Chapter 221: Kumamon’s Goofy Short Drama! The Impact Of Short Videos! Huge Success!
Yamada Ichiro said, pulling the filming schedule out of his briefcase and handing it to Hiroshi.
Then he explained in detail: “Take a look. This is the filming schedule we put together overnight yesterday. In the first phase, we’ll shoot three warm-up short films, filmed at Mount Aso, Kumamoto Castle, and Central Shopping Street respectively. Each short film is thirty seconds, perfect for inserting into the prefatural station’s news and variety shows. If you think it’s fine, we can assemble the team this afternoon and start shooting first thing tomorrow morning.”
Hiroshi took the schedule, his fingertip pausing on the words “Filming time: 9 AM-11 AM,” and when he looked up, his eyes showed approval: “You’ve even calculated the filming times so precisely. You’ve really nailed the details. However…”
He changed tack, suddenly clapping his hands, his tone gaining decisiveness: “No need to wait until tomorrow. Notify the team now to assemble at the prefatural office doorway in half an hour. We’ll head straight to Central Shopping Street to shoot the first warm-up short film—while the streets are crowded now, the footage will have more worldly life.”
At these words, Isshin Fujiwara and Yamada Ichiro both froze, their faces full of surprise.
Isshin Fujiwara’s briefcase nearly slipped to the ground; he quickly gripped it tight, his tone uncertain: “Mr. Nohara, shoot now? But the team hasn’t had time to prepare, and the filming equipment is still in the prefatural station’s warehouse. Half an hour might not be enough…”
“I’ve already had the prefatural station send over the equipment. It should be arriving soon.”
Yamada Ichiro reacted first. He pulled out his mobile phone from his briefcase, quickly pressed a few keys, and when he looked up, his eyes held a smile: “I told them this morning before leaving that we might start early today, so they’re on standby. As for the team, I’ll page them now to get to the prefatural office doorway in half an hour—us young people in Kumamoto get things done efficiently!”
Isshin Fujiwara watched the two act with such swift decisiveness, feeling both shocked and admiring.
He’d worked at the prefatural office before and was used to the steady rhythm of “plan today, prepare tomorrow, execute the day after.” This was the first time he’d seen someone implement “say and do” so thoroughly.
“But Mr. Nohara, we haven’t even detailed the shooting script…” Isshin Fujiwara was still worried, reaching to touch the draft notebook in his pocket, which only had a few rough scene concepts jotted down.
Hiroshi waved it off, his tone full of confidence: “Warm-up short films don’t need complex scripts. Just shoot Kumamon doing a few silly things on the shopping street—like grabbing the wrong snacks at the convenience store doorway, haggling with the taiyaki seller, or helping an old woman pick up oranges dropped on the ground. The more everyday these scenes, the more relatable they are to the audience.”
He pulled a pen from his pocket and quickly sketched a few strokes on the memo paper Yamada Ichiro handed over—the Kumamon on the paper was on tiptoes reaching for snacks on the convenience store shelf, clutching an empty snack bag in its paw, while the nearby clerk held back laughter handing over a new bag. The image was vivid and fun.
“Go with this approach and let the actor improvise.” Hiroshi handed the memo paper to the two, his tone relaxed: “We want that ‘unforced’ cuteness. Overly rigid scripts would feel stiff.”
Yamada Ichiro looked at the drawing on the memo paper and couldn’t help laughing: “Great idea! It’s fun, shows off Kumamoto’s shopping street, and promotes our local snacks and taiyaki to boot—one stone, three birds! I’ll page the team now to bring the filming equipment and hurry over!”
He spoke quickly, striding to the nearby public telephone booth, his fingers flying over the dial, while instructing nonstop: “Yes, have the camera crew bring the wide-angle lens. Central Shopping Street’s roads are narrow; we need wide-angle to capture both sides’ shops… Lighting crew, remember the reflector board. It’s overcast this morning; we need to supplement light…”
Isshin Fujiwara looked at Hiroshi, his eyes full of admiration: “Mr. Nohara, your thinking is so flexible. If it were me, I’d still be fussing over script details and couldn’t imagine starting so quickly.”
