Shitless Botan

Diary

Once Shitless Botan held a blade with the stillness of a man who had already died and found it boring; now he holds a chicken thigh with the same unblinking calm, grease dripping down a chin that used to command respect. In the sake house he did not flinch when his own nipple vanished somewhere between the seventh drumstick and the ninth cup of sake, just glanced down at the empty patch of skin and shrugged like a man noting a change in weather. The old dojo discipline whispers at him still, some ghost of a sensei demanding moderation, and every night Botan solemnly vows to eat one piece of chicken, just one, before ordering the whole bird and half a rooster besides. Now he stands on the street corner selling himself to strangers for gambling money, pricing his services with the same gallows calm he once used to price his own death in battle, unbothered, unshaken, one nipple lighter and somehow lighter in spirit for it. He tells anyone who asks that fear was surgically removed long ago, though most people just want to know if the discount applies before or after the chicken.