By Peter Evans
I guess I write a lot. While other kids played basketball, tormented the hapless or just hung around - I could be found crouched in a corner with a notepad and pen, choosing my words with care. I had mastered the basics of writing thanks to my teachers. No, I am not talking about any of the hypocrites and sadists who taught at my school, my art was taught to me by those who opened my world up beyond the barren concrete walls. Emily Bronte was my school mistress along with her fellow teachers; Michael Moorcock, Kurt Vonnegut, Yukio Mishima, Miyamoto Musashi and of course, Steven King. I learned a lot from them, pacing, characterisation, description, dialogue and structure. While other kids were writing about their holidays for school assignment I was perfecting my J. G Ballard style and handing it in as a treatise on the life-force of school yard architecture. My only problem lay in that I had nothing to write about. Yes, I had ideas and cute stories to tell. But nothing real, nothing personal, nothing that could change anyone. Each night I gave a prayer to any deity in particular. Give me one story. One that people would read and remember to the day they died. One that would live beyond my time and the time of my generation and beyond. I whispered to the night sky under candlelight that I would give my life having completed such a text. Long or short, novel or documentary - anything. I would happily die were it to be discovered and live in my stead. I was that serious.
Not all together surprising then that I, Tokugawa Mitsunari (the name a not so amusing historical joke by my parents), would be drugged and wake up here. Not surprising that I would be given a starring role in a story of blood and shit that has gripped the world. Not surprising that the refrain I hold dearest to my heart, ‘the pen is mightier than sword’, will be tested to the limits. What was surprising was when, after the ‘statement’ had been dragged away oozing blood, I had pressed into my hand a pen and notepad by one of the guards. I looked up at his face and it had a blankness beyond that of a killer. It was as if his action had been mechanical, not motivated by any thought. It was then I realised that my wish had come true in the most sickening manifestation possible. Not only would I be dead within three days, but it would be the final line that brought it all together that would herald my death. I knew that it would take my death here to make this story work. Nobody would care if I survived and continued my writings elsewhere, the survivors of Battle Royale are feared not admired. You don’t buy their books, you run from them and with good reason. But if I were to die having penned the final line, like Paul Baumer in ‘All Quiet on the Western Front’, then my wish would be granted. And my eyes are soulful, my face one of innocence... I am not completely unattractive. Perhaps people would see me on the streets still after all this, in the form of posters and the covers on bookstands. Please, not a bullet in the face; or to burn or be mutilated, to clench teeth in rigour mortis or have my manhood shot off. A death in sweet repose, as of war memorial or painting by royal commission. Something beautiful. Something to remember. Something Robert Capra.
So here I am. Sitting under a palm tree scribbling furiously away. I have a glock hand gun sitting next to me. At least I think it is, it fits a description I was given in an Elmore Leonard story. Could I kill anyone? Could I shoot a metal slug into somebody’s face taking out teeth and jaw and spreading them over foliage? For the sake of my audience, if not my conscience, I do not think so. Paul Baumer was a relative innocent. If I’m to live on I can’t go around ‘popping caps’ into people. Or is that ‘in people’? I’m not sure. I digress. Christ, I think I’m going feverish. It’s this damned heat. My shirt sticks to my body in obscene caress. I stink. and I’m shit scared.
Where was I? Ah, yes. People want somebody they can remember with a melancholy sadness and an outrage to the system that slaughtered him. They don’t want a high school kid running around making jagged holes in what once he called his friends. I’m selfish I know, but I am so obsessed over this and I have not time for false modesty. I am going to die and you are going to remember me.
I head someone scream not too long ago. It came unexpected with no sound of gunfire or roaring flame. That probably means that somebody is out there with a knife, or a sharpened bamboo cane. ‘Good luck to them, neh?’ You may be thinking that. As much as we love (or in this game fear) a winner, we all adore an underdog. I wonder if that was his or her first?
I have moved positions. I am now crouched under a rock where it is cool. I still have my gun. Strangely enough, I have had no forcible reminders that I should be fighting. My head has not exploded yet, so I believe that is a good sign. I have been unmolested by soldiers and helicopters. Perhaps they are curious of this child writing in the face of danger. I think they want me to finish my story. Perhaps it is good for the television ratings. Pretty egotistical, neh?