Hiroshi smiled, glancing up at the clock at the prefatural office doorway—the hands just hitting 9:15: “Promotion means seizing the moment. Kumamoto folks don’t have high expectations for ‘Kumamon’ yet. Launching these warm-up short films now catches them off guard, making everyone remember the character instantly. Once they’re familiar, we release the official promotional film and merchandise for better effect.”
He paused, then added: “Plus, people have spending money now and are open to new things. Everyone’s interested in a cartoon character; this is our chance to build Kumamon’s fame.”
Isshin Fujiwara nodded repeatedly, suddenly seeing the light.
He’d only thought “follow steps meticulously,” forgetting to consider the bigger environment. Now hearing Hiroshi, he realized how crucial “efficiency” and “timing” are to promotion.
“You’re right; I was too narrow-minded.” Isshin Fujiwara’s tone held guilt: “I’ll notify the production company now to deliver the costume to the Central Shopping Street convenience store. We can use it right away when we arrive.”
“No need to run over; just page them.” Hiroshi pointed to the nearby public telephone booth: “Minister Yamada’s almost done. Use that phone to tell them and save the wasted trip.”
Isshin Fujiwara said “Okay” and hurried to the telephone booth.
Hiroshi stood in place, looking up at the clock on the prefatural office building. Sunlight filtered through the glass curtain wall onto his face, warm and cozy.
He recalled Asumi’s words on the phone yesterday about “Tokyo City Television in turmoil over award scandals,” suddenly feeling that Kumamon’s emergence might not only change Kumamoto’s fate but also bring a unique warmth to neon’s people in this turbulent era.
Soon, Yamada Ichiro and Isshin Fujiwara finished their calls and strode back, faces excited.
“The team says they’ll be here in twenty minutes; equipment’s loaded and heading straight to Central Shopping Street.” Yamada Ichiro wiped sweat from his brow, tone full of expectation: “Production company says the costume’s being delivered to the convenience store right away. We can start shooting when we arrive.”
“Shall we head out now?” Isshin Fujiwara looked at Hiroshi, eyes eager.
Hiroshi nodded, leading the way to the old Toyota: “Let’s go to Central Shopping Street. We’ll aim to finish the first short film before noon, then shoot the second at Kumamoto Castle in the afternoon—push the progress today.”
Yamada Ichiro and Isshin Fujiwara hurried after, watching Hiroshi’s back full of confidence. They knew this decisive young director might really give that chubby black bear a different future for Kumamoto.
The old Toyota slowly pulled out of the prefatural office parking lot, sunlight gleaming warmly off the body.
Outside the window, Kumamoto’s streets grew lively, taiyaki stalls wafting sweet scents, uniformed students chatting and laughing by, distant Mount Aso topped with faint white smoke like a serene, warm painting.
Hiroshi gripped the wheel, looking ahead, corners of his mouth turning up.
The upcoming shoots might face difficulties, but thinking of the endearing Kumamon and the smiles it might bring to Kumamoto folks filled him with energy.
And this was his purpose in traversing to this world—use his abilities to bring unique change to those around him, to this land.
The car soon reached Central Shopping Street’s entrance; from afar, several people in black jackets bustled around a white truck marked “Kumamoto Prefecture Television Station.”
“It’s the filming team!” Isshin Fujiwara pointed at the truck, tone excited.
Hiroshi parked and opened the door to see a man in blue work clothes striding up, camera in hand: “You’re Director Nohara Hiroshi, right? I’m the cinematographer Ishigami; we spoke on the phone yesterday.”
“Ishigami, thanks for the hard work.” Hiroshi shook his hand, tone gentle: “We’ll need to cover several scenes today; let’s finish the short films quickly.”
“Don’t worry, we’re ready!” Ishigami patted his chest, pointing to the team behind: “Lighting and sound crews have staked out the convenience store doorway; costume just arrived and is being fitted on the actor. We can start the first scene now—Kumamon grabbing the wrong snacks at the convenience store.”
