J handed the plate to the Hokkaido monkey and sighed. The food was prepared exactly ten minutes after the order was taken.
The Hokkaido monkey made a peculiar expression as it gazed at the sushi before it. Its face, reminiscent of the Japanese flag, was round and red, like a backside.
With thick hair and long fingers, he picks up the tuna and dips it into the soy sauce.
Eyes closed, the Hokkaido monkey savored the taste. The wasabi stung its nose, bringing tears to its eyes. Tilting its head, the monkey seemed uncertain about the freshness of the tuna.
A few white grains of rice stuck to J's hand. Now, J transformed into an anxious ocean sunfish, swimming through the Daehan Strait.
Please, give me a thumbs-up. Even though this sushi was made by a Korean, let’s set aside the unresolved issues—Dokdo, comfort women, and all the rest—just for today.
Judge it purely on taste. If you give me a thumbs-up, I’ll respond with arigato gozaimasu in Japanese.
Finally, the monkey lifted its head, and their gazes collided. Between the two was a sea of silence, vast and unyielding. Even Jo O-ryeon couldn’t swim across it.
A microscopic smile, barely visible, flickered. Without a word, the Hokkaido monkey stood, its long tail swaying as it left the restaurant, hopping through the alleys of Haebangchon and vanishing toward Namsan.
The anticipated thumbs-up never came. A tsunami of discomfort surged within J, followed by the humiliation that cannot be suppressed even with famotidine hits rock bottom.
Suddenly, the images of independence fighters who had shed their blood for liberation flashed through J’s mind. J was transforming into a martyr, ready to die for the cause.
Japan must kneel before history. They must fully repent for their sins and atrocities. As long as the nation of Japan exists, this must remain an imperative.
And of course, appropriate material compensation must accompany such repentance. Gulping down cold green tea, J glared at the exit. Reflected in his pupils, the red neon light resembled the blood of tuna.