Angry Ikari

Diary

Ikari's vein throbs like a war drum before he even opens his mouth, because the elbow he shattered on the dojo roof under The Bearded Bandit's so-called tutelage still sings with a pain that feels personal, targeted, an insult from the universe itself. "Anger is a stone thrown into a hornet's nest," he snarls to no one, rubbing the joint that no longer bends the way honor once demanded it should, and yet he keeps throwing stones anyway because sitting still is worse. He remembers, with a tenderness he'd never admit to sober, the quiet dignity of his old life scooping poop behind the stables, a job with clear enemies (the smell) and clear victories (the bucket, emptied). Now his enemies are invisible: gravity, bad advice, a bearded lunatic who called a two-story drop into a haybale "advanced footwork," and worst of all his own reflection, unable to hold a single day of the discipline he swears by every hangover morning. He grips his splinted arm, mutters that fury without purpose is just a man boxing fog, and goes looking for the nearest thing to punch anyway, elbow be damned.