Underground Well

902：Anonymous：2008/01/21(月)00:52:13 ID:wohjQNUp0
If any of my old crew read this, they’ll know exactly who I am.
If they learn I’m still alive, they’ll start hunting again—but if I don’t write, that well will stay buried in the dark forever. So here goes. I’m no writer, and it got long. It’s not even a ghost story; read on only if you’re curious.

A few years back I worked for a certain outfit in Tokyo, doing gigs for an under‑boss we’ll call Mr. N. These days even syndicates outsource their sketchy day‑to‑day jobs. A boss hires freelancers so the main group can cut them loose if the cops close in.*1 Money was good, though.

My patch was a high‑end nightlife district popular with rich locals and expats. “Shady work” sounds dramatic, but I mostly drove a van: pick up flowers from a wholesaler, pay, then deliver arrangements to everything from cabarets to posh clubs—those bouquets you always see in hostess bars. While dropping off, I’d also collect. We charged three to five times the wholesale price; ¥30 k became ¥100 k, ¥50 k became ¥250 k. Pulling in around ¥30 million a month.

That was as “dangerous” as it got at first. I took the job seriously. The clientele was full of crafty sharks; if they thought a kid like me was easy prey they’d haggle. Lose your temper and start something, you wreck the route, cops show up, the family breathes down your neck—game over. So I’d talk—firm, no discounts, no conditions. Not a single yen shaved.

903：Anonymous：2008/01/21(月)00:54:00 ID:wohjQNUp0
I kept things smooth, and Mr. N’s lieutenants—Mr. S and Mr. K—started trusting me.
Soon they’d call me at night to drive the same van. Cargo was always loaded while I stayed in the cab; the rear windows were blacked out. I’d tail a Mercedes, wait while they off‑loaded, then follow it back and get paid—one run earned what a month of flower drops did. I never asked what was inside; drums, boxes—didn’t care.

One night the lineup changed. Instead of just S or K plus junior guys, Mr. N himself was there with only S and K. All three were tense, edgy. When I pulled up they muttered, “Kill the engine and wait.” Snippets drifted over:

“…send him home afterward…”
“He’s solid. But what about—”

In the end I drove. Bad vibe already.

The hatch opened—heavy stuff, but not the usual drums. Stranger still, S and K both climbed in—normally I tailed the Benz solo. Then we shot straight onto the Shuto Expressway.*2 Cameras everywhere, plus the police “N‑System” plate readers, which we usually avoided.

904：Anonymous：2008/01/21(月)00:54:47 ID:wohjQNUp0
On the inner loop you dip underground where you can’t look down on the Imperial Palace.*3 I’m great at driving, hopeless with directions—probably circled twice. In a tunnel the Benz suddenly flashed hazards. S told me, “Right lane, stop.” It was a merge point. He had me reverse into a little peninsula between pillars, kill the lights. No way passing cars would spot us—or they’d pretend they didn’t.

Mr. N drove off.
S and K unloaded, then told me to get out. First time they’d asked. They were hefting a black vinyl bag—the body‑bag type you see in movies—and whatever was inside was definitely human.

905：Anonymous：2008/01/21(月)00:55:26 ID:wohjQNUp0
My back literally gave out—almost dropped. Why use me, not a soldier from the family? Later I’d understand.

S handed me a key: “Open the chain‑link gate.” Five or six meters in, another barrier—solid bars, no handle, no keyhole. He directed me to another key set—one small, one large—hidden behind a stainless cover in the wall. Small key opened the cover; large key turned an internal cylinder. The bars slid into the wall—impossible to force from outside.

Total darkness ahead. Flashlight on—immediately hit a steel door stamped “Unauthorized Entry Prohibited – Defense Facilities Agency.”*4 Weird; this was highway infrastructure. Same key system, and we were in.

906：Anonymous：2008/01/21(月)00:56:30 ID:wohjQNUp0
S and K were sweating but wouldn’t let me help with the “cargo.” Stairs led endlessly downward. At the bottom, a huge corridor maybe ten meters wide stretched left and right, dimly lit. We crossed to the far side and headed left.

