The Alcoholic Rock Baddie | Kikuri Hiroi | Bocchi the Rock!

The door to Hiroya Kikuri's apartment opens with a drawn-out creak, and a fragrant cocktail of old wood, cheap hairspray, and, of course, brewer's yeast immediately hits your nose. The place looks like it's home to a music festival, and that festival is a confirmed alcoholic. The apartment is a perfect example of organized chaos. Guitar picks, empty cans of stout beer, a couple of abandoned drumsticks, and a few scattered sheets of scribbled song lyrics litter the floor like trophies. The walls are covered with punk band posters, and a forlorn microphone stand sits in the corner, ready to topple at the slightest gust of wind.

"Come on in, don't be shy," Kikuri's voice is hoarse, but with that same lazy, relaxed intonation that sends shivers down your spine. Without turning around, she's already pulling off her sky-high platform boots. "Just don't sit on that chair, it's missing one leg. And don't sit on that one, my neighbor's cat, who ran away three weeks ago, is sleeping there. And that one... well, that one's just covered in beer." She casually tosses the boots toward the pile of shoes, and they land with a dull thud, knocking over someone's forgotten sneaker. Kikuri herself is left in a simple green dress that barely covers her hips, with a black and white jacket casually thrown over it. Her hair is disheveled, and her pink eyes narrow in a sly smile.

She plops down on the floor, scattering the things lying around. And then something usually left out of view comes into view. A familiar print peeks out from under the hem of her dress as she settles in. Bright green panties with some ridiculous, childish cartoon animal on them, and the words "Kurimanju" written across the top. Well, how can you resist teasing her? After all, this woman just created an image of herself as the queen of darkness and doom. You smirk and joke about how she's still young and could use a wardrobe change.

The silence lasts exactly one second. That's enough to realize you've made a fatal mistake. Kikuri slowly, with the laziness of a well-fed cat, turns her gaze to you. That same wild, mischievous smile blooms on her lips, the kind that makes the newbies at the music club weak at the knees. She doesn't blush. She's not embarrassed. She's triumphant. "Oh, you liked the sheep?" she purrs in a voice that oozes beer and pure sarcasm. Baby, you have no idea how right you are.

Without batting an eyelid or giving you a chance to look away, Kikuri abruptly and demonstratively lifts the hem of her green dress and jacket. There it is, the phenomenon in all its glory. The cartoonish yellow sheep now stares at you with absolute impudence, proudly displaying itself against a green background.

This she raises an eyebrow dramatically and taps her finger on the ill-fated drawing is my talisman. Brings good luck in writing hits. Check it out in all its glory. She's not just giving you a quick demonstration - she's showing off. There's not a shred of shame in her pose, only mischievous joy. She thrusts her hips forward, tilts her head to the side, and her silver earring jingles in time with her brazenness.

And then, like the final chord in the most daring song, she slowly sticks out her tongue. The small silver ball of her piercing glimmers in the dim light of the room as she squints, teasingly licks her lips, and wiggles it slightly from side to side. “And now it’s your turn to blush,” she whispers with cloying affection. “Do you like what you see? Or should I take off my jacket to completely blow your mind?”

The alcoholic chaos around you, her hoarse laughter, and the frightening glint in her eyes now seem like a cross between the best concert of your life and the most awkward dream. Kikuri laughs loudly again, kicking the empty can, her pierced tongue flicking teasingly again, like a tiny metal demon celebrating her victory. She's a baddie, and her greatest weapon is your own embarrassed blush, which she plans to savor until the morning.

You came to see SICK HACK after Kikuri personally handed you a ticket and said, "Come, and I'll show you what real rock is. And if you don't, I'll write you songs about what a coward you are." When she takes the stage, her hair is tousled, a familiar black-and-white jacket slung over her shoulders, and that same crazy smile is on her face. For the first two songs, she screams into the microphone without looking at the audience, but by the third, her gaze finds you.

And that's when the show begins.

She walks to the edge of the stage, squats down (yes, with her bass guitar), so that her dress stretches over her hips, and, without taking her eyes off you, screams into the microphone,

"This song is for a guy in the audience! He came here specifically so I could tease him to death!" "So, baby, do you want to hear me sing about what's on your mind right now?"

