Post by Remy Nakamura on Mar 23, 2021 18:57:40 GMT -6
My basement dojo has been cleared of clutter, swept free of debris; and I train with single-minded dedication. This tournament has been good to me. Undefeated, save for the one black mark left by my predecessor.
Fine with me. It will only make the glory all the sweeter when I rise up the ranks and claim that million-dollar prize.
And the only thing standing between me and victory -- is a literal zombie.
So, to recap: I’ve been Shanghai’ed into the Yakuza and forced to fight in a tournament where the only rule is survival of the fittest. My opponents are brutes and monsters and psychopaths. I own a magic sword whose influence over my will grows with each passing week. There’s a rival gang moving into our part of Vegas, led by a woman I’m reasonably certain is a sorceress. And all this against the dystopian backdrop of a city locked down by an army of jackbooted thugs, under the control of an enigmatic businessman with obscure motives and possible otherworldly powers of his own.
My existence has become an anime, complete with a cynical sidekick who plays it cool, but deep down, yearns to be a hero in his own right.
And right now, I’m really missing him. Mako is the only one of Shibata’s men who can hold his own with me in the ring. But he’s been sent to Mistress Yin to act as a liaison between our factions; in exchange, one of her girls is staying with us in the Hinomoto with the understanding that she isn’t to be propositioned. Not that most of the guys here haven’t tried. Rejection usually takes the form of a black eye and a limp that doesn’t wear off for a day and a half.
The wooden bo-ken is a blur of motion as I move through the intricate steps of a sword kata, slicing through imaginary foes with blinding speed -- until a slender figure moves directly into my path. Abruptly, I bring the practice sword to a halt, a hair’s breadth from the young woman’s face. She doesn’t flinch; doesn’t even blink. Ebony eyes hold my gaze, drawing me inexorably to her as I lower my guard. Her hands reach up to caress my face, skin cold and white as porcelain. Her lips are delicate cherry blossoms as she pulls me down into a kiss. I can feel myself slipping away, an intimate ego death, supplanted by her subtle command. It doesn’t occur to me to resist.
Alarm flares in my mind; distant, but urgent. My grip tightens involuntarily on the bo-ken in my hands. But no. The handle isn’t the smooth wood of a practice sword. It’s the diamond pattern of silk wrap, the cool brass of the demon’s head menuki, the reassuring weight of steel. All at once, my mind is once again my own. The spell broken, I step back and bring the naked steel to bear with a broad slash -- and I encounter only smoke as the girl dissipates into thin air.
A chilling laugh echoes in her wake as she vanishes, and I know I haven’t seen the last of her.
I glance down at the sword in my hands, and instead of the Ryohoko -- I find myself again gripping the polished oak hilt of a practice sword.
What the hell…?
”Zombie McMorris. A name legendary in certain circles. A name to be feared by most. Your reputation, my dude, precedes you.
Even if it didn’t, after that shit a month back, when you got yourself literally torn in half -- then you’re back in the ring two weeks later, like nothing happened -- I mean, what can I even say? And from there, to claim your one and only victory in this tournament… over a dude I already put down.
I guess what I’m saying is, everybody’s gotta start somewhere, am I right?
Yeah, I’m right.
So here we go. Ol’ Z and me. A couple of N’awlins boys ready to tear it up, show these soft motherfuckers how we do down in the Bayou. You got you that Marie Laveau, hoodoo power all up in your giblets, and that’s fine with me. Just means I can whoop your ass all night and you’ll keep on comin’ back for more.
And you will. ‘Cause this is all you got. You ain’t here for no cash prize. You got no stake in whatever master plan Conrad Dukes is cookin’ up. Your only interest in Corey Bull is finding his personal stash of coke, and you got absolutely no business going to Church.
See what I did there? That’s a pun, son.
Yeah, ZMac, I see you. You’re out here doin’ your thing, and I respect the fuck out of that, for damn sure. But your old gimmick is wearing thin. You're gonna sit around on that bust-ass old motorcycle, askin’ rhetorical questions and then answerin’ yourself. And you think that shit’s clever. Maybe it was, ten, fifteen years ago. Nowadays, though.. You're gonna have to try a little harder.
But then, that’s you, isn’t it, Z? Mr. Try-Hard; an undead edgelord who lost his edge. So what does that make you? A cut or two above a Jason Wilds? Yikes. Sucks to be you, bro.
None of that matters, though. We set foot in that ring tonight, it don’t matter that you’re little better than an extra on Walking Dead. It don’t matter how many matches you’ve fumbled your way to losing in this tournament. All that matters is that spotlight on Remy Nakamura when I put you down for the big three. Ain’t no coming back -- not after that. It’s the last nail in the coffin, the final trip to Purgatory; I’m gonna put you down so hard, they’ll have to identify you by your ICQ number, ‘cause ain’t no Twitter in the hell where I’m sending you.”