Hiroshi nodded, following Ishigami to the convenience store.
Yamada Ichiro and Isshin Fujiwara hurried after, clutching the filming schedule and briefing the team on details.
At the convenience store doorway, an actor in the Kumamon costume stood adjusting the hat clumsily.
The costume’s black body was round and plump, with prominent red cotton blush on the cheeks, looking utterly endearing.
“This costume’s cuter than the design!” Yamada Ichiro exclaimed, reaching to touch the belly—soft like a big cotton candy.
The actor turned at the sound, clumsily waving a paw, voice coming through the costume’s microphone: “Director, I’m ready to shoot.”
Hiroshi eyed the Kumamon, smiling with satisfaction: “Good, let’s start. Walk into the convenience store, browse the snack aisle, then grab the wrong snacks—like mistaking dog food for biscuits or seasoning for candy. The clerk will remind you; act embarrassed, put them back, buy a bag of citrus hard candy, and on the way out, trip into a butt plant.”
He paused, adding: “Keep movements slow, clumsy yet cute—not too deliberate. More natural, the better.”
“Got it!” Kumamon nodded, clumsily turning to enter the convenience store.
Ishigami immediately raised the camera; lighting crew adjusted the reflector board quickly; sound crew held the microphone, quietly following Kumamon.
Inside the convenience store, the blue-uniformed clerk was prepared, holding back laughter by the snack aisle waiting for Kumamon.
Kumamon entered, curiously looking around, then slowly reached the snack aisle, paw rummaging the shelves.
It first picked up a bag of dog food, checked the package, put it down; then a bottle of soy sauce, paused, quickly replaced it, making nearby customers chuckle.
“That’s the vibe!” Hiroshi watched the camera feed, smiling at Ishigami: “Record the customers’ laughter too; adds worldly life.”
Ishigami nodded, adjusting the camera to capture the customers’ smiles.
Then, Kumamon finally grabbed a bag of citrus hard candy, raised it happily, turned—and missed the step, butt-planting, candy scattering.
“Oh!” The clerk rushed over to help.
Kumamon clumsily stood, scratching its head embarrassedly, then squatted to pick up the candy.
Nearby customers burst laughing; some pulled out cameras to snap Kumamon.
“Cut!” Hiroshi called, face full of satisfaction: “Great take! Fun and natural, just what we want. Ten-minute break, then second scene—Kumamon haggling with the taiyaki seller.”
The team sighed in relief, setting down equipment for rest. Yamada Ichiro and Isshin Fujiwara approached, faces excited.
“Mr. Nohara, that take was perfect!” Yamada Ichiro said excitedly: “I couldn’t help laughing watching—Kumamon’s too cute! It’ll win tons of fans when aired.”
“Yeah, better than I imagined!” Isshin Fujiwara nodded, eyes admiring: “Your actor direction is masterful; a few words and they nailed it. I’d be clueless.”
Hiroshi smiled, taking water from Ishigami and sipping: “Nothing special—just have the actor become the real Kumamon: a bit clumsy but cute little bear. Act on instinct, no overthinking.”
He paused, glancing at customers photographing Kumamon nearby, eyes meaningful: “See, they’re already liking it. That’s the effect—make Kumamon blend into life like a real ‘Kumamoto person,’ not a cold promo tool.”
Yamada Ichiro and Isshin Fujiwara followed his gaze: kids clustered around Kumamon, chattering for photos.
Kumamon clumsily crouched, scissoring hands with the kids, cheek blush extra cute in sunlight.
“You’re right.”
Yamada Ichiro sighed: “Only if Kumamon feels like ‘one of us’ will it truly touch hearts. Later, seeing Kumamon recalls Kumamoto’s shopping street, taiyaki, everything—that’s the best promotion.”
Hiroshi nodded, looking at the sky—sun perfect, breeze gentle. He knew the first short film’s shoot went smoothly; the rest would too.
Soon, that chubby black bear would be Kumamoto’s shining calling card, letting all neon know of the cute, warm bear waiting in Kumamoto.