I have had to move yet again. A pretty girl with a rifle has been clambering up towards me. I do not know if she saw me but I did not like the look of her. Her name is 09# Mariko and she made her living demanding money off girls to be in her clique. Not a pleasant character. Don’t you think it’s good to have a villain in a story, neh? We all like an ice cold bitch, don’t we? Well, think of her putting a bullet in your leg before unloading into your brain. Or maybe a stomach wound, it would take half an hour to die in excruciating agony. Or perhaps she would be roasted by the kid with the flame-thrower, all roasting flesh and fluttering eyelashes a-burning. Screaming gasoline and tumbling into bushes, setting them on fire, a smell of sweet fat in the air. Or maybe, just maybe, she couldn’t take it anymore and unloaded a round into her mouth blowing off the top of her head. Not such a fun character now, neh? Imagine her to be your grandchild who was expected by her looks to be queen of the class and was groomed and deformed into what she was by the pressure of her family and friends and the media. By a world that wishes us to be easily understood. You will never understand us. And until you accept this fact you will keep on killing us.
Or maybe she is a complete bitch. I saw her through a pair of binoculars I found on a corpse - no, I don’t know who he was, his head was blown off. She had been sitting in a tree chewing on a stalk of a grass and when this poor, stupid kid had come along, his tears blinding his sight, she shot him in the head. Not much blood, surprisingly. It must have been the angle of impact that had the bullet travel down through the cranium and deep into the body, lodging there, leaving only a fine red mist in the air. She could have let him pass. He wouldn’t have seen her. The first killing I have seen and it was in cold blood. I think I hate her as much as I am afraid of her now. Are you cheering her at home, or shivering with fear and rage? For the future of our people I pray for the latter. But then, the government is still in power, neh? You fucking morons.
She was heading in my general direction, though I still don’t think she has seen me. But since she is backing me onto a peninsula I believe a general change of strategy is in order. I’m going to slip past her along a gully that remains out of sight and is difficult terrain. It will take some time but I believe that no one would consider it as an easy path to tread, therefore I should be free from interruption.
I am taking a rest. Perhaps I should explain to you now the general reaction as we were shown the training video. Laughter followed by incredulity followed by fear. We could not believe it. We thought it some amusingly cruel endurance show. Well, perhaps technically, it is. You may be asking how we were not expecting it. How the sassy girl took a bullet to the brain by our teacher. Well, I am reliably informed by a guard I overheard that the television show is not going out until a good twenty two episodes are filmed. I think that is the minimum number required for US network syndication. I hope to fuck that their export is unsuccessful. You see, the reckoning of the marketing people is that the surprise on our cute little faces will be so adorable and funny that the show will be a real scream. They don’t want us quivering with fear from the start yet, they want pathos and shock. Then when they feel that the pathos and shock is wearing thin, they can broadcast the thing and show us kicking and screaming. Tragedy and horror, just as potent, neh? I think I shall get some sleep. It’s getting dark. I have found a crevice to hide in, obscured by bushes. I shall rest here.
‘Cogito ergo sum.’ His name is Descartes, pronounced ‘dey-cart’. He was a French philosopher who explored what it meant to exist. Roughly translated, it means, ‘I think, therefore I am’. I am not only thinking right now, I am writing, which happily means that I had not got my head blown off last night. They seem to be leaving me alone. I cannot remember if inactivity is counted as a executionary offence, but I suspect it is. Yet, they have still left me alone. I am oddly thankful. I wonder if they are marketing these collars as fashion accessories in Tokyo yet? Ah, I forget again, this isn’t been aired for some little while. More importantly, will I get a grave? Now that is somehow very important to me. A place where people can gather and remember my writing, remember me.
I have found the body of the young boy killed by Mariko. He had a knife on him. Well. That leads me to wonder. Perhaps he was not such the hapless poor soul after all? Is there blood on the knife? No, but a good hunter always cleans his knife. I shall take it with me, in case I wish to commit sepuku. I doubt it though, I don’t think I could trust a second to wait for me to finish the ritual prior to offering the blessed relief. And hey, I never knew when to stop writing.
