War in the heartland (jotting notes on the postwar methamphetamine epidemic, gukppong reversed, etc.)
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The war comes home, by which I mean that it echoes in many forms, by which I mean that it seems that a man that has been to war is always at war. Not all war is criminal, even if it is all wrong. But those that have done horrible things without justification will, if they are honorable, cut their bellies open, eat their pistols, or, more likely, drink themselves into an early grave. Those without a conscience can be more successful. The tokkotai, having cheated death already, did not think twice about visiting a limited war on the homeland, prowling in packs around Shinjuku, or serving as muscle for the syndicates. The men back from the jungle had already seen horrors enough for six lives, so they had no choice but to continue their war. The underworld bosses were no worse than the generals. They met the traffickers, back from Manchuria, who turned from morphine sales to raiding the vast wartime stores of methamphetamine, and then building clandestine capacity. They felt at home in bombed out cities. These men should eventually have been expelled or sacrificed.
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I picture Kimura Takeo's cardboard slum for Gate of Flesh (1964). The corrugated tin nagaya that one can still find on both sides of the Sumida must be protected. But they will be turned into parking lots.
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Yoshiko took off her overcoat and stepped out of her sandals. Like a wrestler before a match, she slapped her arms and her belly, so that there were pale pink welts across them. She waited until the final moment. She took a final drag off her cigarette and stubbed it out. She stepped out, barefoot on the wooden catwalk. The cold hit her. The cavernous showroom echoed with applause and shouts of encouragement from the men huddled below the stage.
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