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“No, not Shakespeare,” said Gage while twirling his scotch and soda.
“Then what?” asked the Consul. By now the bar had nearly emptied. The two had been drinking since the previous afternoon. Sunlight streamed through the window and the smell of oysters cooking in wine and garlic ascended from the kitchen below. One could hear the cry of fishermen at the docks, the tolling of church bells, the hush of ghosts in doorways. It was five o’clock in the morning and all the decent people were still asleep in bed.
“If I were to choose an epitaph for the grave, it would be ‘Hadouken,’” replied Gage emphatically, spilling his scotch and soda as he searched desperately for bread among the discarded overcoats.“From that atrocious video game with the muscular men and the drugged elephants.”
Hadouken Hadouken.
I will kill you with my fists
in the ruins of this shogunate.
Hadouken Hadouken.
In another life, Kenneth,
we might have been lovers.
I wish like Quixote to let go of my scabbard
and return to the world of the dying and the sane.
