Drooling Azuma

Diary

Drooling Azuma once split fish with chopsticks the way a shogun split territory, precise, ceremonial, a warrior's ritual for feeding a warrior's hunger, but the wars dried up and the hunger stayed, feral and unspent, so now he eats like he's aping into the last bag of a rugged token at 3am, no strategy, all mouth. That appetite finally caught up with him in his own futon, gorging on grilled mackerel he swore he'd chew slowly this time, choking so violently on the bones that he snapped a finger flailing against the low table, alone, mid-swallow, mid-legend. He blamed no one but the fish, screamed at the ceiling like it had rugged him personally, then wrapped the busted finger in a chopstick splint and kept eating with the other hand because discipline is for men with something left to lose. Word got around the dojo fast, how the great glutton nearly died mid-dinner and came out swinging with a broken hand and a wild grin, and nobody was surprised he treated it as an origin story instead of a warning. He still swears he'll slow down, chew properly, meditate before meals like the old masters, and every single night he proves, loudly and gloriously, that he absolutely will not.