Chapter Text
Reigen’s presidential campaign starts as a harmless joke. To Serizawa’s dismay, it becomes a not-joke frightfully fast.
With hindsight twenty-twenty, the finger pointing starts. Serizawa blames Tome, and Tome blames Reigen, and Reigen blames the National Tax Agency. Despite that no one invited his opinion, Dimple blames them all equally.
But when the dust settles, one truth is clear — Reigen is the president.
And it’s everyone’s problem.
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the parachute candidate
chapter one: a horse in the race ~accounting for trouble~
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Wednesday, November 4, 2015 — 16:37 | Spirits & Such Consultation Office
It’s after hours at Spirits & Such consulting agency — late enough outside to flip the sign closed to walk-ins. Reigen flounders about the tax documents at his desk. In lieu of cleaning duties, Tome and Serizawa play a game of chess across the arrangement of couches.
More specifically, Serizawa plays a game of chess. Tome moves the knight to a square of her liking and yells “checkmate!” while Serizawa gawks at the audacity.
“I don’t understand why they make this so complicated,” Reigen groans from under a stack of receipts, most of them for individual purchases of cup noodles. He peers at his colleagues, expectantly awaiting an outpouring of sympathy for their overworked manager.
It doesn’t arrive. The two are fully engaged in combat.
“I don’t get it either,” Tome says, after Serizawa corrects her erroneous horseplay for the seventh time. “If they wanted people to play this game, they’d let them move as they’d like. It’s boring otherwise.”
“I mean, the taxes!” Reigen frets, wiping his brow with a navy handkerchief from his trouser pocket. It’s Serizawa’s handkerchief, and Reigen did not have permission to borrow it. “You think they’d make the taxes easy if they wanted my money. Really, they’re just begging us to hide it all in the Caymans and be done with it. The incentives here are completely perverse.”
Serizawa claims Tome’s pawn with his own knight. His gold wedding band glints over his ring finger, sending a curl of pride up Reigen’s spine. Reigen twists his own ring absentmindedly over his knuckle.
The one he wears to work is rubber, because Reigen read an article about ring avulsion once. It haunted his nightmares for a full week until he bought the stand-in for his silver band. Serizawa happily kept the gold, reminding Reigen that he doesn’t usually touch much at work aside from his homework, his business cards, and sometimes his boss.
“The knight piece moves in a L-shape,” Serizawa says patiently, gesturing at the updated state of the checkerboard. “Two forward and one over. Like so.”
Reigen sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Pop quiz for both of you. There’s a reason I make it as easy as possible for clients to pay us. Do you know why that is?”
“So that they pay us?” Tome suggests, moving her rook diagonally, and Serizawa twitches.
Reigen thrusts a pointer finger in the air at this. “Full points, Tome-chan.”
“Nice! And what do points get me?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
Serizawa flicks the board back to legal proceedings with a prod of his powers. Tome frowns. Meanwhile, Reigen taps 100 minus 5 into his phone calculator, checking that the rules of mathematics haven’t changed in the last fifteen minutes of his accounting woes. 95 indeed. Phew.
“You know,” Serizawa says, as he glides his bishop across the board and through another one of Tome’s few remaining pawns. “Last time I saw Shinra-san, he mentioned his union provides accounting consultation for free.”
“You saw Shinra recently?” Reigen asks, quirking an eyebrow. “He didn’t try recruiting you, did he?”
“I think he got the message when he sent the wedding gift,” Serizawa replies.
“It was a nice blender,” Reigen admits.
“I ran into him at the Book of Book. Remember how I needed a new protractor for class last month? For my shapes homework.”
Reigen nods solemnly. He had been there and had the scars to prove it. “Because you imbued it with your aura and used it to slice open a ghost haunting a deep dish pizza.”
It was a real tragedy. That clear plastic protractor had seen Serizawa through a particularly gnarly geometry final exam. Yet, it cracked apart at first contact with the curse, leaving Serizawa utterly weaponless against the remaining onslaught of molten marinara and supernatural sausage.
“I thought you said it was a haunted calzone,” Tome blanches. “That’s what I put on their invoice.”
“Let’s hope there’s no audit,” Reigen says.
“I went to the bookstore to replace the protractor,” Serizawa continues his explanation. “I always like to check the self-improvement section while I’m there. That’s where I saw Shinra-san. We both picked up How To Win Friends and Exorcize People. At the check out, he mentioned he doesn’t bother keeping the receipts for his business expenses, because he sends his business credit statement directly to the union accountant. I thought that sounded convenient.”
Tome seizes the opportunity Serizawa’s soliloquy provides to skid her queen across the board, trapping Serizawa’s king in her vicious scope. “Checkmate,” she says.
“And this accountant,” Reigen prompts, twirling a pen between his fingers. “This accountant handles the whole shebang?”
“I didn’t ask for all the details,” Serizawa says. He glances at the chessboard in horror. “Oh, shoot. That is actually checkmate.”
“Don’t act so surprised!” Tome scolds.
Serizawa waves a hand to reset the board before Tome can snap photographic proof of her victory.
“Sore loser,” she grumbles.
“It’s a drop in the bucket,” Serizawa says, pointing at a spot on the wall-mounted dry erase board where he’s tracked the long-term standings of their board game battles. The score currently sits at Serizawa 112 - Kurata 16. Reigen’s name is conspicuously absent from the tracker because he claims his overwhelming victory streak would irrevocably dampen office morale.
Tome adds a tally to her column. Then she pulls a bag of crab-flavored chips from her bag and goes to town. She does not offer any to Serizawa, because he is a loser.
Reigen’s pen slips by his pinky and clatters to his desk. “I guess it’s a nonstarter anyway. I’d rather eat my arm off than give those grifters any of our hard-earned revenue. We’ll just have to make do this tax season.”
He considers his employees.
Dimple’s out of the question. Reigen can’t get the fickle evil spirit to do a damn thing he says. And besides that, Dimple’s a ghost. His backstory’s a bit murky, but Reigen’s fairly sure he never any formal education in personal finance.
As a minor, Tome doesn’t have any business filing taxes — doubly so if her arithmetic scores were any indication.
Serizawa. Wonderful, wholesome Serizawa. Love of his life, fire of his l—
No, no. It’s business hours, Reigen reminds himself.
Serizawa’s studious. Probably studious enough to equipoise a balance sheet after some coaching. But for now, the night student needed to dedicate his diligence to finishing his diploma and also rescuing his boss-slash-husband from unwitting but near-regular peril.
Plus, Serizawa was back into model-building in the evenings, and Reigen liked watching him bent over the kitchen table, tongue pointing from the corner of his mouth in deep concentration over the tiny pieces and Reigen’s eyebrow tweezers. And bent over, ah, other furniture and —
Business. Hours.
Long story short, Reigen didn’t need to sully the sanctity of their evenings with quarterly inventory depreciation.
After measuring up the breadth of his payroll, Reigen is left with his only possible option for office accountant — one conman with a regrettable liberal arts degree.
“We can’t afford an independent accountant either,” bemoans Reigen. “We can hardly afford a secretary.”
And then Serizawa’s nightmare begins when said secretary opens her mouth between crustaceous crunches of potato chips and incepts the awful idea into his all-too impressionable husband —
“The union has elections, don’t they?” she remarks, wiping an oily hand over her scarlet skirt. “Hoshida-senpai said Jodo-sama’s finally retiring. That guy’s, like, a million years old.” Tome barks out a laugh. “Wouldn’t it be funny if you ran for president and won? Then you’d have the accountant and all those guys would have to do what you say.”
