(no subject)
Zatoichi wanders in, a little unsteady on his feet. His cane is dragging beside him as it's held in his left hand, and he's careful about how he flops onto a nearby couch. He cinches up the front of his dirty kimono with his right hand, keeping it tightly closed. To anyone that would notice, there's the definite smell of blood on him; though, for Ichi, that's hardly uncommon.
"So this kid ate me broke. Now this." He nods toward his left side vaguely. "I can't give massages like this. Anyone got any good ideas for a temporarily unemployed masseur to make ends meet?"
((Sorry for the tag delay, unexpected events. Back for good now.))
"So this kid ate me broke. Now this." He nods toward his left side vaguely. "I can't give massages like this. Anyone got any good ideas for a temporarily unemployed masseur to make ends meet?"
((Sorry for the tag delay, unexpected events. Back for good now.))