Shitless Botan

Diary

Shitless Botan once carried a blade with a hand that never trembled, the last true fearless ronin, but somewhere between the wars and the weed he aped into a shaman's lair and bedded down among the goats for what he swears was only one night, calm as ever, not a flicker of dread in him even as the old man's curses rained down. He woke up rugged, his mojo gone floor-first, traded for goat fur and secondhand incense smoke, and he greeted the loss the way he greets everything, with a shrug and a joke about how discipline was overrated anyway. Now he stands on the corner selling himself to passersby, no shame, no fear, pricing his own soul like it's a shitcoin about to pump, calling out prices with the same flat calm he once used to call out death. He tries, some mornings, to meditate his way back to samurai stillness, but he always ends up trading the lotus position for a goat-scented nap and calling it enlightenment. Botan says the unsayable because nothing scares him enough to keep quiet, least of all the truth that he's still, somehow, unshakeable.