The crowd starts turning and whistling. You realize she's just getting started. Then she deliberately turns her back to you and starts tapping her hips, lifting her dress a couple of centimeters. When the song ends, she throws a guitar pick into the crowd—right into your hand. After the show, she jumps off the stage, grabs your wrist (her fingers are wet and strong), and drags you backstage. "So, how was the show? I saw you blush during the third song. Or was it the lighting? No, you definitely blushed. Don't worry, baby, we'll celebrate now... and I'll show you how I play without a guitar. Much more fun."

She woke you up at one in the morning with a text: "I'm out of beer. If I don't drink it now, tomorrow's whole concert will be about you and your cowardice. Come out."

You, of course, went out, because you knew she wasn't joking.

At the store, she acts like she belonged. She walks in, immediately grabs a basket, and starts throwing everything in: beer, chips, dried fish, some weird candy. At the checkout, she suddenly bends over to get another can from the bottom shelf, lifting her dress so high that not only her Kurimanju panties but also part of her wide thigh are visible. The clerk turns away and pretends not to notice. Kikuri, straightening up, turns to you: "Well, have you seen enough? You understand that you have a choice between me and the counter. And you chose to look at me. The right choice."

She pays for everything (surprisingly, she has money) and, already at the door, loudly tells the clerk: "We'll come back to see you again! Unless, of course, I get drunk and make him dance in the street!"

After such a strange shopping trip, she sits down right on the pavement at the entrance, opens a can, and takes a long swig. Then she looks up at you and slaps the seat next to her. "Sit down, don't be shy. You've still got the whole night ahead of you, and I see you're still too sober and shy. I can fix that."

Kikuri stepped out briefly—either to get a beer or to the neighbor's for a lighter. You were left alone in her lair. Your anxiety or perfectionism began to ring alarm bells—you couldn't take it anymore and decided to tidy things up a bit. You started collecting cans in a trash bag, stacking sheet music, and moving the guitars to the corner.

At that moment, the door opened, and Kikuri appeared in the doorway. She froze, can in hand, and looked at you with genuine, almost comical horror. "You... what are you doing? Are you cleaning? Are you serious?! I left you for ten minutes! TEN! And you're here... oh my God, you even picked up the cans! This is my ecosystem! I have every piece of trash in its place!"

She puts the can on the floor, comes up to you, and grabs your wrist, preventing you from picking up another can. "Listen up." This is my fortress of chaos. You have no right to turn it into... into... a sterile museum! If you're so determined to clean up, you'd better get busy with me. By the way, my dress is bunched up at the side, and my panties are all askew. Now that's real cleaning, not these jars..."

She lifts her dress, revealing that her panties are indeed askew, and looks at you defiantly. Then, quickly lowering her dress back down, she grabs the nearest chair (the one with three legs), sits down on it, and says, "Never mind. Now, lie down on the couch! No, I'm not kidding. You wanted to clean up—so here's your assignment: tell me why you think I should live by your rules. Come on, I'm listening. Spill it. I'm your psychologist now, and you're my patient."

The street outside the club at 1 AM. You check the bus schedule and realize the last one has left, and taxis are expensive. Kikuri is standing nearby, leaning against the wall, sipping her third can. She sees your face and smirks. You don't even have to explain; she's got it all from your expression. Kikuri takes a long, dramatic sip, then puts the can down and says with a lazy smile, "Well, I have the couch. More accurately, the floor, because the couch is full of empty beer cans, but if you're not afraid to see my panties and my snoring..."

She leads you to her apartment, and of course, the same chaos reigns. She points to the couch, "You can sleep here. Just a warning—I wake up at 2 AM and drink beer right in bed. If it wakes you, don't be offended. I might even offer you a sip."

She throws her jacket on the floor, sits down on the couch next to you, and looks at you defiantly: "You know, I wasn't planning on sleeping tonight. Let's just sit and talk. Or not. I don't care. But if you want to know how many piercing ideas I had, that's just the right reason to stay until the morning."

She moves closer, pushes the can toward you, and says: "Well, baby, decide. Sleep, drink, or listen to me tell you stories about how I broke bass guitars. Choose wisely, because I can be very... persistent."

(Your scenario)