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the lowest. Two young warrant officers were seated there, fresh graduates, bowing and greeting all their superior officers. When Ben was seated next to them, they ignored him.
    Ben hated sitting on the mats as it hurt his ass. Lieutenant General Hirota, head of the SM Censor Office, entered. Everyone stood up and bowed. “This is a big day,” he announced, proudly looking at those about to receive their promotion, waving them to sit. “There are only two relationships that are sacred and inviolable. That of a servant to their emperor, and that of a parent with their child. You have done outstanding work in service of the Emperor.”
    They took shots of sake until erythema imbibed their faces red with acetaldehyde.
    The twenty-three promoted were given special ceremonial knives. They made small cuts on their hand, let blood drip into their cup and mix with the special sake , the tokutei meisho-shu . Blood toast, it was called, plasma mixing with fermented rice. A soporific song and dance was performed by both male and female geishas recounting the Japanese victory over America, the great sacrifices made by the Empire in order to protect the world from the tyranny and chaos of the Republic. “Yellow peril, they called us,” a woman sang. “Even though our skin isn’t yellow. They robbed us with the Treaty of Portsmouth, even after we sacrificed our lives to fight off the Russians,” and on and on. The high-pitched tone hurt both Ben’s inebriated state of mind as well as his ego. Even the perfectly prepared oysters could not sate his sense of dissatisfaction.
    The promoted were eventually carted away for another private ceremony full of pomp, debauchery, and Shinto chanting, which would prevent them from sleeping until work the next morning. Even though it was a holiday week, the fatigue would wear on them as they celebrated until the 4th of July, the anniversary of the Imperial Victory for the United States of Japan. Ben knew, because he’d experienced it a decade ago during the last promotion he’d received.
    “These young officers are our future,” Lieutenant General Hirota stated, bombastically going on about how important they were. The grumpy martinet, whose hawkish brows terrorized many a junior officer, was acting like a jovial grandfather tonight. “Let us toast them!”
    “ Kanpai !” everyone shouted, as they swallowed their drinks in one gulp.
    Ben’s cup had been empty. He did not want to toast them. His eyes went to his watch.
    “Another!” the lieutenant general commanded, raising up his cup as the waiters and waitresses poured additional drinks. There was no way Ben could avoid the toast this time. “Let us hope they will inspire the younger generations to serve the Emperor with more fervor and courage.”
    “ Kanpai !”
    Six kanpais later, the lieutenant general’s stern demeanor was replaced by singing. His aide, with the assistance of a geisha, escorted him out. Everyone got up and bowed, holding their bent backs for the minute or so it took him to leave. The party was over.
    Ben rubbed his hips, hating the soreness in both his muscles and bones. He was too drunk to pay attention to the restaurant, or his surroundings for that matter, as he stumbled out. He needed a taxi and was waiting on the street for one until he somehow found himself sitting in a bar again. There were radioactive fish swimming in a tank with an uncanny glow.
    “They’re special breeds, harvested off the oceans of what used to be Oregon and Northern California,” a woman said. She had purple hair, was gaunt, and had jewelry all over her face.
    “Who are you?”
    “I was one of the performers at the ceremony,” she answered.
    “I don’t recognize you.”
    “That’s ’cause I’m not wearing my wig or makeup. I played Kanji Ishiwara.”
    “Nice to have a drink with the liberator of Manchuria. What am I doing here?”
    “You passed out on the street.”
    He couldn’t remember.
    “I’m usually better at