The Devil Is a Part-Timer!, Vol. 2 by Satoshi Wagahara
Authors: Satoshi Wagahara
Tags: Fiction
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into Maou’s open bento box, almost scared to see what was inside.
The topmost tier of the box was packed to the gills with little side dishes in a dazzling array of colors. Chiho’s face stiffened at first sight of the deluxe spread before her, but the next thing she noticed made her blink in confusion.
It was the braised burdock root that caught her attention first. Followed by the
chikuzenni
—braised chicken and vegetables. Then the
kikka-kabu
, the baby turnips steeped in salt water and cut into flowery shapes. Then the vinegar-marinated sliced carrots and daikon radish. Then the
kuri kinton
sweets made of chestnut paste.
“Osechi…?”
“
Osechi?
Which?”
Maou asked reluctantly, not having had any past experience with the traditional Japanese New Year’s cuisine, which is often the most money a family spends on a single meal all year. Chiho shook her head.
“Let me see the bottom tier!”
She whisked away the topmost box.
What unfolded before her was all too expected, which made it all the more horrifying for her to see.
Atop a bed of white rice was an enormous heart-shaped design made of seaweed, bordered by an enclosed row of fresh dried plums.
Even after night fell, the heat wave dominating Tokyo showed no signs of dissipating.
“’Lo…”
As Emi stepped into Friend Market, the convenience store on Nanohana Street nearest to her home in Eifukucho, she was greeted by a clerk whose passion for customer service was a far cry from Maou’s.
Emi, the only customer in the store, breathed a blissful sigh upon feeling the AC on her forehead, then made a beeline for the bento corner.
“…I always wind up buying the same thing, don’t I?”
Emi muttered it to herself as she reached for a plastic-wrapped curry meal with the improbably long title HEALTHY FILL-UPS—SUMMER VEGETABLE CURRY! ALL THIS AND ONLY 1500 CALORIES! Figuring this wouldn’t be quite enough, she also picked up a small package of coleslaw, a cup of instant soup, and an éclair for dessert, stacking all of it above the curry package.
With any of her curry dinner’s alleged health benefits now thoroughly neutralized, Emi strode to the cash register.
Working at a call center guaranteed that she never had to worry about unscheduled overtime, but thanks to her earlier stop at Hatagaya for the purposes of her Hero duties, she was coming home quite late tonight.
Out of the four days she had kept her vigil going, this was undoubtedly the most tumultuous. Thus Emi decided that a stop by Maou’s workplace would be in order. Boarding the Keio New Line, she disembarked at Hatagaya station and took up her favored position at the magazine rack in the bookstore opposite MgRonald, the ideal location for her stakeout.
But—and she had a feeling this would be the case—all this earned her was the right to stare at Maou, his manager, and Chiho Sasaki, the only Japanese person who knew the truth about him, as they dutifully carried out their shifts. The full stalker experience, in other words.
“’Eat it up ’ere?”
She nodded at the clerk, who had the enigmatic habit of omitting syllables here and there, as her purchases were totaled up.
Something seemed unfair about all this. Thanks to a generous neighbor, Maou was eating like a king, and meanwhile Emi was wasting time and energy and being rewarded for it with artery-clogging convenience-store food.
“’nk youuu. Come back soooon.”
Emi picked up the plastic bag housing the warm curry, turning toward the exit, when:
“!!”
She flinched and looked upward, feeling a clear and present murderous rage fixated upon her.
Summer or not, going home from work or not, no longer able to live without air-conditioning or not, Emi had a trained sixth sense for this that had never left her.
Especially when her own life was involved.
So by the time the black shadow which suddenly appeared lunged at her like an enraged murderer, at a speed no Japanese person could ever manage to top,
The topmost tier of the box was packed to the gills with little side dishes in a dazzling array of colors. Chiho’s face stiffened at first sight of the deluxe spread before her, but the next thing she noticed made her blink in confusion.
It was the braised burdock root that caught her attention first. Followed by the
chikuzenni
—braised chicken and vegetables. Then the
kikka-kabu
, the baby turnips steeped in salt water and cut into flowery shapes. Then the vinegar-marinated sliced carrots and daikon radish. Then the
kuri kinton
sweets made of chestnut paste.
“Osechi…?”
“
Osechi?
Which?”
Maou asked reluctantly, not having had any past experience with the traditional Japanese New Year’s cuisine, which is often the most money a family spends on a single meal all year. Chiho shook her head.
“Let me see the bottom tier!”
She whisked away the topmost box.
What unfolded before her was all too expected, which made it all the more horrifying for her to see.
Atop a bed of white rice was an enormous heart-shaped design made of seaweed, bordered by an enclosed row of fresh dried plums.
Even after night fell, the heat wave dominating Tokyo showed no signs of dissipating.
“’Lo…”
As Emi stepped into Friend Market, the convenience store on Nanohana Street nearest to her home in Eifukucho, she was greeted by a clerk whose passion for customer service was a far cry from Maou’s.
Emi, the only customer in the store, breathed a blissful sigh upon feeling the AC on her forehead, then made a beeline for the bento corner.
“…I always wind up buying the same thing, don’t I?”
Emi muttered it to herself as she reached for a plastic-wrapped curry meal with the improbably long title HEALTHY FILL-UPS—SUMMER VEGETABLE CURRY! ALL THIS AND ONLY 1500 CALORIES! Figuring this wouldn’t be quite enough, she also picked up a small package of coleslaw, a cup of instant soup, and an éclair for dessert, stacking all of it above the curry package.
With any of her curry dinner’s alleged health benefits now thoroughly neutralized, Emi strode to the cash register.
Working at a call center guaranteed that she never had to worry about unscheduled overtime, but thanks to her earlier stop at Hatagaya for the purposes of her Hero duties, she was coming home quite late tonight.
Out of the four days she had kept her vigil going, this was undoubtedly the most tumultuous. Thus Emi decided that a stop by Maou’s workplace would be in order. Boarding the Keio New Line, she disembarked at Hatagaya station and took up her favored position at the magazine rack in the bookstore opposite MgRonald, the ideal location for her stakeout.
But—and she had a feeling this would be the case—all this earned her was the right to stare at Maou, his manager, and Chiho Sasaki, the only Japanese person who knew the truth about him, as they dutifully carried out their shifts. The full stalker experience, in other words.
“’Eat it up ’ere?”
She nodded at the clerk, who had the enigmatic habit of omitting syllables here and there, as her purchases were totaled up.
Something seemed unfair about all this. Thanks to a generous neighbor, Maou was eating like a king, and meanwhile Emi was wasting time and energy and being rewarded for it with artery-clogging convenience-store food.
“’nk youuu. Come back soooon.”
Emi picked up the plastic bag housing the warm curry, turning toward the exit, when:
“!!”
She flinched and looked upward, feeling a clear and present murderous rage fixated upon her.
Summer or not, going home from work or not, no longer able to live without air-conditioning or not, Emi had a trained sixth sense for this that had never left her.
Especially when her own life was involved.
So by the time the black shadow which suddenly appeared lunged at her like an enraged murderer, at a speed no Japanese person could ever manage to top,
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