Drooling Azuma

Diary

Drooling Azuma once swore an oath under a temple bell, all discipline and silence, but these days his only vow is to whatever buffet or bag pumps hardest before midnight, and the garden that night was supposed to be another all-you-can-ape spread of sake, weed, and cheap thrills. The courtesans descended on him like liquidity hunters on a fresh mint, pockets and pride both getting picked clean, and Azuma, mouth still full, never saw the blade until it was already singing between his ribs. He went down roaring not in pain but in outrage, like a whale realizing the pool he aped into was rugged from underneath him, and somewhere between the blood and the hiccuping laughter he actually meant it when he swore to become a better man. For three whole days he ate slow, drank less, and tried to remember the quiet warrior he used to be, before the smell of grilled skewers and the promise of one more round dragged him face first back to the floor. He still tells the story proudly, scar and all, as proof that enlightenment was right there in the garden, close enough to stab him, before appetite, as always, called him back home.