After ten minutes’ rest, the team reassembled for the second scene—Kumamon haggling with the taiyaki seller.
The taiyaki seller, a gray-haired old man who’d heard of Kumamon, volunteered to help. He stood at his stall, spatula in hand, smiling: “Little bear, my taiyaki’s Kumamoto’s best—one hundred yen each, no cheaper.”
Kumamon shook its head, paw gesturing “eighty,” emitting “woo woo” sounds like bargaining.
The old man feigned difficulty, frowning: “Eighty yen’s too low; my red bean paste is straight from southern Kumamoto farms—costs are barely covered.”
Kumamon persisted, paw gesturing on the stall—pointing empty belly, then pitiful face—drawing laughter from surrounding customers.
“Fine, fine, you win.” The old man “compromised,” laughing as he gave two taiyaki: “Eighty yen this time; no such haggling next.”
Kumamon happily took them, bowed clumsily, turned to run—and tripped on its own paw after two steps, taiyaki falling.
It paused, then squatted aggrievedly, picking it up, blowing dust, about to eat—when the old man handed a new one: “This for you; that one’s dirty.”
Kumamon looked up gratefully, took the new taiyaki clumsily, then bounced away.
“Cut!” Hiroshi called, satisfied: “Great scene! Fun and warm, perfect. Ten-minute break, then third scene—Kumamon helping an old woman pick up oranges.”
The team relaxed, setting down gear for rest.
Yamada Ichiro and Isshin Fujiwara approached, faces excited.
“Mr. Nohara, your shooting pace is insane!” Yamada Ichiro checked his watch, surprised: “From start to now, just over an hour for two scenes. Normally, our prefatural station takes half a day per scene.”
Hiroshi smiled, sipping water from Ishigami: “Nothing special—just nailed Kumamon’s ‘clumsy’ and ‘cute,’ let actor improvise. These everyday scenes are easy to relate to.”
He paused, adding: “At Tokyo TV, I often used this quick style—saves time, ensures quality. Perfect for Kumamon shorts.”
Isshin Fujiwara eyed Hiroshi admiringly: “You know film production and audience tastes. I’d never make shorts this fun.”
Hiroshi patted his shoulder gently: “You can too—just observe life more, ponder what audiences like; you’ll get the feel.”
After ten minutes, the team reassembled for the third scene—Kumamon helping an old woman pick up oranges.
A gray-haired old woman carried a bag of oranges slowly on the shopping street’s stone path; suddenly the bag tore, oranges rolling everywhere.
Kumamon passing by saw, rushed over clumsily to help pick them up.
It picked while grinning goofily at the old woman, making her laugh: “Thank you, little bear.”
Kumamon shook its head, handed the gathered oranges, then found a new bag and packed them.
The old woman took it, smiling: “You’re a good child; have this orange.”
Kumamon took the orange, bowed clumsily, then watched her leave before walking on.
“Cut!” Hiroshi called, satisfied: “All three warm-up short films done! Good work today; we’ll stop here. Post-production editing to you, Ishigami.”
Hiroshi’s calm voice relaxed the whole team.
Ishigami checked his watch—just two hours from start, all three shorts complete.
In his years in the industry, he’d never seen such fast pace—no repeated NG, no complex blocking; even improv felt rehearsed, every gag spot-on.
Isshin Fujiwara peered at the monitor, watching Kumamon nearly tumbling into the fruit basket while picking oranges, brow slightly furrowed.
He clutched the overnight filming schedule, “two hours per scene” unmarked; three scenes done in two hours total.
“Mr. Nohara, that’s… it?” Isshin Fujiwara’s tone uncertain, checking the schedule then Hiroshi: “Each short under two minutes—isn’t it too…”
“Short?” Hiroshi took the schedule, scanning dense times, fingertip pausing on “two hours/scene”: “Fujiwara, how long to make an audience remember a cartoon? Ten minutes of flat narrative, or three laugh-out-loud instants in two minutes?”