Reigen blinks.
“You’re not seriously considering it,” Tome laughs again, tossing her crumpled chip bag toward the office wastebasket. It hits the floor three feet away. Ever the team player, Serizawa sinks the rebound with his telekinesis.
“If I ran…” Reigen mumbles to himself, suddenly lost in a lucid dream. He leans back in his chair, resting his feet over the corner of his desk. “Hm… If I ran for union president…”
Tome abruptly stops laughing.
Serizawa does not have telepathy. He does not need it to know that his husband is envisioning a campaign victory speech. Reigen’s already unconsciously practicing the accompanying gesticular choreography. He’s making peace signs.
This is dire.
“Arataka…” Serizawa bleats. “You can’t—You’re not even in the—… You don’t even know when the election is!”
But he knows it’s all futile, because he knows that look on Reigen’s face.
It’s the look Reigen wore when Serizawa complained about the water pressure in their apartment, and Reigen arrived armed with a wrench only to inexplicably erupt a violent geyser from the kitchen tap. And it’s the look Reigen wore last week when Serizawa advised him urgently, Arataka, that doll is extremely cursed, please don’t touch it — and Reigen plucked it from the shelf to clarify, you mean this doll?
“It’s settled then,” Reigen says.
Serizawa stares as Reigen pushes himself to his feet. The pleather office chair spins off into the wall. He wanders to the couches, nodding encouragingly to both of his apprehensive employees.
He clears his throat and proudly declares to the bated breath of his entire payroll, “I, Reigen Arataka, will run for union president.”
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THE YUZU PEPPER HIGH SCHOOL YODELER
“Squeeze the news into your day”
November 4, 2015 // Print Edition // Volume 42, Issue #73
Renowned psychic expert and TV personality Jodo Kirin retires
by Mezato Ichi, Investigative reporter
Members of the local Rising Sun Spiritual Union reacted today as founder and three-term union president Jodo Kirin, 84, announced his official retirement from the exorcism business, effective November 30. The RSSU subsequently announced an emergency member election, which will be held in-person on December 1 in the Shishito Senior Center Multi-Purpose Activity Room.
Reactions to the impending retirement varied across the board. Some saluted Jodo’s contributions to the psychic community:
“Jodo-sama was the president,” said Cuticle City psychic Shinra Banshomaru, 41, a twelve-year veteran of the RSSU. “He was definitely the president. That I can say for sure.”
Others had more complex reactions:
“Jodo-sama was a good man. A great man, depending on who you ask,” said Roshuuto Dozen, 35, a union member in probationary standing who described himself as Jodo’s closest confidant.
“He was a powerful spiritualist, almost as powerful as myself,” said Roshuuto. “That reminds me: please inform your readers they can come to me, Roshuuto Dozen, the greatest living psychic in Seasoning City, for any and all spiritual needs. You can find my state-of-the-art office and adjoining gift shop at
This story continues as RETIREMENT on page 4A.
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Wednesday, November 4, 2015 — 23:41 | 123 Anise Lane, Apt 2B
Serizawa goes to class that night like usual. Like everything’s normal. Like nothing’s off at all. Like Reigen is not actually considering running for elected office in a fraudulent business union for which he very much does claim membership.
Serizawa sits at his little school desk. He writes his little history notes. He balances his little chemistry equations. He heaves his little sigh when he has to correct the chemistry equations. And then he takes his train back to his beloved apartment.
Business as usual.
He arrives home before midnight, fully expectant that the whole business of hypothetical political campaigning has already blown over. That it’s been plucked off the shelf only to be replaced a few hours later like so many of his husband’s other abrupt “spiritual” hobbies. For the business, Reigen said.
Bird watching was short-lived. So was cross-country skiing. And ditto for needlepoint felt work. In the same manner, political campaigning should end imminently.
Serizawa doesn’t mind the hobbies; on the contrary, he loves watching Reigen entranced by a new interest. But Serizawa also worked for a man with misplaced political ambitions before, and it wasn’t such a fun time for either of them. Or their friends. Or the Seasoning City Department of Infrastructure.
Having fully reassured himself, Serizawa unlocks the door, swings it open, and eases off his dress shoes in the genkan. He drops his briefcase in its usual spot next to the shoe rack. He unknots his tie and hangs it with his suit jacket on the wall hook.
So far, so good.
He confidently strides past the kitchenette, expecting to talk about anything, anything other than the godforsaken Rising Sun Spiritual Union and —
“Katsuya,” Reigen greets, jumping from his perch over the dining room table and rushing to his side. Katsuya doesn’t even get a chance to enjoy the too-quick peck on his lips before Reigen’s shoving a scribbled-over stenographer’s notebook in his face. “I need your help with something. You’ve got a good ear for things.”
“What’s this?” Serizawa says into the wide-ruled paper, manifesting as much enthusiasm as he can to mask his trepidation. “Ideas for the office?”
Serizawa’s beloved therapist always said that he could shape his own destiny with the right attitude, and he’s tried his best to live by that mantra —
“No, no, of course not. This for the presidential campaign!” Reigen laughs like Serizawa told a hilarious joke. “I just checked the bylaws online — there’s technically no stipulation that candidates have to be union members. See this?” He gestures at himself. “You’re looking at a fully-eligible man.”
— to varied success.
Reigen slaps the back of his hand over the open page. “I’ve been workshopping ideas. I’m trying to draw on my personal brand. If it isn’t broken, don’t fix it, you know?”
“Uh huh,” Serizawa says.
“What do you think will work better as a campaign slogan? ‘Greatest President of the 21st Century’ or ‘Elect a Pro — Vote Seasoning City’s Bro’?”
Serizawa squints at Reigen’s chicken scratch.
“I was thinking the rhyming might be better. It’s more memorable,” Reigen continues, circling the phrase and flourishing his pen, “but then I thought maybe a simpler slogan would resonate better with the over-50 crowd? You’re older than I am — what would you go for in this case?”
Serizawa closes his eyes and clicks his heels together three times. When he opens his eyes, Reigen is still gazing at him expectantly.
It was worth a shot.
“I see,” Serizawa surmises. “You’re, uh, serious about this.”
“I’m serious about this,” Reigen confirms seriously. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Serizawa can think of several reasons in the milliseconds he has before his husband starts talking again.
“I can do some real good for that damned union,” Reigen says. “Kick the old leadership to the curb and bring in some fresh ideas. Screen out more of the frauds from their membership—”
Serizawa successfully resists the urge to comment.
“—and spend less time fundraising and more time helping people.” He gestures cyclically, drawing Serizawa’s eyes around like a manual hypnotism. “So…yeah. All that good stuff. And other stuff I haven’t even thought of yet, I’m sure.”
“You could help people without being the president,” Serizawa points out. “Just by being yourself.”
“I could help more people though,” Reigen insists. “Do you know how many members the union actually has? It’s—”
He glances quickly at his open laptop screen.
“—at least 130 self-proclaimed psychics in our ward alone.”
“You should memorize that if you want to run,” Serizawa advises.
Reigen waves that away. “Of course I will.”
Serizawa lifts the steno from Reigen’s grasp, setting it down next to a cup of lukewarm decaf — Serizawa sure hopes it’s decaf — coffee on the dining table.
