Boar Samurai

With unfailing precision, the boar samurai plucked bristles out of the back of his head, widening the small bald spot that's formed between his ears. He set the water to boil and began preparing the ink and the handle. Even as the dusk turned to night, his hands knew where to cut the bristles, where to pour the water. And when he was ready, he took his freshly made ink and new brush with him as he stepped into the night, a bottle of sake by his side.

He had been so careful. It was an uncertain time, how couldn't he? The war was over. His daimyo lost his head, all his samurai left to fend for themselves. His blade, and the righteous fury that guided it, was now a liability. The new daimyo, and the shogun above him, would not tolerate violent leaderless men in his prefectures, disturbing the peace for which he fought. So he signed on. Became docile. Hung up the sword and took up calligraphy.

But the bristles grew from beneath his skin and the tusks forced their way out of his mouth. He felt the hooves beneath his feet. A boar will stand its ground, even as the spears blot out the sky.

By the light of the stars, he navigated the night until he reached his destination: the gate of the palace of the local daimyo, illuminated only by a few lanterns. He set down his pot of ink and took his brush and wrote out a haiku on the wall. Then, he ripped some fabric, stuffed it in the bottle of sake, lit it with one of the lanterns, and tossed it over the gate.

The explosion brought the people running. The townsfolk, curious and scared. The daimyo's men, alarmed and ready to fight. In the light of the flaming palace, they saw a boar on all fours, a sword clenched between his teeth, eyes of cold rage. It charged at the daimyo's men, as the haiku shone in the light of revolution:

Stillness of the cold
Hooves disturb the silent night
Tusks break down the wall