Shark-Tooth Choker

What hides beneath the busting red-tide waves, what wains? Have you seen the Fat-white, would-be Samurai that lives 'round these parts? To him you see, the warrior code is the word of the fiery gods, and he follows it to the letter: Two minutes and 11 seconds on high, heat only when thawed for best results. A divine wind guides his every move, blossoms and bombs are his orations, his deeds are explosions over many oceans, an amalgam of light and splendor, interracial hues and shades of color illuminated by the bare bulb above his head. Pin pricks dot his thumbs, shinto values are not the order of the day. Outside of his house, we see his vista; a rising sun shining through blackened thorns and smog. The burrito is irradiated, ready for consumption, a victim of the .00005 kiloton explosion within the off-brand microwave. Our feudal soldier draws his fork from it's sheath, a tsuba well worn and scarred.