“Arataka…” he says softly. “This isn’t about revenge, right? For that TV spot? Or the Mimic, or Rusty, or-or that time Roshuuto-san beat you at the parfait-eating contest — any of that?”
“I didn’t want to remember the parfait-eating contest,” Reigen grumbles at the floor. Roshuuto may have technically consumed more parfait but Reigen still claimed the moral victory — and was subsequently banned for life from Snow Problems Ice Cream Emporium.
He picks his head back up, meeting Serizawa’s concerned gaze. “I’m not, but— If I was still upset about any of that… Would that be so bad?”
“I don’t want you to run for the wrong reasons. Revenge is always the wrong reason,” Serizawa advises.
“It’s not just that,” Reigen says sheepishly. “I also really hate accounting.”
“That’s…not a good reason either.”
“‘Tsuya, I was joking. C’mon!” Reigen grins, but when he encounters the genuine concern in Serizawa’s eyes, he falters. “You… You think it’s a bad idea, don’t you?”
Serizawa’s a bit too whiplashed by Reigen’s emotional switch to appreciate that for once in his life, he might be winning an argument against The Man who Doesn’t Lose Arguments. Entirely by accident.
“I didn’t say that,” Serizawa backtracks, taking Reigen’s hand and running a finger over the knuckles. “I just wondered if it was a bit impulsive. Not that you have a track record of that.”
“Did you know I once hired an ex-terrorist on the spot?” Reigen replies.
His tone is light, but Serizawa can tell the warmth of his words doesn’t match the disappointment on his face. Truth be told, Reigen looks like a kicked puppy. Over time, Serizawa has identified this particular expression as his ultimate weakness.
Serizawa squeezes the hand in his grasp, bending down to kiss the spaces between Reigen’s fingers. “Whatever you decide, no matter what, you know you have my support. Just… Sleep on it, okay?”
Serizawa laces their fingers together, and Reigen nods, ears flushed at the tips.
“Sure, sure.”
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OFFICIAL MAILER FROM SNOW PROBLEMS ICE CREAM EMPORIUM
“Home of the BadSundae™”
WEEKLY SPECIAL
THE JODO KIRIN JOWEL BUSTER
This dairy delight features two scoops of butter pecan ice cream, topped off with giant tapioca pearls arranged to look like Jodo’s trademark prayer beads. This special celebrates Jodo-sama’s three terms of service to the psychic community! (Warning: choking hazard for children under four.)
Important note from the location manager:
Some valued customers recently left negative reviews complaining of a haunted bathroom at our Seasoning City location. We’d like to reassure our patrons that allegations of “sputtering sinks” and “judgmental toilets” were quickly disproven by talented representatives from the Rising Sun Spiritual Union.
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Thursday, November 5, 2015 — 06:01 | 123 Anise Lane, Apt 2B
Reigen doesn’t smoke anymore.
It was a simple equation. Serizawa wanted him to quit, and so he did. It happened gradually, but he’s been a proud non-smoker since the night before his courthouse wedding.
That night — to celebrate his last day of bachelorhood — he went bar-hopping with Shinra. More accurately, Shinra went bar-hopping. Reigen sucked down one watered-down lemon sour at the first stop, dropped his last-ever cigarette into a puddle, and nearly stumbled into the downtown pedestrian scramble as the stoplight turned green. Shinra lassoed him out of harm’s way with his prayer beads — a move which made Reigen feel equal parts grateful and bovine. When he got home, Reigen didn’t want to worry Serizawa by telling him the night before the big day, but Shinra’s vice left an unmistakable circle of bruises around his waist, like a hug from an octopus.
Despite quitting cigarettes, Reigen still has poor circulation in his fingers and toes. His doctor told him the weird way his fingers frequently froze up and turned blue was Raynaud's Syndrome. She advised him to lay off the caffeine and computer work — a piece of advice Reigen swallowed down and chased with a canned coffee on his way to his next photographic exorcism appointment.
Delightfully, Serizawa always runs warm.
He once told Reigen it was an esper thing. With his aura, he’s always wearing a light jacket — the kind of barely-there affair you throw on in early spring. He said he’d never noticed the warmth, much less appreciated it until he’d held Reigen in it the first time.
Pragmatic as he is, Reigen takes full advantage of it — and Serizawa hisses like a tea kettle whenever Reigen abruptly presses his icy-white toes to Serizawa’s ankles.
This particular morning, Reigen rouses ahead of his alarm, despite his limited sleep.
He’s smushed and a touch sweaty under the dead weight of a sleeping Serizawa arm. The sun hasn’t yet risen over the highrises down the street. The rush hour train schedule doesn’t start for another twenty minutes. Their bedroom is dim and quiet, save for Serizawa’s gentle snoring into his hair.
Normally, Reigen would love nothing more than to turn on his side, press his face into the soft, warm, and fleece-lined juncture between Serizawa’s chest and arm, and stay forever. If that’s what Serizawa asked for, then Reigen would find a way to make it happen.
Today, Reigen has a purpose. A greater calling. A job only he can do. The armpit can wait.
And with that in mind, he presses his lips to the stubbly jut of Serizawa’s chin and wiggle-limbos under a bristly forearm to start his day.
“...Mornin’,” Serizawa slurs, stirring when Reigen’s shimmy jostles the bed springs. He rubs his bleary eyes and fumbles over the nightstand for his smartphone.
Serizawa is not a morning person. In his first days at the office, he divulged that he’d been so nervous to screw up that he’d barely slept at all. That’s why he’d been punctual. But once he got more comfortable, he struggled with sleeping past the commuting hour.
Reigen introduced him to coffee.
“It’s an acquired taste,” Reigen advised. “Try adding sugar.”
The first time Reigen tried coffee, he’d taken one sip from the mug he stole from his sister, glared at her like he’d been betrayed, and spent the evening vibrating in his desk chair. Serizawa, by contrast, took a steady sip, sighed pleasantly, and sipped again. Full of surprises, that one. Reigen — meanwhile — spent far longer staring at Serizawa’s lips over the mug than a boss was meant to. He coughed and looked away quickly when Serizawa met his gaze.
Nowadays, Serizawa wants morning coffee, so Reigen makes it. In the kitchenette, he spoons coffee grounds into an unfolded paper filter.
“Oh,” Serizawa calls from the bed, sitting up under the covers. “Kurata-san texted me. She sent a link to read.”
Reigen hums and starts the electric kettle.
They’d stayed up entirely too late with Reigen lost in his caffeine-powered vision quest for the perfect political debut. And then Serizawa had come home and verbally dragged him back to earth, the emergency tether to Reigen’s runaway dirigible.
He’d been a bit letdown by Serizawa’s reaction. Reigen slept on it as he promised he would. And one partial night of sleep richer, he’s more sure than he was before.
Serizawa promised to support him no matter what. Reigen didn’t take that lightly — that’s why he wasn’t simply going to run in an election. Obviously, he was going to win the election.
“Ah, I see,” Serizawa says, tapping his phone. “It’s an article from the Yuzu Pepper Yodeler. I’ll check it out…”
The argument is clear in Reigen’s head, as he fits the ceramic pourover dripper atop a chipped coffee mug:
Firstly, the whole election affair would only bolster business. The campaign itself would double as marketing for his services, and his name would be in the newspaper no matter the election result. As much as he despises the union and everything it stands for, he’d be foolish to deny the formidable power of viral advertising. Not every bit of press is good press — a fact he knows entirely too well — but he’d take a calculated risk.
