Wash.
Wash.
The blade was cutting through the sky.
Three pounds of metal coming down over and over again.
I've just been doing this ever since Miyamoto left for his duel.
I didn’t like this training.
I like getting my ass kicked more than just slashing the blade through the air, being forced to listen to my own ravings, and seeing every horror crashing through my thoughts like the elevator in The Shining. The first time I saw that film, I fell asleep watching it.
Wash.
Wash.
“What do you want?”
“Oh, come on, I can’t get a nicer greeting.
“I try not to be nice to gods; they always get you tied into some dumb shit. And last time we met Mad God, or to be exact, Konran, you gave me all the horrors of man.”
“I always have Vol. 2 if you ever want it.”
“I doubt Vol. 2 will ever reach the peaks of Vol. 1.”
“You’re right.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“Nothing really, just wanted to see my favorite piece of entertainment.”
“Who are you, Ryuk? By the way, I could kick Light's ass in, like, three days.”
“I could give you the Death Note.”
“I’m not some coward who needs to hide behind some magic notebook.
I have everything on me.
I could kill God if I wanted to… or the Devil.”
“That’s why I enjoy you so much—a madman doing whatever it takes even if he has to take himself out.”
“Is that why you give me such cursed knowledge?”
“Hey, you've been the only—man, woman, person, demon, oh whatever—who's been able to keep this knowledge in their skull without their brain becoming soap.
You really are an odd human pretending to be the symbol of all evil when all of you never even dare to think of yourselves as evil.
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Your liver should have rotted away a long time ago. You should really never give that flask to another person because it will outright kill them.”
“This doesn’t even have the strength of a morning whisk.”
“Gods, your liver is a horror.”
“Are we ever going to get back on topic?”
“We were on a topic?”
Jesus Christ I can understand why they call him mad; having a conversation with him was like having one with a child high on PCP.
I don’t get drunk often, but when I do, I have better, goddamn conversations.
“Your friend…”
“Comrade.”
“Oh, how cold… Well, your comrade was about to battle an old friend, and I wanted to see how you reacted. And you haven’t—even in your thoughts there hasn’t been much, but that could be from all that murder, rape, war crimes, crimes against humanity, etc.
Always running around in your little fucked-up mind. I just want to see you once again. Just watching you swing that sword and listening to your thoughts was a bit boring.”
“Why are all you gods always listening to my thoughts? Amaterasu does the same goddamn thing; there's nothing interesting in here. Also, call me whatever; it doesn’t matter when you’re just a blob in a trench coat.”
Konran pulled out a pocket watch.
“I better get going; I can’t stay in this world for just a bunch of boring god rules. As always, it's been fun V or Devil. I’ll be watching until next time. Bye.”
“Yeah, see you.”
Konran disappeared just like Amaterasu in my one dream on the back of the motorcycle right before we got into Eighty Tokyo.
Miyamoto never has to deal with this weird shit. Why does he always get the normal stuff, like an ex-comrade turned rival? And I get gods bothering me and weird magical blood shit. I guess I got this training time that's pretty normal.
Damn. My arms are sore.
The sound of a sozu broke the silent town once more.
Darkness was starting in on the town.
A steady wind fills the land with an unsteadiness.
The humidity of the surroundings drew a thick dew under Miyamoto's brow.
Miyamoto's blades were resting on the belt of his kimono. His katana sat above his wakizashi.
As Miyamoto walked through the silent town, every step he took made the town look more and more black and white.
“Odd”
Miyamoto started to quick-draw his katana, making sure that when he has to do it for real, he
Won’t.
Fuck.
Up.
The strings of a shamisen started to play in Miyamoto's mind.
He rather conversed about why this battle felt so different from the rest he fought in. Was it because he knew the strength of his opponent, a man so dogmatic about the blade he became a master at twenty-five?
Miyamoto made it to the dojo, the one at the end of the road.
Miyamoto walked down the left alleyway to the back of the dojo.
“Miyamoto, you have decided to come and die like a man.”
“You still have that same pride and ego on you, Sasaki.”
Sasaki stood on the far end of the circle. The battleground looks unkempt, like it has been used for a good while.
“Did you even care when Tadakatsu fell in battle against Kuro Mahoutsukai?”
“That those old bastards were always either working together or killing each other, and the two of them decided to finish on the second. I won’t feel bad for a man who did what he wanted and paid the price.”
“How could you be so cold to the man who let you into his home and learn to master the blade?”
The men started to walk around the circle.
Two pythons sitting in wait.
“The old man knew I did care about the blade, and the only reason you care was because you were starved for any form of priest.”
“You always were a disgrace to the blade. Let's end this meaningless discourse. How men who live by the blade do.”
“Fine.”
The two men gripped their hands around their blades and readied their sleeves.
Dung.
Dung.
Dung.
With the drop of sozu, Sasaki jumped at Miyamoto with his blade.
Miyamoto stood his ground, holding still.
With Sasaki only a few feet away, Miyamoto released his blade out of its sheath.
Dung.
Dung.
Dung.
One man dropped.
Another stood.
“That odd bastard wasn’t worth any of my tears, Sasaki.”
Dung.
Dung.
Miyamoto checked his body and found just a shallow cut across his chest.
“You always had too much pride.”
Clink.
Miyamoto cleans the blood off his katana and places his blade back into his sheath.
The shamisen continued to play through Miyamoto as he walked back.