Fine with me. It will only make the glory all the sweeter when I rise up the ranks and claim that million-dollar prize.
And the only thing standing between me and victory -- is a literal zombie.
So, to recap: I’ve been Shanghai’ed into the Yakuza and forced to fight in a tournament where the only rule is survival of the fittest. My opponents are brutes and monsters and psychopaths. I own a magic sword whose influence over my will grows with each passing week. There’s a rival gang moving into our part of Vegas, led by a woman I’m reasonably certain is a sorceress. And all this against the dystopian backdrop of a city locked down by an army of jackbooted thugs, under the control of an enigmatic businessman with obscure motives and possible otherworldly powers of his own.
My existence has become an anime, complete with a cynical sidekick who plays it cool, but deep down, yearns to be a hero in his own right.
And right now, I’m really missing him. Mako is the only one of Shibata’s men who can hold his own with me in the ring. But he’s been sent to Mistress Yin to act as a liaison between our factions; in exchange, one of her girls is staying with us in the Hinomoto with the understanding that she isn’t to be propositioned. Not that most of the guys here haven’t tried. Rejection usually takes the form of a black eye and a limp that doesn’t wear off for a day and a half.
The wooden bo-ken is a blur of motion as I move through the intricate steps of a sword kata, slicing through imaginary foes with blinding speed -- until a slender figure moves directly into my path. Abruptly, I bring the practice sword to a halt, a hair’s breadth from the young woman’s face. She doesn’t flinch; doesn’t even blink. Ebony eyes hold my gaze, drawing me inexorably to her as I lower my guard. Her hands reach up to caress my face, skin cold and white as porcelain. Her lips are delicate cherry blossoms as she pulls me down into a kiss. I can feel myself slipping away, an intimate ego death, supplanted by her subtle command. It doesn’t occur to me to resist.
Alarm flares in my mind; distant, but urgent. My grip tightens involuntarily on the bo-ken in my hands. But no. The handle isn’t the smooth wood of a practice sword. It’s the diamond pattern of silk wrap, the cool brass of the demon’s head menuki, the reassuring weight of steel. All at once, my mind is once again my own. The spell broken, I step back and bring the naked steel to bear with a broad slash -- and I encounter only smoke as the girl dissipates into thin air.
A chilling laugh echoes in her wake as she vanishes, and I know I haven’t seen the last of her.
I glance down at the sword in my hands, and instead of the Ryohoko -- I find myself again gripping the polished oak hilt of a practice sword.
What the hell…?
~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~
”Zombie McMorris. A name legendary in certain circles. A name to be feared by most. Your reputation, my dude, precedes you.
Even if it didn’t, after that shit a month back, when you got yourself literally torn in half -- then you’re back in the ring two weeks later, like nothing happened -- I mean, what can I even say? And from there, to claim your one and only victory in this tournament… over a dude I already put down.
I guess what I’m saying is, everybody’s gotta start somewhere, am I right?
Yeah, I’m right.
So here we go. Ol’ Z and me. A couple of N’awlins boys ready to tear it up, show these soft motherfuckers how we do down in the Bayou. You got you that Marie Laveau, hoodoo power all up in your giblets, and that’s fine with me. Just means I can whoop your ass all night and you’ll keep on comin’ back for more.
And you will. ‘Cause this is all you got. You ain’t here for no cash prize. You got no stake in whatever master plan Conrad Dukes is cookin’ up. Your only interest in Corey Bull is finding his personal stash of coke, and you got absolutely no business going to Church.
See what I did there? That’s a pun, son.
Yeah, ZMac, I see you. You’re out here doin’ your thing, and I respect the fuck out of that, for damn sure. But your old gimmick is wearing thin. You're gonna sit around on that bust-ass old motorcycle, askin’ rhetorical questions and then answerin’ yourself. And you think that shit’s clever. Maybe it was, ten, fifteen years ago. Nowadays, though.. You're gonna have to try a little harder.
But then, that’s you, isn’t it, Z? Mr. Try-Hard; an undead edgelord who lost his edge. So what does that make you? A cut or two above a Jason Wilds? Yikes. Sucks to be you, bro.
None of that matters, though. We set foot in that ring tonight, it don’t matter that you’re little better than an extra on Walking Dead. It don’t matter how many matches you’ve fumbled your way to losing in this tournament. All that matters is that spotlight on Remy Nakamura when I put you down for the big three. Ain’t no coming back -- not after that. It’s the last nail in the coffin, the final trip to Purgatory; I’m gonna put you down so hard, they’ll have to identify you by your ICQ number, ‘cause ain’t no Twitter in the hell where I’m sending you.”