“Oh… Hey, uh…”
Secondly, the loading screen of his pirated accounting software makes him want to crawl under his desk and reconsider all the life choices that brought him into the situation in the first place.
“Hey, ‘Taka…”
Thirdly, Reigen-kaichou has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? A certain irresistible pizzazz. It rolls of the tongue like it was meant to be. He imagines “Reigen Arataka, President” on a laser-cut wooden desk placard. And when he walks into the room to host whatever nonsense the union met about — how did they greet him? Reigen-sama? Mr. President? His excellency? The most honorable—
“It’s an update about the union election…”
Reigen shakes off the thoughts of his preferred honorifics. He’d have plenty of time to sort that out after his victory speech.
Moving on.
Lastly, there’s the most important reason of all. When — not if, he wants to be very clear — when he wins, he’ll clean house in the RSSU entirely. Sure — not everyone in the RSSU was trouble. Shinra. Tome’s boy-friend-who’s-not-a-boyfriend Hoshida. Two examples. They’re okay, Reigen supposes. But Reigen has seen firsthand how much damage the more malicious frauds from the RSSU had done. Every member of his office has.
For every Shinra, there was at least one Roshuuto.
“This isn’t good…” Serizawa mumbles, chewing his lip. “Roshuuto-san is…”
With his argument sorted and the tea kettle singing, Reigen’s ready to seize the moment. When Serizawa understood his reasoning, he’d happily agree with Reigen’s grand entrance into the world of business politics. After all, Serizawa promised to support him no matter what. Today, Reigen would simply cash in the “what.”
Reigen hums happily to himself, satisfied with his mental script of artfully-crafted rhetoric. Serizawa looks quizzically at him from across the room like Reigen’s sprouted a second head. Reigen’s too focused on the coffee station to notice.
Reigen lifts the kettle, tilting to bloom the coffee grounds waiting in the ceramic dripper —
“Arataka, are you listening?” Serizawa enunciates, hopping out of bed. “Roshuuto-san is running for president. He’s running unopposed.”
“What?”
— and promptly waters the counter.
…
THE YUZU PEPPER HIGH SCHOOL YODELER
“Squeeze the news into your day”
November 5, 2015 // Online Edition // Volume 42, Issue #74
‘Psychic of the Solar System’ Roshuuto Dozen enters bid for union president
by Mezato Ichi, Investigative reporter
Seasoning City spiritualist Roshuuto Dozen, 35, confirmed his official run for president of the Rising Sun Spiritual Union in the RSSU’s upcoming election which will take place December 1. The election aims to fill the vacancy left by longtime president Jodo Kirin’s imminent retirement.
Roshuuto is the first candidate to collect the necessary petition signatures to qualify for the ballot. He announced his campaign last night in a private event held in the flatpack warehouse section of the former Seasoning City IKEA. It was attended by employees, customers and select union allies.
Occult literature student at Seasoning City University and former apprentice at Roshuuto’s office, Hoshida Origo, 20, attended last night’s event, sitting in a row that once kept particleboard patio furniture.
“Roshuuto-san had an enormous influence in my life. He taught me to work independently and never depend on my seniors for anything. I’ve become completely self-sufficient,” Hoshida said.
Hoshida refuted claims that Roshuuto did not pay him for his work.
“He paid me in exposure,” Hoshida said. “Exposure to both the work environment and various deadly curses.”
Asked if he would endorse Roshuuto’s bid to replace him, Jodo said he wanted to wait and observe the field as other candidates potentially toss their hats into the race.
“Roshuuto is one candidate,” Jodo said. “And if there’s only one candidate, I suppose I’ll have to vote for him.”
The Yodeler’s team of fact checkers reminded Jodo that, per his own union bylaws, he is allowed to submit a blank ballot.
“Then we could go either way,” Jodo said.
As of writing, Roshuuto is polling at the front of the single-candidate pool.
Corrections: November 4, 2015
Our headline “Yuzu Pepper principal beheads incoming student council” was printed in error. After thorough inspection, we determined that it should have read “Yuzu Pepper principal befriends incoming student council.” We regret the error.
…
Thursday, November 5, 2015 — 06:12 | 123 Anise Lane, Apt 2B
With practiced ease, Serizawa catches the boiling kettle water with his aura before it can scald his spouse. He waves a hand and trickles the liquid back through the kettle spout before offering Reigen his phone.
“Psychic of the solar system,” Reigen sneers at the screen. “They really printed that? I thought journalists had a sworn duty to only tell the truth.”
Serizawa turns the screen back to his face to regard the headline again and offers, “I think a writer can say whatever they want as long as it’s in quotation marks. Or they use the word ‘allegedly.’”
Reigen sighs, rubbing his temples. He picks up the kettle, and the steaming water actually meets the target this time. Toasty coffee smell permeates the infinitesimal space of their kitchenette area.
“What the hell is that guy’s platform anyway? Child endangerment?”
Serizawa snorts but doesn’t otherwise reply, too focused on his device.
There’s no need to freak out, Reigen reminds himself. Of course Roshuuto’s unopposed if he’s the only one running. The race barely started! Plenty of time to stage a comeback.
No need for concern. Not yet.
Reigen sets the kettle back to its heat element cradle and leans lock-armed against the counter. Pourover ceramic full to capacity, floating coffee grounds swirl and stick to the paper filter as the liquid depletes into the waiting mouth of Serizawa’s mug.
Drip, drip, drip.
“According to Roshuuto-san’s campaign site,” Serizawa says, clicking the first search result. “He has endorsements from many key members of Jodo’s current staff. And…um. Did you know Occult Oddities magazine named him ‘Sexiest Psychic Alive’ in 2014?”
Reigen sputters, “Excuse me?”
Perhaps a bit of concern is warranted.
“I guess the judges need their eyes checked.”
“I’ll say.”
“I can think of a better candidate,” Serizawa muses fondly.
He attempts to wink, but in reality, it’s a staggered, suggestive smush of both eyelids. It’s so comically adorable that Reigen has to avert his eyes, like he’s looking into the sun or something. As much as Reigen tries to act nonplussed about it, his heart flutters.
“I can’t believe we still have an office subscription,” Reigen says. “It’s a trashy magazine for trashy readers.”
“Dimple reads it cover to cover every month,” Serizawa says.
“Case and point.”
Drip, drip, drip, goes the coffee. Reigen plucks another mug from the stack in their cabinet, another filter from the packet in the drawer. There’s only one ceramic dripper. One brew at a time.
“Hmm,” Serizawa continues. “Roshuuto-san’s got a page for key issues. Let’s see. The keystone of his platform is… Sorry, lemme scroll. This website isn’t very mobile-friendly… Okay, here we go. He wants to work with local officials on licensing laws. And…oh—”
Serizawa cuts off the thought, looking a bit activated.
Perhaps a lot of concern is warranted.
Reigen raises an eyebrow. “…And?”
“And, uh,” Serizawa says hesitantly. “He wants to make it impossible for businesses without union membership to operate within city limits. He’s proposing hearings and fines. He said he’d even explore getting law enforcement involved…”
He pauses, searching for Reigen’s expression, but Reigen seems to be devoting his entire attention span to examining the fingerprint smears over the chrome-painted knob of the kitchen cabinet. Taking a deep breath. Considering his next move.
