on Epifania with them neatly placed in a pyramid by his bed, all back in their boxes, and the following morning they were gone! The only people in the house were him and his father!
Where was a Zenigata when you needed one?
Anyway, his mother had been a beautiful woman in her youth. 'Now she should be 42, right?' As he finally reached the ground floor, he wondered how much she could have changed.
"Arata?" A familiar voice. Musical, sweet. He turned to the right... "Arata!" His jaw met the ground.
Then it was forcefully set back in its rightful place. 'ARGH!' His neck screamed in pain because of the abuse as he was caught in the mother of all bear hugs, arms pushing him into the darkness.
Of breasts.
Giant breasts. Titanic, even.
"Arata~! My Arata! I missed you so mu~uch!" Belonging to the person who, by the scent and voice he recognized, was his mother.
Scent and voice, because he couldn't trust his eyes. There must had been something in the aircraft food. Probably the aircraft food.
He gasped for much needed air as he was released. He gasped some more. "Look at you! You're so big, now!"
'Sangue del demonio(2), my eyes work fine?!' The passing of his paternal grandparents and his father thought Arata a harsh lesson in biology, which the woman in front of him -his mother, he had to remind himself- had apparently steamrolled on with extreme prejudice. She looked like she hadn't aged a day! No changes at all from the photo he possessed!
Well, not exactly. Her breasts were bigger and she had gained a few kilos, but all in the right places. She wasn't fat, she was pleasantly plump! His mother was a grade AAA Milf who could have easily passed as someone years younger and get more attention than them, easy!
The knowledge made him strangely uncomfortable.
The green tank-top and jeans also contributed to the WTF impression. How many mothers in their forties could afford to dress like that? “How was your trip?! I bet it was tiring, wasn’t it?â€
“Ehm, yeah, a bit. Uhm...†His brain was almost done rebooting. Now, all his focus was on himself, his inner game. On what his first real words to his mother, after not having seen her for thirteen years, would be. He had to choose something that would sum up the intensity, the pathos, the emotions of that reunion. “Thanks... For picking me up?â€
Yeah, that works. The whole thing was awkward as fuck.
“My pleasure, Arata! Here, let me help you with that!†Then, something else happened that made the whole thing even more awkward for the sixteen years old jappo-italian.
As stated before, his suitcase was fucking huge, and with mass usually comes weight. He saw the workers struggling to get it out of the cargo hold without dropping it on their feet, and ultimately failing. That poor worker would go on to develop a phobia of magenta suitcases.
So you can understand Arata’s surprise, which was more of a ‘Whaaaat the fuuuuuuck?!’ when his mother didn’t just grab it, but hoisted the thing up on her right shoulder like it was... Well, not a suitcase with no less than forty kilos of weight!
Also, fuck the pounds system. So. Much.
“Let’s go! I can’t wait to take you home!†And the pull on his left arm left the shell-shocked teen with no doubt about it: his mother was strong as an ox on Popeye brand spinaches.
You’d think that his neck swearing in tongues would have been indication enough, but...
‘I think I’m starting to get why father never told me the reason why they got a divorce...’
(1) Che schifo: roughly translates to ‘it sucks’.
(2) Sangue del Demonio: literally ‘blood of the devil’.