Nearby, Yamada Ichiro leaned in, popping a citrus hard candy: “I think it’s fun. During the haggling, the senbei seller next door laughed tears, asking when this bear hits TV.”
Isshin Fujiwara hesitated, pulling the An Shizhi broadcast list from his briefcase, pointing to “eight minutes per episode”: “But your An Shizhi was eight minutes per episode. Won’t two-minute shorts feel abrupt?”
Hiroshi didn’t answer directly, pulling a small notebook from his pocket, flipping to simple storyboards—Kumamon dropping taiyaki, helping old woman with oranges, mistaking soy sauce for drink—each marked “within 30 seconds.”
“An Shizhi tells stories, needs time for atmosphere. Kumamon’s different.”
Hiroshi pointed to the storyboards confidently: “We want audiences remembering a ‘cute clumsy bear,’ not a story. Three gags in two minutes, aired thrice, sticks better than ten minutes.”
He closed the notebook, eyeing the team packing gear; Ishigami chatted happily with the lighting tech.
“See them? Shooting was easy. This quick method saves costs, tests fast. If audiences like, we do longer unit dramas; if not, adjust quick.”
Yamada Ichiro chewed candy, clapping: “Got it! Like Tokyo street ads—no one watches ten minutes, but thirty-second repeats stick. Air these shorts as ads; it’ll work!”
Isshin Fujiwara eyed the storyboards, recalling audience laughter, nodding thoughtfully.
He’d always thought “do complete content,” forgetting promotion’s core is “memorability.”
Nohara Hiroshi’s thinking was far clearer.
The team gathered after packing.
Lighting tech Panasonic sighed: “Mr. Nohara, your pace is masterful! With prefatural station tourism promos, one shot took an afternoon. Today with you, my brain’s spinning faster.”
“Exactly!”
Sound tech Ruikawa nodded, her voice recorder playing footage with clear audience laughter: “During Kumamon dropping oranges, an old woman said ‘cuter than my grandson’—so real! Better than staged extras.”
Ishigami boxed the camera, sighing: “At Osaka station shooting Kansai Scenery, directors chased ‘perfection,’ reshot one shot ten-plus times; audiences forgot the cuts. Today I see ‘imperfect’ is cute—Kumamon’s falls more memorable than designed moves.”
“And your actor guidance!”
Costume handler Iwanami approached, holding a Kumamon paw: “You told the actor ‘imagine a just-learning-to-walk bear’; nailed it instantly, better than my ‘be cute, be cute’.”
Hiroshi listened to the praise, just smiling faintly.
This “ease” came from past life’s countless Kumamon short video nights—viral clips weren’t flawless polish, but clumsy, real, smile-inducing moments.
“It’s not me being great.”
Hiroshi picked a fallen black fuzz from the costume, blowing it off: “Kumamon’s design has life. No need for singing, dancing, big lessons—just be itself: trip, goof, happy half-day over taiyaki. That’s what audiences love.”
He paused, looking at the distant taiyaki seller packing, tone gentler:
“These shorts aren’t promo for promo’s sake—we want folks seeing Kumamoto’s charm: haggling bear, generous taiyaki elder, stranger helping with oranges. That’s Kumamoto’s treasure.”
The team quieted; Suzuki’s recorder played laughter—those fragmented, real chuckles warmer than any score.
Yamada Ichiro eyed the scene, recalling the governor’s words yesterday: “Make Kumamoto warmer.”
True warmth isn’t piled from flashy promos, but seeps in through these worldly-life moments.
“Mr. Nohara.” Isshin Fujiwara spoke firmly: “Tomorrow I’ll coordinate with prefatural station to loop these in news and Kumamoto Life Guide. Also, contact local convenience stores to play on checkout TVs for more eyes.”
“I’ll help!” Ishigami said: “Osaka station friends can air too; maybe Kansai audiences like Kumamon!”
“Merch too!”
Tanaka’s eyes lit: “I know a plush maker; rush Kumamon dolls to prefatural office gift shop—sure sellers!”
Everyone chimed in; rest turned lively planning session.
