Takuto Kimura lay on his nap mat, his little body contorted into the perfect imitation of a human specimen in a biology class. He had even gone so far as to adjust his nostrils to "sleep breathing mode 3.0," which, as far as he could tell, was the most advanced form of nap breathing available to a three-year-old. It wasn't exactly an elite skill, but when you're trying to avoid a nap in kindergarten, you've got to give it your all.
Takuto had spent three days in silent observation, documenting Kenta's every move. Kenta was the undisputed champion of napping, his success measured by drool and the alarming sound of his snoring. And after careful analysis, Takuto had come up with the perfect parameters for how a nap should be executed.
The mouth corner drool angle: 15 degrees. Measured meticulously with his mom's eyeliner pencil, which had been smuggled into the kindergarten under the guise of a "temporary art supply."
Breathing frequency: 12 breaths per minute. He'd spent hours practicing this by watching the classroom clock, counting each breath like he was some sort of expert in nap rhythm.
Hand position: Left hand grabbing right ear. This, Takuto had determined, was Kenta's signature move—an unspoken rule that anyone in the sandbox knew meant that Kenta was in his "sleep fortress" and untouchable.
Takuto looked over his notes, checking his work like a junior analyst about to present his findings. "Great," he muttered, "All the metrics are within the control range." And then, it hit him. "Wait, why am I doing a KPI evaluation on myself?!"
Before he could process the existential question of why he was spending his time like this, a sound echoed across the room that changed everything.
Pooorrr~~~Gloooonk!
Takuto's stomach began to make an ominous, symphonic noise—a 15-second B-box session with distinct layers of sound:
First 3 seconds: A bass drum that rattled the foundations of his very being.
Middle 6 seconds: An electric sound reverberation, like a synthesizer at the climax of a pop song.
Last 6 seconds: The unmistakable noise of ketchup being squeezed from a bottle, setting the final tone of his digestive orchestra.
Teacher Yamada's face suddenly loomed above him, her eyes wide with what could only be described as abnormal data in a financial report. "Takuto, do you need to go to the bathroom?" she asked, concerned.
"No! This is…" Takuto quickly scrambled to think of an explanation. "My digestive system is holding its quarterly summary meeting!"
As his little fingers began to fumble through his thoughts, he continued, trying to maintain his composure like a seasoned executive explaining a financial crisis to a boardroom:
"The stomach is reporting on the progress of lunch digestion... The small intestine proposed a nutritional absorption plan... the large intestine is discussing—"
"What are they discussing?" Teacher Yamada leaned in, her curiosity piqued.
"Uh... Discussing whether to activate the emergency plan," Takuto said seriously, but as the words left his mouth, he felt something warm spread in his pants.
Suddenly, nap time was no longer about sleep. It was about survival.
The Creation of "Automatic Sleep Machine 1.0"
After failing to nap for seven days straight (seven days of sheer torment, during which his body was physically incapable of shutting down despite every effort), Takuto retreated to his "secret base" (the third stall in the bathroom). It was there, in the solitude of the bathroom, where he developed what he would later call the "Automatic Sleep Machine 1.0."
Takuto's technical specifications were—well, let's just say they could rival any Silicon Valley start-up:
Power System: He'd disassembled Kenta's jumping frog toy, a process that took two hours and several rounds of negotiations. (He finally settled on five cookies and three laps around Kenta while acting as his "horse.")
Breathing Device: His mom's face mask, modified with an IV tube to create the perfect "sleeping breath" ambiance. The mask now gave off the unique, philosophical scent of expired yogurt.
Smart Module:
Snoring Player: Recorded directly from the principal's infamous snoring sessions.
Anti-Detection Feature: A brilliantly labeled "tech innovation," but secretly written in fluorescent marker that read "Disassembler will be expelled."
Self-Destruct Program: If the device was detected, it would play "Happy Birthday" to confuse anyone listening.
The test process was both a success and a disaster:
10:00: Device starts up, runs perfectly.
10:01: Jumping frog loops into "Ribbit Lullaby."
10:02: Face mask essence leaks, triggering the "bed-wetting alarm."
10:03: Self-destruct program activates by mistake. "Happy Birthday" plays loudly throughout the entire kindergarten.
10:04: Principal bursts in, finding the device singing: "...Dear little Takuto Kimura..."
The principal's glasses reflected eerie light as she surveyed the situation.
"This is…" The principal raised an eyebrow. "It's an intelligent sleep assistant!" Takuto said, sweating bullets.
"A patent from my second uncle!" he added quickly, hoping to cover his tracks.
"Is your second uncle named Stark?" the principal inquired, her skepticism palpable as she lifted the dripping device from the floor. "Jarvis, shut down."
Well, that didn't work. Time for a new strategy.
Consciousness Control and the "Sleep Combat Manual"
Takuto decided to move away from technology altogether. It was time to resort to something more advanced—mental power. He had come up with a rigorous, foolproof plan to use "consciousness control" to defeat his enemies: the nap, his own body, and the oppressive weight of Teacher Yamada's expectations.
He grabbed a crayon and began writing his "Sleep Combat Manual" on his arm. His plan was simple, but genius:
Recall the most boring meeting of all time—Q3 2018 financial report analysis.
Recite all employee ID numbers (0001 to 0473) in alphabetical order.
Imagine the finance director reading out the "Tax Law Implementation Rules."
It was—unexpectedly—effective.
Two minutes later:
His breathing became long and deep.
Drool began to flow like a professional, as if Takuto had spent years perfecting his nap game.
His right foot began to twitch rhythmically, perfectly replicating the frequency of kicking the chairman during past meetings.
Teacher Yamada stood in awe. "Oh my!" she exclaimed, holding her face in disbelief. "He's even studying while sleeping!"
What Teacher Yamada didn't know, however, was that Takuto was dreaming about something far less academic:
An audit team performing a surprise inspection.
A paper jam in the printer during a crucial meeting.
Director Matsumoto, striding toward him with a 999-page "Tax Inquiry Letter" in hand.
In his dream, Takuto was shouting in desperation: "No! That depreciation calculation is compliant!" But all that came out was: "Eek! Poo-poo!"
Teacher Yamada, deeply moved by his dedication, scribbled something in her notebook: "Still practicing pronunciation while asleep. A little red flower for him."
The Mannequin Napping Experiment
By the third day of nap time, Takuto had reached the limits of his creativity. He was tired of trying to outsmart the system. If he couldn't sleep, he'd just pretend to be awake. Reverse psychology, the ultimate weapon in his toddler arsenal.
Takuto attempted to perfect the art of mannequin napping:
He stared wide-eyed, perfectly still, trying to look like a mannequin in a store window.
He tried to control not blinking for as long as possible (he lasted one minute and seven seconds before his eyes began to water uncontrollably).
He attempted ventriloquism to say, "I'm not sleeping." Instead, he only managed to make fart-like noises.
"Takuto..." Teacher Yamada said, her voice filled with concern. "Are you... practicing zombie acting?"
It was at that moment that Aichan, the class's self-appointed entertainment manager, brought the whole class over to witness Takuto's performance.
"Look! Takuto's turned into a mannequin!"
"Did his battery run out?"
"Should we pump him up with an air pump?"
Takuto, desperate and defeated, snapped. "I'm conducting strategic napping!"
Of course, to the teacher, all that came out was: "Eee-ya, oo-oo-wa!"
And thus, Takuto's nap wars continued. It was a battle of wits, willpower, and sheer exhaustion. But one thing was for sure—the strategic napper always wins. Even if no one understands the strategy.