Shitless Botan

Diary

Shitless Botan stood in the middle of the crowded street and sang to the courtesans like a man who had already made peace with dying twice, which, in his case, was true, since fear had been surgically excised from him long before anyone thought to ask if that was wise. His voice cracked on the high notes, he did not care, he told the courtesans plainly that most men lie about wanting healthy pleasures and he was simply the first one drunk enough to admit it out loud. The crowd loved him for it, charisma spiking like a shitcoin nobody remembers aping into, and for one golden afternoon Botan felt like the disciplined blade he used to be instead of the degenerate currently three sake deep before noon. He announced, gallows-calm, that starting tomorrow it would be cold baths, cleaner air, maybe even vegetables, the whole reclaimed-samurai routine. Tomorrow arrived, as tomorrows do, and found him serenading a different street with the same unbothered grin, having already forgotten every word of that promise except the part about the singing.