I woke up coated in sweat.

I took off one of the numerous sweaters I was wearing to bed. That fixed it.

Climbing back under the comforter, my mind was alight with the events of the last month. I could barely believe that my life was unfolding in this way.

Primarily, this was because I was experiencing a period of peace during my career of callous violence and Japanese mob activity.

I was still reveling in the bliss of sharing a bunk-bed hammock with a track suit-wearing wonder woman. More surprising than my relationship success was the good fortune we were experiencing in the lack of Yakuza attacks.

But something seemed wrong.

Things were going too perfectly. It was a suspicion I just couldn’t shake. Ineptitude is my trademark. I couldn’t possibly have gotten the Yakuza off my back just by repeatedly handing out vicious beatings to their goons. Something else just had to be at work here.

I would get to the bottom of this mystery, even if that meant utterly ruining my own tranquility.

I sprang from my hammock, smacking my head into the heels of my sleeping companion swinging peacefully above me. Hearing my body collapse to the ground, Laser Blood opened her eyes and poked her face out from inside her mummy bag.

“Whatcha doing, Noodle?” she said, groggy.

“I just can’t shake it, Blood. Nothing ever goes this well for this long.” I explained what I meant.

It was an hour-long event. There were graphs. We both cried at the end.

“I have to figure out why they’ve left us alone. And I know just where to start–the bastion of Yakuza strength.” I paused for dramatic effect that was completely lost on my semi-conscious partner.

“I’m heading to the Louisiana Bayou.”

My suitcase needed the best provisions I could muster. I threw in my neon yellow fishnets (yes, all 10 of them, duh), some mostly clean underwear, and a tuxedo just in case.

As soon as I was done, I kissed Laser Blood goodbye. She whispered her customary farewell of calling me a sucker whenever I got out of bed before her. And with that, I was off to the airport.

Which is where I had to wait for the next thirteen hours because I hadn’t looked up flight times. Typical airline bureaucracy.

Anyway, I eventually got to Baton Rouge and a dingy little hotel that, upon reflection, was probably just a condemned building full of extremely polite transients. After an unpleasantly sticky power nap, I made for the nearest air-boat.

After glossing over the big name air-boats (I prefer to support small businesses) I came to a wrinkled gentleman half asleep by his pet alligator. He remained prostrate until I was within literal spitting distance.

I found this out when his saliva landed on my exposed chest. It wasn’t as erotic as it sounds.

I greeted him in Japanese.

“Wut da hell you say, boy?” he asked in English nearly as broken as my Japanese.

Good. He wasn’t with the ‘Kuz.

Either that, or the offensively fake oriental accent I use isn’t actually Japanese. Doesn’t matter. I could trust him.

I told him that I needed to rent his air-boat. The old man insisted on haggling, which was perfect for me because there was a solid chance his old ass could drop dead at any time.

But he was more resilient than I initially expected. We finally came to an agreement that I could use his boat as long as I would write him into my will as the sole owner of all of my baby teeth.

As I whisked myself away in the super sweet air-boat, the thought occurred to me that the alligator might not have been his pet, but was instead stalking an easy meal. Looks like I didn’t have to call my lawyer about my will after all. To top it all off, since I’m a little fuzzy on inheritance laws, I got to keep his air-boat! Score!

It was a false promise anyway. My mom already threw away all my baby teeth. She thought keeping mementos “made a man gay.” Her love was unique.

This is where I ran into a problem. All of my self reflection and Hulk Hogan-style posing got me deeply lost in the Bayou.

Where the hell was I? How did I miss all the shouting from the swamp people as I “accidentally” ran over their village? Who was this little old lady sitting next to me, and why wouldn’t she stop poking me in the ribs?

The air-boat sputtered to a halt, mangled body of a Louisiana native swinging in the fan. I looked to my right. The little lady blinked in response.

Refusing to speak with her until we were on land, I maneuvered the air-boat into the nearest muddy embankment I could find. The muck was thick, but my KISS-style platform shoes handled it surprisingly well.

“Who the hell are you?” I asked in a tone that was far louder than appropriate for the distance.

Before she had time to reply, I heard a deep groaning coming from several directions at once.

I was surrounded by gators. But upon closer inspection, these weren’t ordinary gators–they were from the Yakuza. I could see in their eyes that they were Japanese.

That didn’t sound right. You know what I meant.

Five of them came out of the marsh towards me and the little old lady.

“Stay behind me, ma’am. I’m a trained professional.”

I had been fighting grown men in diapers for ages. I’ll be damned if I was going to back away from five 400 lb gators like some kind of person with a sense of self-preservation, a.k.a. a wimp!

Fortunately, I didn’t have to worry about protecting her. When I turned around she hadn’t gotten out of the air-boat. In fact, she had climbed onto the top of the fan and was actively not giving a shit about anything except not getting viciously torn to pieces.

The first gator lurched forward, probing for a sense of its would-be prey. It opened its mouth wide, like a really angry, extremely sharp baby bird.

My lightning-fast reflexes and training kicked in. I had been in similar situations hundreds of times. Dozens of my Yakuza diaper fights ended this way. My hands moved without even thinking.

All in one motion, I whipped out my .357 Magnum revolver and fired all six shots with laser precision.

Bulls-eye.

The bullets struck directly into the mud around the creature’s gaping maw. I find that the most effective warning is usually a show of force large enough to leave you exhausted and unable to defend yourself.

Anyway, like the low-life pack of thugs they are, the rest of them swarmed me all at once.

I don’t remember much about the next few minutes. I just assume my expert marksmanship scared the gators away.

I do remember waking up to the unmistakable sound of Japanese spoken with a heavy Cajun accent. The tiny lady stood face-to-face with me, staring into my nostrils.

Needless to say, I had a lot of questions. “Who are you? Why are you talking like that? Where are my pants? Why do I taste copper?”

Before I got any answers, the small woman hopped back off of her comfortable perch upon my chest. She muttered what I can only imagine were aggravated swear words in her ridiculous Cajun accent before disappearing in a puff of confetti.

I peeled myself out of the mud with a disturbing sucking sound. In the middle of the pile of confetti was a note. Pretty nice stationery for a swamp woman.

The words confused me, and chilled me to the bone.

To be continued…