They had all paid exorbitant fees to get to Tokyo for the World Cup. There weren't as many lads as had shown up for France '90. That had been a good laugh, brawling with dirty Tunisians and the violent Marseille riot cops. But despite the high travel prices, England had still managed to bring a fairly large contingent of 'ITK' lads to Japan. And they had managed to find the only authentic English-style pub in Tokyo's Shinjuku district, where they could consume hundreds of pints and stuff their fat faces with greasy English food.

Even better, England's first match was against Turkey, and the boys were well ready to beat up a few of the hated Turks. There were less Turks than English, and the odds were good for some of Saint George's finest to spill some Asiatic blood. One thing bothered Ian, though. Where was the O.B.?

"Oi, lads," Ian shouted. The rowdy crowd went silent and listened. "Have you not seen much O.B. around? I mean, where are all the pigs?"

"I dunno, Ian," said a porcine skinhead nicknamed Turk- Killer after the night he heaved a brick through the window of a Soho kebab shop. "I ain't seen no riot squad or nuffin. These little fuckin' Japs must be well scared of us."

Ian laughed savagely. "I bet they fuckin' well are, the little yellow Chink bastards." The uneasy feelings lingered in the back of his mind, though. He had never seen such a miniscule police presence at an away match, or any match for that matter. But still, the lads were counting on him. "Fuck 'em! Now let's go get some fuckin Turks! I heard there's a lot of them dirty Galatasaray gangsters in town. Let's show them wankers what England is about!"

The crowd of drunken hooligans roared their approval and Ian led them outside into the warm Tokyo afternoon, to the relief of the pub's staff. The stench of sweat and beer lingered menacingly after they were gone.

*

The screaming gang of hooligans, now several dozen strong, rampaged through the fashionable Tokyo neighborhood, terrifying onlookers. The English animals pounced on solitary men, women and especially the elderly, giving them violent gang beatings and shouting references to the Second World War. All the while the chant of "En-ger-land, En-ger-land" grew louder amidst the frenzied waving of the red and white Saint George's Cross flags.

Finally they stopped and amassed on a corner, spying a group of Turks drinking bottles of potent raki across the wide boulevard. "There's them fuckin Turk bastards!" Ian screamed, spittle spraying from his ugly sunburned face. "Let's get 'em! This one's for Kevin and Chris!" (Kevin & Chris were the two Leeds United hooligans stabbed to death in Istanbul in April 2000, and their memories fueled the racist revenge fantasies of all England fans.)

The mob charged across the street and set upon the Turkey supporters. Ian and three of his mates grabbed the oldest Turk they saw, an elderly man in fact, and proceeded to give him a vicious beating.

"You filthy Galatasaray-loving Turk wanker!" Ian shrieked. "Get out of my country!" The alcohol had given Ian the false impression that he was back in Leeds, not Tokyo, and was doing his part to keep England pure and white. He looked over to see his mate Turk-Killer going at it with a swarthy Turk in a Galatasaray jersey. Most of the Turks, although outnumbered, were unafraid of the foul smelling island-monkeys attacking them. Ian and the other hooligans were unused to their victims defending themselves.

Several of the Turkey fans whipped out razor-sharp kebab knives and wielded them with the dexterity of skilled fencers. In an instant, three or four sunburned English arms lay severed on the sidewalk. The English mob panicked and scattered at the sight of their pure, Aryan English blood flowing into the gutter of a foreign land.

The Turks laughed at the sight of the cowardly English running like scared girls, and swaggered down the street chain smoking.

Ian suppressed the urge to vomit and ran down a side street, his fat body jiggling in the sun. He stopped and leaned against a wall, heaving and coughing. This wasn't right, he thought. Why weren't those Turk bastards taking their beating like they should have? And why did all his lads run away? Why did HE run away?

Suddenly he saw darkness. A sack had been thrown over his shaven head, and he was roughly grabbed and thrown into the back of a van. Completely overpowered, he submitted to the violent manhandling and lay on the vehicle's floor, cowering in fear. Was it the Turks? I hope they don't kill me, he thought, I don't want to die! He passed out.