I could tell you all about my past life, but it would be pointless. I am all of your children, you never understood their stories, why should you understand mine? No, I shall not offer distraction with hazy reminiscing and dewy eyed nostalgia. All but one of us is dead on this fucking island and I’m not going to take you away from that fact. I heard some automatic rifle fire this morning. It chattered away in the distance. Was it part of a mass action, or a mono et mono affair? My wildest fantasy involves the United Nations parachuting in and saving us all. But considering how long it takes to enact measly economic sanctions against genocidal dictators, I’m not getting my hopes up. So let us not be distracted by speculation either, let us concentrate on the facts. You are making school children kill each other. School children who do not behave like adults precisely because they are not adults. What do you do when your dog shits on your floor? Do you smack it and hope that it does not do it again? Or do you scream at it for being disrespectful to yourself, the government and the proud history of Japan and send it off to an island where it can fight other dogs with exploding dog collars for punishment and doggie biscuits as reward for the victor? ‘Woof woof bark bang!’ Actually, it sounds like quite a fun idea. No, I’m only joking. The truth is, you treat your pets better than you do your own children. And you cannot understand the simple fact that we play loud music, spray graffiti, disrespect you, steal, fight and even sometimes hurt and kill because we do not understand and have no hope for the world you are forcing us to live in. You tell us to be quiet in class or we will be thrashed. But after the exams comes what? Even the brilliant kids with the killer grades are down at the unemployment centres or sweeping streets for a living. Is it any wonder that the maths whiz Hideoshi unloaded a hunting rifle into eight shoppers and three cops before he was taken down? Not a bad shot for whom everybody assumed was a maths geek. You have given us a world where it is impossible to behave. Where following the rules would be to perpetuate and endorse your mistakes. At the risk of being unpopular, I’m placing all the blame on you, the readers.
I believe I am running out of things to say. Which is fortunate because I am also running out of time. Three hours ago upon exiting the gully Mariko saw me and unloaded a round in my direction. Fortunately she missed and her weapon must have jammed, because as I ran across open ground I heard no more shots but loud cursing in its stead. I have no doubt that she is going to follow me. Mariko is a clever one and she’ll get that rifle unjammed. When you finally watch this show, I’ll be the one with the thin face and soulful eyes with shaggy hair. She’ll be the one with perfect figure, full bodied big mass of hair and intense eyes. Yes, we’re both poster children for our generation. The hunter and the poet. The killer and the victim. Clearly we were made for each other. I must make a confession. I am a virgin. I will not play on that theme because despite it being slightly embarrassing, the majority of the other contestants are as well. Just as well for your purposes. After all, in many primitive pagan cultures virgins were sacrificed to ensure a prosperous future for the tribe. Glad to see you are learning your lessons from history. Back to the point. I am a virgin. There are, apparently, three life shattering events. The first is birth. The second is either the loss of virginity, or the conception of another life. I’m not sure which is the more important but they’re both pretty big. And both come under the banner title of sex, so I’m lumping them together. The third is death. Well, two out of three isn’t bad, neh? Well, when I Mariko back in class, despite disliking her as a person, my body had other ideas and lusted after her with a passion. How I wish we were to meet under more auspicious circumstances and make union in mutual heat. It seems preferable somehow to having her punch a hole in me. To all you concerned readers out there, relax. It’s not going to happen. There will be no embarrassing sex scenes penned by me. My readers would prefer me as the innocent, tragically and cruelly cut down before his life achieved it’s raison d’etre.
Our bodies writhed in holy union. Her back rising and falling, her hair flailing in the moonlight. No, I am only joking. I had you fooled again, didn’t I? No, she is still hunting me with rifle in hand and time is short. I am being forced to a wide expanse of barren ground and once there, I doubt she’ll miss. Perhaps you ask why I do not confront her? Blow her brains out? To fuck the story and start fighting back? Because I have to do this. I have no option. This story must be told my way. And my way does not involve killing. That would only validate their world.
