#kimonofox

//I'm going to text you one thousand pictures of Shaq

- H

     "Tomoe-san!" Though hushed in tone, he spoke with a zeal reserved only for the fox. It was unmistakable. His shallow depth of field seemed to broaden, and the slightest hint of reality crept back into the room.         Hideo bowed lowly, asked, "How are you, my friend? Lately I have felt my other half trying to escape. But even the beast is courteous enough to behave in front of you."

     The son of a god and the right hand to a yakuza boss sit in a brothel. The son says, “It ain’t nuffin’.”       Nuffin' being the flat punchline, the quelled reaction to a front-row seat at the edge of the universe, the end all hovel of red light and white satin, pick a boy, pick a girl, pick anything that makes your soldier stand upright. The hairs on the back of his neck are foils to a wandering touch. He shrugs it off, blinks as his vision blurs. This is the third or fourth drink.      Oser stares into his glass as if it holds all the secrets of the hole in the wall, and he slurs to his accomplice, “He’s just a kid, like. Proper idiot, but. Real promisin’ and—and I look after ‘im. He’s a good lad.”

YER GONNA GET IT

... Foxes don't 'ave dances, do they?