Happy birthday marenfic
Yesterday I posted the long-awaited sixth chapter of "Life in Shadow", 9 months after I last updated it. It was a struggle, and I'm still not absolutely happy with it, but at least I've got it back in motion. Maybe the next chapter won't be quite as hard.
Today I celebrated by relaxing with a piece of absolute lunacy. Yes, it's the third installment of that epic of swordplay and bad haiku, "Dojo Hard". Exactly 750 words, some of them Japanese. Love it, hate it, or ignore it, you can't take it seriously ...
Dojo Hard Part 3
“You didn’t kill the Slayer, my Chopstick,” Drusilla complained, “and look, my Koi have died.”
“Should have put water in their bowl, then, Dru-chan,” Chopstick advised her.
“They always die,” Drusilla lamented.
“You always forget the water,” Chopstick pointed out.
“Well, it’s invisible,” Drusilla pouted. “Who can remember water?”
Chopstick struck a dramatic pose and recited an impromptu haiku.
“Sun upon water
Light refracted on ripples
“Silly Chopstick,” Drusilla smiled. “Are we going to see the Anointed One?”
Chopstick frowned. He thought that his extemporized poem had been rather good and he had hoped for a better reaction. “I’ll go, love. You just stay here and burn your fishes.”
“You have failed me, Chopstick,” the Anointed One said severely. The little monk sat cross-legged in front of the shrine, surrounded by burning sticks of incense.
“You should have sent me, Anointed One,” said an imposing ronin. “I was at the battle of Shimabara Castle.”
Chopstick sniffed. “If every ronin who said that they were at the battle of Shimabara Castle had really been there, it would have been like the Kanamara penis festival. I was at the Kanamara penis festival,” he drifted off into reverie. “Got smashed on sake, and watched the penises parade past for six hours. Bunch of wankers.”
“You insult our lord!” the ronin snapped, putting his hand to his sword.
Chopstick whirled around in a blur of motion. His katana seemed to leap into his hand and pass through the ronin’s neck in the same instant. Chopstick twirled the sword to shake off the blood and slid it back into the scabbard. The ronin toppled to the ground, his sword still only half drawn, and his head came off and rolled away.
“Not only do you fail me, but you slay my bodyguards!” the monk scolded. “You are dishonored, Chopstick. Under the code of Bushido you must commit seppuku.”
“I’m a poet and minstrel, not a mathematician,” Chopstick said. “Don’t do number puzzles.”
The Anointed One groaned. “Seppuku, not Sudoku,” he said wearily.
“Don’t do that either,” Chopstick grinned. He strode to one of the attendant ronin and snatched the straw hat from the man’s head. The warrior glared but did not dare to object. Chopstick walked to one of the temple’s supports and used a sanroyoshin needle to pin the hat to the wooden pillar, and then returned to the Anointed One.
He bowed low. “I abase myself,” he said, but he was smirking.
“I doubt your sincerity,” the Anointed One frowned.
“Bloody right,” Chopstick snarled. His katana lashed out once more. The Anointed One’s head flew from his shoulders and rose into the air. Chopstick spun on his heel and brought his left foot up in a spinning kick. He connected with the head and sent it flying across the room to drop neatly into the hat. “Goal!” he cried.
The assembled ranks of ronin, ninja, and warrior monks were awestruck. “Goal!” they chorused. “We are yours to command, Chopstick-sama.”
“Damn right,” Chopstick said. “Break out the sake! From now on there’s gonna be a lot less ritual and a lot more fun around here. Dalton-san! Bring me my Biwa!”
Chopstick’s servant obeyed, and the ninja took hold of the four-stringed lute and struck a chord.
“I was a Samurai,
But now I’m a ninja guy
Don’t know what I want but I know how to get it
I wanna destroy the Shogunate
In an upper gallery of the temple, unseen by Chopstick, an archer took careful aim at the ninja. The words of the song distracted him for a moment. “He wants to be origami?” the archer muttered incredulously. “What on Earth does he mean by that?”
“He’s a dear boy, but a bloody awful poet,” a voice whispered in his ear.
The archer whirled and found himself face to face with the mad Geisha Drusilla, who was smiling and fanning herself.
“He must die,” the archer said.
“Ah-hah, naughty naughty,” Drusilla scolded. She swirled the fan around and slashed it across the archer’s throat.
The man staggered back, blood gushing from his neck where the steel blades concealed within the fan had severed his arteries, and toppled from the balcony to crash to the floor.
Chopstick looked up from his playing, waved briefly to Drusilla, and then carried on.
Drusilla smiled and waved back. “Not time for my Chopstick to die yet,” she said to herself. “First we must get back my Angel-san.”