I heard more screaming from far away. Heavy explosions, rapid fire machine guns and dull thuds. I think many have died in the past hour. I wonder if they put the footage to Samuel Barber’s ‘Adagio for strings’? It is what you like, neh? To turn the screaming and gunfire right down, cast everything into slow motion and have the music swell in? Washing over the blood and piss and shit and leaving a glow of mournful poignancy in its wake? Boys running forward and jerking back as blood fountains from their chests. Girls emptying clips at all around them before being blown aside by grenades. All in slow motion. All to that slow, sad music. Could there be anything more moving? Perhaps a kid taking the top of his friend’s head off with a shovel, bone and brain spraying over him? Perhaps a volley of bullets that entirely rips off half a face? Perhaps a girl trying to shovel her guts back inside of her, screaming for mummy all the while? Is that what makes you cry? Is that what you like to agonise over? Well fuck you.
She’s got me. I’m out of time. Reaching a dead end, quite literally. She’s an amazing shot, she got me in the thigh at several hundred yards. The bullet passed straight through taking a few cubes of flesh and a spray of blood with it. It missed a major artery, thank god, or my last words would have been, ‘well fuck you’, which wouldn’t have been very endearing. As for dead end, I limped into it and haven’t got the energy to get back out again. I could try shooting her, but with this wound I’d have no chance tomorrow against any one else. Besides, I have almost said all that I have to say. I estimate another ten minutes before she reaches me. She’s taking her time, she doesn’t know that I’m pretty much the pacifist for this one. I thought I would be more frightened somehow. That I would be screaming and clawing at the rock face of this godforsaken gully. But I am not afraid. Well, a little. But I have already come to view my life as this story. I live in these few pages now. As long as there is someone to read them, I shall live.
Let me describe to you the place where I am going to die. It is a gully of yellow sand with a brown rock face that curves up from the ground on all sides but the narrow entrance. At its widest point it is no more than eight metres and where I am sitting, no more than two. A canopy of trees hang over the gully, the light filtering through the leaves giving a shimmering substance to every feature. It is a beautiful place for a grave. I can hear the birds singing and I can hear her footsteps now. She is coming into view. I can see her smile. She’s still got her looks. Now her smile turns to puzzlement. I’m kicking the gun away from me and still writing furiously. I’m not sure that she can believe what she’s seeing. She’s asking me if I’m crazy. I’m shaking my head. Now she’s telling me that I’m going to die. I’m nodding my head. I’m skipping to the foot of the page, hold on. There. Now she’s walking closer. She’s smiling again. I think she’s finding all of this fascinating. And why not, it’s ‘Battle Royale’! I’m sure all of you are just as fascinated as her. She’s raising her rifle. This is 3# Mitsunari signing off. I can see the sky through the leaves, hear the birds and for me this is not ‘Battle Royale’, this is all my life.
DO NOT DESTROY
First Edition
Editorial note:
His body was found after the match along with his writings. One of the guards who wishes to remain anonymous, smuggled the text to myself. He tells me that it was he who gave Mitsunari the pen and paper. He says that it was a strange impulse that made him do so. The guard later took his own life in the Battle Royale compound in a ritual sepuku without second, protesting in writing the actions of his government, his colleagues and begging forgiveness. It was this action, the iconic photograph of Mitsunari’s death (he was shot through the heart with a sad smile on his face) and the sheer power and strangeness of his writings that has given risen to the myth and cult that surrounds him. He has become a James Dean figure for the Japanese youth and his name features prominently on graffiti. Despite the government’s best efforts to denigrate him and smear his name, his popularity has only increased and his small and handsomely bound book has reached its eighth publication and fourth abroad. Even the increasingly successful terrorist group ‘Wild Seven’ has added the story to its manual given to all recruits.
Mariko won the game of Battle Royale. She killed four more before being declared the winner. She lived in Tokyo for five years under a witness protection program, before disappearing. It is suspected that she has become a feared and enthusiastic hit woman for the Yakuza. She has no story to tell.
END