Hiroshi saw their sparkly eyes, feeling grounded—change needs no grand plans, just a cute icon, dedicated people, love for home.
Sunset sank, dyeing Central Shopping Street’s stones warm yellow.
Hiroshi watched the heated discussion, an idea forming.
He pulled his mobile, calling Asumi—to pitch a “Kumamon Family Search” segment on Super Change Change Change, letting Tokyo Kumamotoans see home, more Tokyoites know the cute bear and warm people.
As the call connected, Hiroshi eyed distant streetlights glowing, team’s energetic figures, smiling.
He knew Kumamon’s story just began. This cute bear would carry Kumamoto’s warmth to more hearts.
……
The car slowly left Central Shopping Street, sunlight gleaming warmly off the body.
Outside, Kumamoto streets quieted; taiyaki stalls closed, uniformed students home, distant Mount Aso with faint white smoke like serene warm painting.
Hiroshi gripped the wheel, looking ahead, smiling. Kumamon promo just started, but persistence would bring Kumamoto a different future via this cute bear.
Back at prefatural office, Hiroshi bid Yamada Ichiro and Isshin Fujiwara farewell, drove to Oyama family home.
Entering, he saw Misae in the living room, drawing Kumamon on drawing paper.
“Hiroshi, you’re back!” Misae stood happily, handing the paper: “Is my Kumamon cute?”
Hiroshi took it: a chubby black bear, prominent cheek blush, holding taiyaki—endearingly goofy.
“Very cute!” Hiroshi smiled, returning it: “Better than mine.”
Misae’s cheeks flushed, softly: “I followed your design, added ideas. How’d shooting go? Shorts done?”
Hiroshi sat beside, recounting the day, highlighting convenience store mix-up, taiyaki haggling, old woman oranges.
Misae’s eyes sparkled excitedly: “Sounds fun! Can’t wait to see! When on TV?”
“Soon—edited tomorrow, airing prefatural station news day after.” Hiroshi stroked her hair gently: “I’ll watch with you.”
Misae nodded hard, eyes happy: “Yes! I’ll tell manga club too.”
As they spoke, Takao Oyama emerged from kitchen with fresh dorayaki: “Hiroshi, Misae, try my dorayaki—your favorite red bean paste.”
Hiroshi and Misae thanked, eating.
Dorayaki crust crisp-soft, filling sweet not cloying—memory’s taste.
Hiroshi ate while chatting shoot details and Kumamon promo plans with Takao Oyama.
Takao Oyama nodded repeatedly, gratified: “Hiroshi, you’re capable. Doing so much for Kumamoto—we’re proud.”
Hiroshi smiled humbly: “Aunt, you’re too kind. Just doing what I should. Making Kumamoto better makes me happy.”
As they talked, Yoshiharu Oyama returned.
Newspaper in hand, excited: “Hiroshi, look! Today’s Yomiuri Shimbun covers your Seven Samurai, mentions your Kumamoto promo!”
Hiroshi took it: “Seven Samurai Hot, Director Nohara Hiroshi Boosts Kumamoto Promo,” with his on-set photo.
“Great!” Misae eyed it proudly: “All neon knows your Kumamoto promo now—Kumamon will boom!”
Hiroshi read, reflective.
Just the start; much ahead, but with their support, he’d nail it all.
Evening, Hiroshi in studio, pencil sketching new Kumamon looks.
Drawing from past life’s goofy videos, adding outfits like red kimono or yellow hat for cuter vibe.
Pencil scratched; new Kumamon formed.
Hiroshi eyed the bear, expectant: soon, this cute one would be Kumamoto’s shining card, known to all neon—a warm bear awaiting discovery.
Next morning, Ishigami called: Kumamon shorts edited; come to prefatural station.
Hiroshi rose, bid Oyama family farewell, drove there.
In edit room, Ishigami and editors clustered at computer watching Kumamon shorts.
“Mr. Nohara!” Ishigami stood happily, pulling him over: “See our edit—better than expected!”
Hiroshi sat, played first short—Kumamon convenience store mix-up.