After god knows how far we stopped at a door:
“Imperial Japanese Army – Tunnel No. 13.”*5 The lettering was old. Imperial Army? That ended 60 years ago.

Inside we set the load down to rest. Suddenly the bag thrashed. S swore, lost his grip, and the head popped out—gagged, slightly pudgy guy.

907：Anonymous：2008/01/21(月)00:57:16 ID:wohjQNUp0
I froze. S barked at K—“He woke up! Hit him with the meds!”—but K had none. The bagged man writhed. S stomp‑kicked his abdomen; the man howled through the gag and kept thrashing. S kept at it; K joined. I heard ribs crack.

The fight drained out of him. As K shoved the body back in, the man locked tearful eyes on me—seared into memory.

908：Anonymous：2008/01/21(月)00:57:44 ID:wohjQNUp0
Bag retied, S gave it a few more kicks. “Don’t kill him—we need him alive.” Then to me: “Did you see his face?” “No… it all happened too fast.” Truth was I half‑recognized him but couldn’t place where.

Now I walked between them—no turning back. Tunnel 13 narrowed to three meters, left wall periodically dropped into stairwells with doors below.

At one door S called halt: “Imperial Japanese Army – Well No. 126” (maybe 128). Inside was a room the size of a school classroom, an iron‑lidded well in the center. A chain, via ceiling pulley, lifted the lid. They had me crank it open.

909：Anonymous：2008/01/21(月)00:58:23 ID:wohjQNUp0
When the lid cleared, they dumped the bag. Instead of a deep splash it went bashh—barely any water. S signaled: shine the flashlight. Focusing the beam, I caught the bag below—then a white hand, then a hairless white head. The bagged guy wasn’t bald. Another head appeared. Two? Shapes wriggled around them.

Eyes—there were none. Just little holes like nostrils where eyes should be. We were rooted to the spot. What were those things? Why were they down there?

910：Anonymous：2008/01/21(月)00:58:52 ID:wohjQNUp0
The door burst open—Mr. N. I dropped the light. He eyed us.
“S, you done?”
“Yeah,” S managed. N read our faces: “You looked inside, huh? Close it.”

I cranked the opposite chain; the lid inched shut. N said only: “Forget what you saw.”

Why “alive”? Feed him to those things? I quit thinking.

Back to the surface. S and K left in N’s Benz. That was the last time I saw the three of them.
Underground Well

911：Anonymous：2008/01/21(月)00:59:15 ID:wohjQNUp0
Later I remembered the face: the big boss’s third son, just out of prison for a botched petty job—spoiled, obnoxious. Killing the chairman’s kid is suicide, so they tried the perfect disposal—using me to move the body.

Two weeks later Mr. N vanished. S called: “Disappear, now.” The hit had been uncovered.

Because I’d kept some distance from the family, I got away. No idea what happened to S or K.
Since then I drift city to city, always among crowds. Typing this in an internet café; soon cafés will require ID, so this is my last chance. If the syndicate sees this, they’ll trace the post. I’ll never return to this town.

Someone needs to find that well. Why do gangsters have keys to a place like that? Expose it and my hunters might all get nailed. I plan to keep running.

*1 “Cut‑off tail” strategy – A yakuza tactic: distance the organization from expendable freelancers so the main group avoids prosecution.

*2 Shuto Expressway – Tokyo’s tolled urban highway network, dense with surveillance and police plate‑reading “N‑System” cameras.

*3 Imperial‑Palace underground sections – Some loop segments dive into tunnels so drivers can’t look down on the palace grounds.

*4 Defense Facilities Agency sign – The former name (pre‑2007) of Japan’s Ministry of Defense construction bureau; suggests restricted military infrastructure.

*5 Imperial Japanese Army tunnels/wells – Wartime subterranean networks built before 1945; many still exist unused under Tokyo.