Drip, drip, drip.
“It’ll be really bad for us if he wins, won’t it?” Serizawa says after a moment of Reigen’s uncharacteristic silence, squinting back at his screen. “If he succeeds, life might become very, ah…difficult for us, right?”
“Yes,” Reigen says carefully to the cabinet. “I imagine it would.”
“I don’t want to join his union,” Serizawa asserts, scrubbing a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. “And I like our current standard of living. Being able to pay rent. Having room for our stuff. A big bed. A balcony. And, uh. Windows.”
When Serizawa first joined Spirits and Such, he lived in a three-mat room in the basement of a condominium building. His only “window” faced a troublingly-crumbly stone column, and the closet was infested with crickets. Reigen called it “the coffin” and bought him a set of borax traps from the hardware store.
Serizawa always says he feels more at ease in dark, confined spaces. But Reigen has also watched him sip iced tea and read a light novel on the balcony folding chair while the afternoon sun bleached the hair on his forearms.
Drip, drip, drip.
“I like the office,” Serizawa adds. “The job. It’s helped me meet lots of different people.”
Reigen nods slowly. “…Me too.”
“It helped me integrate back into society. It helped me. And…lots of other people. Those people would have been on their own if not for you…”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Katsuya.”
“The office helped me meet you. Without that, I…”
Serizawa’s eyebrows knit together, lost in a difficult contemplation. Reigen can nearly spot the steam puffs from his ears.
Something’s happening here, Reigen thinks. Some cosmic alignment that he shouldn’t dare question. A planetary syzygy. A brush from an angel. A minor blessing. The pure unadulterated bliss of walking into the grocery store the minute the intercom announces a flash sale on Himalayan rock salt. You know, cosmic stuff.
The dripping ceases.
Reigen pulls out the coffee filter, tossing it with the compost. He rinses off the ceramic in the sink. He returns to the counter. He stares at the shimmery oil-slick surface of the coffee, watches the steam waft and curl into the air. He picks it up through the embrace of the handle, savoring the permeation of warmth through his too-cold fingertips.
And once he’s satisfied with that, he passes it to Serizawa, who’s busy worrying his thumbs together. Serizawa takes a sip and sighs. He fixes his gaze over Reigen. There’s trepidation there, but Reigen spots a glint of fire too.
The sunrise peeks through their balcony blinds, leaving streaks across the pebbly white walls, glare over Serizawa’s posters, a dotted line over the TV screen, a ray tangled up in Serizawa’s soft curly hair.
“I think,” Serizawa enunciates carefully, “you have to run for president, Arataka.”
Reigen can’t say Roshuuto never did anything for him.
But that’s not really what he wants to think about as he traps Serizawa by the waist against their kitchenette counter, smooths his hands over goosebumped hip bones tucked beneath the waistband of Serizawa’s sweatpants, and smothers him into a figuratively-searing kiss. Those lips bear notes of jasmine, stone fruit, and cacao nibs — exactly as the bag of grounds advertised, satisfaction guaranteed.
Ambitions are better shared. Serizawa’s on board. In fact, Serizawa may have usurped control of the ship entirely. And Reigen’s a simple man with a simple equation — if Serizawa wants him to, Reigen will.
.
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ROSHUUTO DOZEN for Rising Sun Spiritual Union President
“Honest. Humble. Handsome.”
[roshuuto_official_campaign_img.jpg] [alt text: A dark-haired man wears a cheaply-sewn replica of an early-1800s French cavalry general’s uniform, including black heeled shoes, long white socks, cropped white pants, a white vest, and a navy military jacket with gold fringe on the shoulders. He’s decorated with several nonsensical colorful ribbons and gold medals.
He is photoshopped riding a galloping white stallion and pointing a plastic saber in the air. The background is a low-resolution ripoff of the famous Windows XP ‘Bliss’ desktop background — the one with the green grass, blue sky, and excessively fluffy clouds.]
Donate here! (We accept credit, debit, cash apps, cryptocurrency) (No AmericanExpress, sorry!)
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Campaign Promises (Listed in order of importance)
- Repeal of union bylaws prohibiting unpaid apprenticeships
- Repeal of term limits for the RSSU presidency
- Require RSSU membership for operation in the Seasoning City metropolitan area
- Ceiling on the skyrocketing price of prayer beads
- Female suffrage
(Next Page)
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Thursday, November 5, 2015 — 06:41 | Downtown Seasoning City
Once they’re caffeinated, shaved, and dressed, they embark on the usual commute to the office. Reigen and Serizawa pick up the rapid line from their local rail platform to the subterranean superstation below Marjoram Mall in downtown Seasoning City. From there, it’s a short walk to the office.
Serizawa always savors the morning commute. When he comes home alone late on school nights, Reigen’s asleep in bed or passed out of their couch with an absolutely atrocious movie rolling on the TV. The morning therefore is an extension of their time alone.
Serizawa also really loves trains. He thinks they’re neat. He’s thought about getting into train models someday. Maybe for his birthday.
Sometimes, as the train passes over the suspension bridge along the river, they spot Shigeo jogging the path along the waterway. Reigen’s beloved student claims to be training for an upcoming charity 10K at the end of the month.
This is one such morning, and Reigen watches Shigeo traverse the running path, trademark bowl cut bobbing along each stride. He’s tailed by a familiar green specter until they disappear beneath an underpass.
Reigen wanted to help Shigeo train but discovered his hard limit around the fifth kilometer. Serizawa reminded him that his knees were definitely not supposed to make that crunching noise when he strode up the stairs to their apartment. So instead, Reigen spectates from time to time and shouts out words of encouragement if he’s within earshot of Shigeo’s route.
Reigen’s immeasurably proud of Shigeo’s hard work and progress. He’s come a long way since middle school. And ever since Shigeo’s mom started adding the iron fish to the rice cooker, the kid’s had far more pep in his step.
The commuter train lurches as it transfers over a rail switch, and Reigen’s face nearly meets the dagger of Serizawa’s elbow before he rights himself. He coughs once and straightens his tie.
“…I think you’re right about qualifications,” Serizawa says. He’s got one hand loosely fisted around the metal stanchion; the other flicks through a downloaded pdf on his phone. “There are a few demographic requirements that you already qualify for. You remembered to renew your driver’s license, right?”
“Yep.”
“But I don’t see anything about membership requirements.” He grimaces at the screen. “It actually seems… A little unedited.”
“Then registering for the election should be a cinch,” Reigen replies with an easy flourish of fingers. “We can stop by the union branch after morning clients. Tome-chan texted last night to remind me we have a haunted broom coming in first thing, and then I’m giving a foot exorcism at 9.”
“A foot massage or an actual foot exorcism?”
“It sounds hairy, the way the client described it. Could be both.”
“Yikes.”
“We’ll close for walk-ins,” Reigen decides, “in case things get messy.”
“Downtown” flashes across the electronic screen, while the conductor announces, “Marjoram Mall.” Serizawa tucks his phone into his coat pocket and follows Reigen out of the train, over the platform, up the maze of escalators, and through the crowded station.
They exit into the anchor department store, traipsing through a selection of loveseats and sectionals on their way to the door. Reigen once proclaimed it to be a “shortcut,” and Serizawa didn’t have the heart to tell him he timed the route between the optometrist and RC Helicopter hobby shop a minute faster. He likes watching Reigen’s coat flutter as he speed-walks by the overpriced upholstery and blathers on about reflexology.