Kumamon clumsily entered, browsed snacks, grabbed dog food then soy sauce, customers laughing.
Finally, citrus hard candy grabbed, turned—butt plant, candy scattered.
Hiroshi smiled satisfied: “Great edit! Captures cute clumsiness.”
Ishigami grinned excitedly: “Added light upbeat BGM for fun. Check second.”
Hiroshi nodded, played second—taiyaki haggling.
Kumamon paw-bargained, belly-pointing pitifully; boss “compromised” with two.
Tripped after two steps, taiyaki dropped.
Boss gave new; bounced away happily.
“Fun too!” Hiroshi nodded smiling: “Warm, cute—audience will love.”
Ishigami: “Third’s done too.”
Third: old woman oranges.
Oranges scattered; Kumamon helped pick, new bag.
Old woman gave orange; bowed clumsily, watched her go.
“All great!” Hiroshi satisfied: “Air in prefatural station ads tomorrow. Loop often for max eyes on Kumamon.”
Ishigami nodded: “Coordinated with programming; tomorrow news, noon variety, evening dramas.”
Hiroshi smiled: “Thanks. If Kumamon booms, your credit’s huge.”
Ishigami et al. bowed respectfully: “Our duty. Happy on such meaningful project.”
Hiroshi chatted, left for Oyama home.
Entering, Misae and Mage in living room with Kumamon plush, role-playing.
“Hiroshi, back!” Misae stood excited: “See our Kumamon plush—cute?”
Hiroshi eyed: black cloth, red cheek blush—endearingly goofy.
“Very!” Hiroshi smiled: “Cuter than store-bought.”
Mage happily: “Brother-in-law, we want more Kumamon plush for schoolmates to love Kumamon.”
Hiroshi nodded approvingly: “Great idea! Make extras for local convenience stores, restaurants too—spread Kumamon.”
Misae and Mage nodded excitedly.
Takao Oyama from kitchen with fresh miso soup: “Hiroshi, Misae, Mage, dinner’s ready.”
They sat, ate.
At table, Yoshiharu Oyama to Hiroshi expectantly: “Hiroshi, Kumamon shorts air tomorrow—think it’ll boom?”
Hiroshi set down chopsticks confidently: “Definitely! Fun, cute; looped on TV, folks’ll remember. Then merch like plush, keychains, T-shirts—hot sellers.”
Yoshiharu Oyama nodded gratified: “I trust you! You plan solid. If Kumamon booms, Kumamoto economy turns, farmers’ oranges sell.”
Hiroshi eyed him firmly: “Uncle, rest assured—I’ll max effort for Kumamon boom, better Kumamoto.”
Post-dinner, Hiroshi to upstairs studio, sketching Kumamon merch: cute plush, keychains, T-shirts for more fans.
Pencil scratched; designs formed. Hiroshi eyed them expectantly—persistence would bring Kumamoto different future via this bear.
Next morning, Misae’s cheer woke Hiroshi.
“Hiroshi, up! Kumamon short on TV!” Misae waved remote excitedly.
Hiroshi rose to living room; TV played convenience store short.
Kumamon clumsily browsed, dog food then soy sauce, laughs; citrus candy, butt plant, scatter.
“So cute!” Misae excited: “Heard neighbor aunt praising Kumamon!”
Hiroshi watched, smiling. Kumamon promo’s first success step taken.
Days later, shorts looped on prefatural station news, variety, dramas; more knew the cute bear.
Convenience store plush bought home; restaurant posters prompted Kumamon meals; street actors got photo requests.
Prefatural office phones rang off—merch queries, more shorts asks.
Yamada Ichiro and Isshin Fujiwara watched excitedly: Kumamon boomed, Kumamoto’s “live sign.”
Hiroshi gratified.
Long road ahead, but persistence brings more surprises via cute bear.
That afternoon, Tokyo TV call.
Not Asumi.
Managing Director Toshihide Takada.
“Managing Director Takada.” Hiroshi answered; Takada’s excited voice.
……
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