“Next time we’ll see Orob’s continuing clashes with the Pink Daisho Clan.  Meanwhile, the Street Samurai crew gets an exclusive interview with an indie Ronin, who will be streaming the event live!  Check his twitter @ChrunchyRolla for det-”  

[i]click[/i]

The TV turned off and the man on the couch called over his shoulder.  

“I didn’t know we were clashing with the Daishos.” 

“Stop watching that shit.  If I could kill the cameramen without turning all the other kiddie samurai against us, I would.”  He was a much older man, graying hair tied back.  Two swords were sheathed, propped against the desk he sat at, counting money and going over files.  “It’s just a game to those little shits.”

“The millenials are killing the samurai industry!” he laughed from the couch.  

The older man chose not to respond to this, and instead said, “Mr. Hamayoto hasn’t paid this month, that’s odd.  He’s usually prompt.”  

“Should I take some muscle and go rough him up?”  He was already tying his sword on, and walking to the coat rack that had his robe on it.  

“Learn some respect and subtlety.  Pay him a visit, ask what’s happening and if he needs more time - yes, you can wear your sword - If he says yes he does, tell him two days.  [i]Then[/i] bring some muscle to rough him up.”

~~~

Shinobi strolled up Dogenzaka Hill, most other passersby giving him a wide berth.  Some greeting him cheerily, and most of the shop proprietors gave a respectful nod or wave.  Mr. Hamayoto ran a little noodle stand on the Hill, which was usually considered Orob territory.  While they could be scary in their own way, the people here knew that the Orob looked out for their own.  As long as they paid tribute.  

Something was wrong, though.  As he walked on, the street going forward was emptier, and some people were even avoiding eye contact with him.  Shinobi just barely caught sight of a man with a kusarigama, the chain wrapped around his waist, as he turned and walked down an alley upon seeing the ronin.  That was trouble, he knew.  Shinobi casually laid his right hand on the sword at his side gripping the scabbard loosely, but pushing on the hand guard with his thumb to loosen it.  

A slurping and crunching noise was drifting down the street, accompanied by a smell like rotting meat.  Hama Noodles was ahead, and the curtain was ripped most of the way off, though there was still light in it.  Shinobi could see a shadow moving from within, four arms on the form, the upper two looked to be uppending a bowl into the creature’s mouth.  

His left hand came down to the sword’s hilt now.  

Before he could get the drop on it, the man with the chained blade strolled out of an alley between Shinobi and the stand.  He looked cooly at Shinobi and stepped into the stand and out of sight.  Shinobi heard a murmured conversation, and then the man emerged again, followed by the oni.  

It was a black skinned one, easily eight feet tall, and had four arms.  The upper right arm grabbed a club the size of a man from somewhere in the noodle stand, and hefted it over his shoulder.  

“Come to join me for dinner, little samurai?”  His voice was like gravel being shoveled into a furnace.