I have found the whistler, a wizened old man in a faded red shirt and overalls. His eyes meet mine. What happens next is not an accident. It is too well executed to be spontaneous, because it happens in complete unison. Every person in the crowd presses the three middle fingers of their left hand against their lips and extends them to me. It’s our sign from District 12, the last good-bye I gave Rue in the arena.
Some of these share considerable overlap with old-school bosozoku. The longer coats almost look like Tokkofukku (Special Attack Jacket, worn by kamikaze pilots). Bottom center wouldn’t look out of place in Chiba City Spectre.