[gales of psychotic laughter amidst the crackling of flames]

[Takasugi is lounging against the trunk of a tree, much like the icon, smoking and calmly watching a herd of trees on the move, wondering vaguely if they really are migrating or if he's just that high...]

[Sitting on a stool in the darkroom, Takasugi seems rather absorbed in the contact sheet he's just assembled. Scattered on the table around him are several preliminary prints, which even by the red glow, it's plain to see, are of particularly gruesome and rather elaborately staged scenes of violent death. Disturbingly, Zura seems to be his star ( Read more... )

I can't claim to know what the owls were thinking. Puppets? They made very good kindling at least.

[There is a very naked Takasugi sunning himself on a rock in a clearing some place far away from the settlement. The only mercy being that he's lying on his belly. Still there is some scarred skinny terrorist ass on display for all to see, and he's not going to care if you bring to his attention that the camera is rolling either...]

[Dressed up as the stereotypical Native American medicine man, beads, feathers, smoke, and animal skulls visible hanging from the walls of, and scattered about the teepee by the flickering light of a fire in front of him, Takasugi appears to be in the middle of a ritual of some sort, face smeared with animal blood, and the smoke rising from the ( Read more... )

[drags himself into Zura's house, holding what's obviously a gash to his midsection, looks around, bleeds, and passes out right then and there]

[ooc: 1940's Takasugi has been knifed. Not so much for being Japanese-American, as for getting too deep in the underworld, and then being OBNOXIOUS about his radical political beliefs.]

[Takasugi stands with his back to the camera, kimono stained with blood, and sword unsheathed. To his side, the butchered carcass of what was once a bear. He swings the blade downward, flicking the blood from its surface, and hesitates, seemingly reluctant to sheathe it just yet, choosing instead to raise it to the sunlight flickering down through ( Read more... )

[The sounds of someone plucking away at a shamisen, something that might be a pen scratching against paper, more music, and... a sneeze. The music stops abruptly and Takasugi mutters something that sounds a lot like...]

...Damned snow.

[It's open mic night at Siebenville's smoky little cafe for revolutionaries, and Takasugi has center stage. Someone starts up on a pair of bongo drums, and he glares in their generation until they stop.A lion met America ( Read more... )