*

Ian awoke with a brutal slap to his fat face. The sack was off his head, and he was handcuffed to a metal folding chair in a dark, empty warehouse. He looked up, expecting to see a vengeful Turk clad in the red & yellow of Galatasaray, and was shocked to see a small Japanese man in a black suit.

"Oi! What the fuck's going on here? Oi Jap, I want to call the British embassy."

The Japanese man smiled sadistically but said nothing.

"You don't fuckin' speak English, do you," sneered Ian. "Shite, you lot are worse than them Turks. Now give me a fuckin' telephone. I'm calling up me Queen."

"Your Queen cannot help you now," whispered his captor, flashing a police badge. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Chief Tsuyoshi Shinjo of the Tokyo Prefecture police department, special World Cup Unit. We have been planning for your arrival for several years." He paused to light a cigarette. "It is a pleasure to meet you in person. I have read your dossier many times."

Ian was terrified. "So you're O.B.? I thought youse were all scared of us."

Chief Shinjo smiled. "We are not afraid of English football hooligans. The Japanese police have been following you since your arrival. We have a special surprise for you, Mr. Ian. We are not as lenient as the police in France or Italy, but we will not harm you." Ian breathed a sigh of relief. "In fact, for this World Cup we have subcontracted out."

"Wot's that mean? Sub-con-tracted?"

"It means, Mr. Ian, that the Yakuza will be taking over from here. Have you heard of the Yakuza?"

Ian shook his head no. This dirty Jap bastard was playing mind games with him. Chief Shinjo laughed and walked to the door. "The Yakuza is the Japanese mafia, Mr. Ian. They are quite skilled in this kind of work." He unlocked it and let in a team of Yakuza geisha. The kimono-clad temptresses shuffled towards him, their wooden sandals scraping noisily along the concrete floor of the warehouse.

"Wot the fuck?" yelled Ian, struggling against the handcuffs. "Wot are you?"

The chief geisha walked up to Ian and crammed a ball gag into his mouth, tying it tight against the back of his head. His cries were reduced to muffled grunts. These kimono wearing pseudo-hookers had been hired by the Japanese mafia to sexually torture him. This would never happen in England!

The chief geisha bowed respectfully to the terrified English football hooligan. She then kicked him in the face with her hard wooden sandal, unleashing a stream of blood from Ian's swollen nose. Two other geisha used sharp tanto daggers to cut Ian's clothes off, including his precious Leeds United jersey which they daintily spat upon.

Ian struggled against the expert rope bondage and choked against the plastic ball gag. One of the geisha, young and attractive, smiled at him and started stroking his tiny uncircumcised cock. Another reached down and began to fondle his ball-sack.

Perhaps the torture is over, thought Ian, perhaps these sexy women are so aroused by my naked body that they will simply fuck and suck me then let me go& that would be just loverly! I've always wanted to nail a Jap bird - - "Mmmmfff!" came his muffled shriek. The geisha who had been grabbing his balls had suddenly squeezed them in a deadly ninja vice-grip. She cackled sadistically as his nut-sack swelled to the size of a ripe grapefruit. The other one, however, continued to stroke him off. Despite the horrible pain in his balls, the expert touch of the hand-job geisha kept Ian hard.

Suddenly the ninjitsu-trained geisha released him from his bondage. Still dazed (and fully erect) Ian stumbled around. Then, just as suddenly, he found himself bent over with his hands handcuffed to his ankles. "Mmmff!" he tried to scream again, for he knew what was coming a raunchy anal violation.

He was right. One of the kimono-clad sex ninjas crammed an unlubricated butt-plug up his ass. The searing pain was not nearly as bad as the humiliation, which only increased when Ian realized he was still hard. The women realized it too, and their dainty giggles almost made Ian faint from embarrassment as he wondered what could be next.

The women shuffled into the corner and sat on the floor in the traditional style. Oh God, thought Ian, what could possibly be next?