Serizawa could listen to him talk about his interests all day, even if they shuffled a lot. He wonders if the union voters will listen to Reigen with the same voracity. He hopes so, but then again, the Public Reigen has always been a measure different from the Reigen he enjoys in the privacy of their cherished life together.
They waltz together through the automatic doors and out into the downtown streets. Off the main road, they duck into an alley, passing over the dampened pavement in front of the flower shop as the owner completes first watering. They stride by the usual takoyaki stand, not yet unpacked for the business day. They climb their building's stairs, and Reigen unlocks the door.
They’re in for a morning of brooms and feet. Serizawa would personally rather perform a hundred exorcisms than spend an hour touching someone’s feet. He doesn’t even like his own feet. Reigen doesn’t mind them so much.
They’re equals and they have their strengths and weaknesses, but Serizawa can never shake the admiration he’s carried since he first watched Shigeo’s memories — the persistent feeling that pours over him and spills down the sides. Archimedes in the bathtub.
Reigen, he thinks giddily, is pretty amazing.
The client comes sweeping through the threshold — literally. And the day truly begins.
.
— PROPERTY OF SEASONING CITY UNIVERSITY’S LEMONGRASS LIBRARY —
(DO NOT REMOVE FROM PREMISES UNDER PENALTY OF LAW)
OCCULT ODDITIES • JULY 2014 EDITION
Cover Story: Roshuuto Dozen is OCCULT ODDITIES’ Sexiest Psychic Alive!
[image] [alt text: A dark-haired man wears a black modern-cut two-piece suit, white dress shirt, shiny black dress shoes, and black satin tie. The tie is loosely knotted, and the first two buttons of the shirt are unbuttoned, revealing a sultry clavicle. He reclines in a swiveling, high-backed black leather executive chair in front of a lit fireplace with an extremely fluffy and equally unhappy Persian cat on his lap. He smirks at the camera.]
image caption: When renowned supernaturalist Roshuuto Dozen isn’t breaking curses, he’s breaking the hearts of his many admirers! Read all about Seasoning City’s ‘suave’ psychic (pg. 47).
.
Thursday, November 5, 2015 — 10:15 | RSSU Seasoning City Branch Headquarters
With a gentle prodding of his powers, Serizawa helps the broom ghost embrace the big dustpan in the sky. To Serizawa’s relief, Reigen handles the feet. While Reigen works his magic in the massage exorcism room with incense, a water basin, and a lot of elbow grease, Serizawa chips away at a literature assignment, leaving little notes in the margins of his translated copy of Macbeth. He doesn’t know a lot of the vocabulary, so he vacillates between the paperback and a dictionary app he pulled up on Reigen’s beat-up laptop.
When Reigen finishes up, he washes his hands three times to really show those prokaryotes who’s boss. Serizawa rings up the client, pulling change out of the cashbox behind Reigen’s desk with his powers to break a paper bill. Then they both yank on their winter coats and stroll to the other side of downtown. Reigen buys them both green teas from the hot vending machine with some of his tip money.
“Wanna know what the prognosis was?” Reigen asks after a hearty gulp.
Serizawa wipes his lips and grimaces. “Not really…”
But he knows that Reigen —
“It was the craziest ingrown I’ve ever seen! Seriously. Like a shark tooth!”
— will blurt it out anyway.
“I poked all the pressure points, but he’ll need a professional,” Reigen goes on, gesturing in reminiscence. “I’ve never seen anything like it! And he wears a lot of red socks. Want to know how I know?”
“Because he had red sock fuzz.”
“Because he had red sock fuzz!” Reigen confirms, thrusting his tea can in the air. “You’re an observant man, Katsuya.”
“Am I?”
“You’d make a fantastic advisor,” Reigen says with a wink, dropping his can in the recycling. “Your colleague must be a lucky guy.”
Serizawa smiles as he sips the dregs of his tea.
Their local union branch location is sandwiched between a real estate office and a vape shop in an otherwise nondescript concrete downtown building. Their glass door bears the RSSU’s updated eyeball logo, though Reigen can make out the faint traces of a scratched-out Psycho Helmet decal behind the fresher sticker paste.
“After you,” Serizawa offers, swinging the door open with his powers. He’s a little hard on the rusty hinges, but Reigen appreciates it nonetheless, throws him a coy grin.
They both wander into the stereotypically austere union office — gray cubicles tessellated claustrophobically together, dull dirty carpet on the floor, stacks of manila folders spilling off bent wire organizers, the suffocation of the ticking clock on the wall, fingers typing rhythmically over computer keyboards, stale coffee stench in the air, faint murmur of phone conversation and hold music, and the romantic coupling of a half-empty water cooler and a basket of crushed paper cups in the corner.
No one at the desks pays them any mind, too engrossed in their daily tasks. The sight is a bit nostalgic to Reigen — brings him back to his salesman days, when his manager used to gather entire meetings simply to discuss whether they were having too many meetings. He can still smell all the corporate perspiration. Meanwhile, Serizawa takes a moment to admire the filing cabinet collection, before he spots the door across the way labeled “Official Election Commissioner.”
Reigen expects to open it and find some impressionable Jodo loyalist he can quickly bulldoze over with a special combination of a foolproof argument, infectiously-winsome personality, and maybe — if the situation calls for it — a little leg.
The room beyond the door is dim and blurry, wafting with incense smoke. There’s a computer monitor covered in stickers, a mini-fridge packed with kombucha, and a gold-beaded curtain — Reigen recognizes it from the discount bin at the local party store — hung over the threshold. Paint-opaque vessels — antacid bottles, gachapon capsules, film canisters, and French-style yogurt glasses — fill the shelving unit behind the desk. Inside the room, it smells a bit like amber and chicken-flavored cat food.
“Oh, it’s you. From that one time. And the other times,” says the all-too-familiar election commissioner. “Reigen-san.”
Serizawa looks confused, so Reigen pulls his wits back about him and fills in the missing lore.
“It’s the guy with all the jars. The one with spirit powers,” Reigen elucidates, waving a hand. “His name is…uh…”
“Matsuo,” Matsuo supplies.
“Matsuo…?”
“Just Matsuo.”
“Matsuo then.”
Serizawa fumbles through his suit breast pocket for his business card case.
“He was at the Asagiri mansion. And, uh — I think he tried to eat Dimple once.”
“I don’t eat my precious pets,” Matsuo hisses. “I’m a strict spiritual vegetarian! And if you’re talking about your green friend, I was planning to save him for Marshmallow-chan.” He sighs, running a finger along the capsules on the shelf behind his desk. “Oh Marshmallow-chan, you were gone far too soon from this world.”
“He’s a former Scar,” Reigen says. “I’m surprised you didn’t already know him.”
Serizawa stops fumbling through his suit breast pocket for his business case.
“We didn’t do a lot of networking,” Serizawa replies, shoulders slumped.
“Serizawa, right?” Matsuo says, a little on guard. “I know a former-Upper Echelon when I see one.”
Serizawa nods bashfully. “Ah yes. Although that’s not who I am anymore. I mean, the name’s the same, but…”
“He’s fully rebranded himself,” Reigen announces, clapping Serizawa firmly between his shoulder blades. “He’s fully integrated into society. Speaking of which, what the hell are you doing here in the official election commissioner’s office?”
Matsuo blinks. “I’m the official election commissioner.”
