BUNRAKU REMIX

BUNRAKU

First Laid Eyes

He had thought to return, to consider – maybe to find some clear thinking while kicking some dirty punk ass. Perhaps the Barkeep would know where he would be able to find fourty-eight thousand smackers. Perhaps not. Probably not. Still... it was worth looking into, if only for a chance to get a cheap drink.

As the Drifter approached, his quick ears could already hear it – a scuffle inside – breaking glass, the rough scrape of chairs – a sharp CRASH – he stepped up and surveyed the scene before him. The tableau of violence so commonly seen in this god-forsaken land. He paused. Or maybe not so commonly seen.

The barkeep was there, impassive as usual, to the right, safely ensconced behind his bar. Pianist gone, the Drifter noted laconically, no music in the house tonight, folks. As for the scruffy workers and thugs – they looked the same. No. It was the lithe figure before him. The dark, lithe figure who whirled around – caught his eye and moved into an aggressive stance, ready to take on everyone.

A familiar feeling – but the face was different – and the dark, liquid – molten – heated – eyes which stared into his. The black hair pulled back into a ponytail... which cascaded inviting over squared, tense shoulders and a firm back. He pushed through the swinging doors and stood there, silently, enjoying the shifting changes of power in the room. Behind him, the thugs scuttled out nervously, no doubt wanting to avoid the scene they had experienced the night before [two dead, two thousand smackers lost].

There was silence. Barkeep moved some glasses around. Dark eyes clashed with dark eyes. And there was an understanding. Stances shifted and slowly relaxed. The Drifter's lips turned upward infinitesimally – as he perused the Asian. It was odd to see the slight figure of the Asian samurai in the bar – but intriguing. Still, he held his peace. A good fighter knows when the season was right – when it it or isn't a good time to show your hand.

But, there is something intoxicating about fearlessness – the muted aggression – the slim hands clenched into fists and the thin lips pressed together. He wonders what would happen if he pulled the slight samurai to him and crushed those lips underneath his. A blink. And the dream is gone.

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