A door opened and a short, muscular Yakuza enforcer swaggered towards Ian. The Japanese gangster had a face scarred by years of knife fights, and his body pressed out against his cheap, gaudy polyester suit. Without pausing, he pushed Ian over and began delivering a savage beating in the best tradition of his Yakuza clan. He repeatedly kicked the Englishman in the face and back, grunting Japanese obscenities. He finished off with a swift and brutal kick to the ass, which only forced the butt-plug further into Ian's virgin colon. The Yakuza enforcer then spat disrespectfully on the semi-conscious hooligan's body and walked out the door.

That must be the end of this horrible ordeal, thought Ian hopefully. That surely was the final act of degradation. Have I not been punished enough for my life of racist violence against those weaker than myself?

Apparently not, he thought as a gigantic naked sumo wrestler entered the room. The geisha clapped politely for the enormous man as he stomped, Godzilla-like, towards his victim. With no effort, he lifted Ian off the floor and held him above the ground using only one fat hand. With the other hand, he yanked out the butt plug and thrust his huge cock into Ian's asshole.

I understand, thought Ian. The butt plug was only to loosen me up for the sumo-rape.

Then all thoughts vanished as he completely gave himself over to the painful violation. After several minutes, the sumo shot his load of sticky miso-jizz into Ian's large intestine. He threw the Englishman against a wall and wiped the sweat off his flabby man-tits. The geisha women stood and applauded the wrestler's sexual prowess, presenting him with a $1000 bottle of sake as a reward for his help.

The chief geisha approached the thoroughly degraded Englishman. Finally it's over, thought Ian. There can be no further humiliation. The sumo-rape is the most degrading act that these sadistic Japs could have planned. Then the geisha opened her mouth and surprised Ian by speaking in excellent English.

"Ian-san," she said, taking out his ball gag. "You have undergone the most sadistic tortures that our organization had planned for you."

"Right," mumbled Ian, "so you're gonna let me go now, yeah?"

She paused. "Yes, you may leave soon. But first there is only one final ritual we must perform. We do need to make some yen, of course. We are a business after all."

Ian stared blankly.

She continued: "Have you ever heard of the ancient and sacred Japanese art of bukkake?"

"Bukkake? Wot's that?"

She laughed. "You will see!" She whistled and a camera crew entered the room and began setting up lights and expensive video cameras. "You will be a movie star, Ian- san. You will be starring in our film production company's latest video, 'Degrading English Hooligan Bukkake Party.' It will hopefully be as successful as our last production, 'Naughty Office Lady Yakuza Bukkake Festival.'"

The director of the film crew signaled that he was ready, and one hundred naked Japanese businessmen marched single-file into the room. "Action!" yelled the director. The hundred men surrounded Ian, removed their smelly shorts and threw them at him as they simultaneously screamed "BUKKAKE!" They then lined up in front of him and started playing with themselves.

The first cumshot hit Ian square in the eye and dripped down his cheek. Ian didn't even know what to think of this latest bizarre ritual. He simply sat against the wall as load after load of sticky jism landed on his face. After the 30th or 40th man had masturbated on his face, Ian stopped counting. But the cum kept flying in his direction. The cameraman circled around him, getting the best angles of the Englishman's grimacing face.

Finally the 100th man ejaculated on Ian. The sumo wrestler returned to the room, already drunk off the expensive rice wine, and added a final load onto Ian's head for good measure. The chief geisha scraped the excess cum off Ian and deposited it into a martini glass which was garnished with a stuffed olive. "Drink!" she commanded. Ian sipped the revolting mixture of man-juice and forced himself to swallow in the hopes that a good performance would set him free. He drank it down to the last drop, suppressing his natural gag reflex, and passed out.

He awoke naked in a gutter, where he had been unceremoniously deposited by the yakuza gangsters. He blinked and looked up to see his mates looking down at him with fear and disgust. They lifted his naked body up and took him to the pub, where they gave him clothes and beer. He there recounted his horrible tale to them.

The rest of the World Cup passed without incident. In the final, Turkey beat Brazil by a score of 7-0, but what really shocked the international press was the lack of violence. Apparently a mysterious cure had been found for the "English Disease" of football hooliganism.

The next season of English Premier League football was similarly peaceful. Football fans young and old were able to attend matches without fear of death or violence. The beautiful game was once more beautiful, and hooliganism was a thing of the past.

The End