Despite the straightforward logic, this is not the response Reigen expects, evidenced by the choking sound his throat emits. So Serizawa takes over.
“Reigen-san would like to register for the union election,” Serizawa says. “Would you be able to help with that?”
“Sure,” Matsuo says.
He flips open a capsule at his belt, letting loose one of the most harrowing spirits Serizawa has ever seen despite his wealth of experience in the arena — it’s an utter eldritch horror of eyeballs and tentacles and lots of slime. It makes an insidious shrieking sound worse than nails on a chalkboard when Matsuo coos its name. It wears a glittery collar around one of its thick eyestalks.
“Bubblegum-chan, fetch.”
The spirit pries open the drawer of Matsuo’s desk and reaches in for the manila folder labeled “Applications” with its — er, Serizawa’s not exactly sure if it’s a mouth or a nostril or something else entirely.
“What was that?” Reigen whispers to Serizawa, baffled by his husband’s uneasy expression and utterly ignorant to the monstrousness of Matsuo’s menagerie.
“Um, telekinesis,” Serizawa replies, watching the spirit drip ectoplasm onto the shag carpet. “…Yeah, let’s go with that.”
Reigen picks up a pen from the cup of Matsuo’s desk and sets to filling out his information. Bubblegum-chan lays in wait, merging ominously with the shadows cast from Matsuo’s bookshelf.
“I’m supposed to ask for proof of your psychic abilities,” Matsuo says, watching as Reigen struggles to remember his driver’s license ID number.
Serizawa stills, but Reigen snorts and says, “You’ve seen them yourself. At Seventh Division.”
“Sure, but…”
“And I’m happy to reprise our last game of rock, paper, scissors,” Reigen adds.
Reigen’s overconfident about his abilities, Serizawa worries. Then again, his husband had recently bested Tome’s telepath friend in a best two-out-of-three — the first sporting event Serizawa’s ever found riveting enough to spectate.
“…Yes. Fair enough,” Matsuo concedes, unwilling to revisit the troubling memory. He stamps Reigen’s completed document with his election commissioner seal. Bubblegum-chan growls like a hellhound and grows a fresh eyestalk. Serizawa’s clammy hand twitches over his briefcase handle.
“Last thing — I’ll need you to identify a campaign manager,” Matsuo says, directing Bubblegum-chan to take up the pen in a tentacled grip with a lazy point of his finger. “There’s a spot for it on the petition, see?”
Campaign manager, Reigen frets. He hadn’t known that’d be a requirement. Well, no matter. He’d simply put his own name—
“It has to be someone else,” Matsuo advises.
“Who’s Roshuuto’s campaign manager then?” Reigen demands. “Surely there’s no one willing to—”
“It’s not my business to gossip about other campaigns,” Matsuo says.
Reigen frowns.
A beat passes.
“But…it’s his mother.”
Reigen groans.
Serizawa struggles to imagine Reigen’s mother campaigning on his behalf for any sort of supernatural ambition. Last time he’d visited Reigen’s parents, she’d sent Reigen off on an errand and then attempted to bribe a bewildered Serizawa into convincing her son to change careers in exchange for a packet of homemade cookies. Meeting her was plenty evidence of where Reigen got all his chutzpah. They were excellent cookies. Chocolate and sort of melt-in-your-mouth. She suggested life coaching or waste disposal. Serizawa admitted to her that they pretty much did that already.
Reigen quickly runs through his admittedly-abbreviated mental deck of people who might be willing to take this job. Outside his collection of psychic teenagers, he only has one adult ally he might trust to do it, and he would never thrust such a belittling and thankless of a job on his dear—
“Do you think I can balance it with office responsibilities?” Serizawa inquires.
Reigen jolts, utterly floored.
Lucky day indeed.
“I don’t see why not,” Matsuo replies. “The election’s only a month away so it isn’t a long commitment.”
Serizawa counts off fingers. “And there’s midterms… And Book Club… And the upcoming cultural fair… The upcoming Galaga tournament… Hm. I can make time. I’ve never run a campaign before. Do you think it’s hard?”
Matsuo shrugs. “No idea.”
Reigen says, “Didn’t you campaign for this job?”
Matsuo shakes his head. “No one wanted to do it, so they told me to when I joined. I think they were hazing me. Anyway, I like having free office space.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Reigen tells Serizawa. “I can find someone else. I could ask… Hm. Maybe Dimple?”
“It has to be a person,” Matsuo yawns. “Believe me, I’ve asked.”
“Or Shinra. Or…or…”
Reigen trails off. Serizawa squeezes his shoulder reassuringly.
“Let me do it, Arataka,” he says.
Reigen beams at him — the turn of Reigen's lips shoots through Serizawa's heart like an arrow.
“My last self-improvement book said following politics is part of integrating into society,” Serizawa adds. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. …Maybe it’ll be fun?”
As Reigen proceeds to explain the spelling of "Serizawa" to Matsuo’s literal ghostwriter, it briefly occurs to Serizawa that he might be a bit blinded by his affection when it comes to rational decision-making. And also, he doesn’t enjoy the squelch of a tentacle partaking in calligraphy.
Bubblegum-chan tucks the form into a tray. But before it disappears back into Matsuo’s capsule, it slaps a thick, binder-clipped packet onto Matsuo’s desk. The collision rattles all the jars on the shelves.
“Isn’t my pet adorable?” Matsuo gushes.
Reigen stares confusedly, while Serizawa sweats into his dress shirt collar and lifts the heavy packet with a pull of his telekinesis, pulling off the ectoplasmic residue – his first act as the newly-appointed campaign manager.
“Now that that’s taken care of,” Reigen says, wiping his hands together, “I suppose we can let the press know.”
“Um,” Serizawa says, scanning the documents. “Not yet.”
Reigen raises an eyebrow at his spouse as Matsuo reclines in his desk chair.
“He’s right. You applied for the right to petition,” Matsuo says, waving at Serizawa’s clutch over the paperwork. “You’ll need 40 signatures on that petition to be considered a legitimate candidate. You can’t be on the election day ballot otherwise.”
“What?” Reigen blanches. “But I…”
“I don’t make the rules,” Matsuo replies. “They just force me to enforce them.”
“You’re telling me Roshuuto found 40 friends to vouch for him that quickly?”
“He’s well-connected within the union,” Matsuo says, utterly nonplussed. “He always hosts trivia night. Sometimes with an open bar.”
“God dammit,” Reigen huffs, while Serizawa wrestles the packet into his briefcase.
.
Rising Sun Spiritual Union — Official Constitution (PDF)
Article 6 — On Presidential Elections (continued)
Section 7. Official Presidential Logistics
The Rising Sun Spiritual Union must have a sitting president at all times. A president is limited to four terms of service. If the president is somehow unable to serve those full terms — whether this is because he’s reached their term limit, he’s entered retirement, or he’s been otherwise disposed of by a supernatural force, the union must hold a prompt election for his replacement.
Section 8. Official Ballot Counting
The president shall be elected by majority vote of union members in good standing. The votes shall be counted by the sitting RSSU election commissioner. The commissioner must verify all ballots. Any ballots submitted in error or from members in poor standing will be promptly tossed in the union incinerator (also known as the gas fireplace in the Shishito Senior Center Family Visitation Room).
Section 9. Official Candidate Basic Qualifications
All candidates for presidential office must have the following basic personal qualifications:
- Male and over 30 (in human earth years)
- Can demonstrate plausible psychic or spiritual abilities
- Driver’s license (boat license also accepted)
Section 10. Official Candidate Membership Qualifications
(TO DO 12/5/2003 — finish filling this out. Need a copy edit?)
Section 11. Official Candidate Petition Requirements
All potential candidates must petition for inclusion on the official ballot. The number of signatures required scales linearly with the number of members in good standing in the union, and it shall be publicized by the sitting RSSU election commissioner. He shall determine this threshold in an expedient manner. That is
(continues on next page)
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Thursday, November 5, 2015 — 14:54 | Spirits & Such Consulting Office
“—the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard,” Dimple says, pinching the ghostly bridge of his nose between his ghostly fingers as if in anticipation of a ghostly migraine. “You’re not serious.”
Tome wonders briefly where ghosts keep their brains. According to the latest issue of Occult Oddities, some alien corpses had brain matter in their butts.
“It’s not,” Reigen says. “I’m seriously running for president.”
“Whoa,” Tome says, eyes twinkling. “We’re actually doing this, aren’t we? You never do my ideas!”
Reigen says, “Sometimes, you have good ideas, Tome-chan.”
“I have more where those came from,” Tome says, pulling out her sketchbook. “I was thinking, if Mob-kun and I found a telepath to recruit for the office, then we could travel to Stonehenge and—”
“Let’s stay focused on politics here,” Serizawa says, a touch apologetic. “The election is very soon.”
“Politics is always a bad idea,” Dimple advises. “There’s a reason I founded a religious cult. You don’t want to get involved with politicians, Reigen. Don’t get me wrong – you’ll fit right in with the hypocrit—”
“Oi!” Reigen protests.
“And I’m sure you don’t have a qualified manager to run your campaign either,” Dimple adds.
“I’m the campaign manager actually,” Serizawa volunteers.
Dimple pauses a moment, examining Serizawa up and down.
“Yes, so in addition to that, there’s inherent danger to all of this. There’s a corrupting energy around politics. Why do you think there are so many scandals all the time?” He heaves a sigh. “You’ve seen the types who get involved with Jodo. You’ve been burned before. What are you gonna do if they go after you? What if they humiliate you on TV again?”
Serizawa frowns.
Reigen had told him about his unfortunate appearance on live television of course — he’d even shown him the tape one night when they were still dating. It never bothered him that Reigen had a messy history. He accepted all the parts of him — and the ones Reigen was too ashamed to ever share, he’d accept those too when the time came. Reigen had accepted all the worst parts of Serizawa, and Serizawa thought his terrorist past probably weighed heavier on the scales of justice than all of Reigen’s lies combined.
But it was one thing to accept the troubles of the past – and another to willingly charge face-first into the pit of lions at the media circus.
“I’ll deal with it when it happens,” Reigen says swiftly. “I’m not someone who gets crushed so easily.”
“A cockroach,” Dimple summarizes.
“Not a cockroach,” Reigen says quickly.
“One of those clown punching bags that swings back when you hit it.”
Serizawa wonders if he’s supposed to come to Reigen’s defense. The roach quip, yes. He missed the boat on that. Unfortunately, the clown punching bag metaphor rings a bit true, so Serizawa’s conflicted on this one. He’ll have to ask later.
“I’m a determined man, alright?” Reigen says. “Determined. Let me have this, okay? The point of this is to do what’s best for the office. There’s a lot at stake if Roshuuto wins! Right, Serizawa?”
Serizawa’s back goes board-straight. “Uh. Right!”
“Katsuya doesn’t count.” Dimple waves at Serizawa’s wedding ring. “Is there anyone in agreement who isn’t contractually-obligated to you?”
“I think it’d be fun,” Tome says. “I’m for it.”
“All this aside, I think it’s a great idea,” Reigen counters undeterred. “And last I checked, I’m the boss. So—”
He scrawls “Reigen 2015” in thick swipes over the dry erase board next to Serizawa’s overwhelming game win tally, caps the marker, and drops it like a hot mic.
“—there you have it,” Reigen grins at Dimple. “Spirits and Such is now home to the Reigen campaign headquarters. Any questions?”
Tome raises her hand. “Can I be press secretary?”
“If that would make you happy,” Reigen says, “why not?”
.
“…Hi! This is Serizawa Katsuya! Ah, but you probably already know that, since you’re calling me. But if you didn’t know that, this is Serizawa! Katsuya, that is. Not a different Serizawa. Haha. …Oh no, I’m running out of time—”
“Just re-record it, ‘Tsu—”
“Please leave a message for me and I’ll get back to you as soon as I—”
BEEP!
“Hello, this is Sato with the downtown Book of Book. I’m calling to let you know that your pre-orders have arrived for pickup. I have two titles under ‘Serizawa’ here. Let’s see…
“So yeah… we’ve got volume 23 of ‘Reborn as a Middle Manager in a Fantasy Recession, I Met our KPIs with my Insane Six-Sigma Synergy’ and ‘Winning your Supernatural Election Campaign: A Primer.’
“You’ll need your ID to pick them up. Please stop by at your earliest convenience. Thanks. Buh-bye!”
.
Thursday, November 5, 2015 — 15:07 | Spirits & Such Consulting Office
When Shigeo walks through the door, he’s met with an audience of expectant eyeballs, and he wonders briefly if he forgot something conspicuously important — like his school work or his winter coat. Or his pants.
No one says anything, and that’s strange for such a loquacious crew. Minus Dimple, they’re all wearing their coats and scarves. And that’s stranger still, because at most only Serizawa should be wearing his coat and scarf, and it’s still a bit too early for him to board his usual express bus to night school. The rest of them should be handling clients or brewing tea or chit-chatting or stealing Reigen’s secret snacks from the massage room cabinet when Reigen’s not looking.
And speaking of Reigen — he’s occupied with stuffing a comically-tall stack of handmade flyers into a Black Pepper High School gym bag held open by Tome. She wills the zipper over the hump of contents unsuccessfully before Serizawa flicks it shut with his powers before tying his scarf. The seams are full to bursting. Reigen hefts it over his shoulder and stands like the Leaning Tower of Pisa until Serizawa gives him a telekinetic boost back to being properly perpendicular with the floor.
Shigeo treads carefully into the office.
There’s a strange energy permeating through the space, but he can’t quite give it a name. He doesn’t come to the office as much now that he’s fully entrenched in the responsibilities of a second-year high school student, but he doesn’t think that he’s been long enough for the whole dynamic to change so dramatically.
Tome seems a bit miffed, so Reigen must be expecting actual labor. A case? But not an interesting one, if he reads her expression correctly. And Serizawa is flitting nervously about Reigen like a moth around a street lamp, so it must involve intensive customer service. A sensitive case with no aliens, Shigeo decides. That must be it.
Dimple’s muttering about Reigen under his breath, but he always does that.
Shigeo sets down his bag.
“Yo Mob,” says Reigen. “Grab your bag and some of these flyers. We’re headed out.”
Shigeo lifts his bag again.
“Shishou,” Shigeo replies hesitantly. “I didn’t realize we had an off-site case today. Is it a curse?”
“It’s not a curse,” Tome replies.
“It’s a curse,” Dimple reaffirms.
“It’s not a curse,” Serizawa corrects.
“It’s better than a curse,” Reigen spouts. “It’s politics! We’re going canvassing!”