Rice balls.

I took my kids to the new country. An old house by a ghost town. A ghost town or so they say. The kids ask why I hunt down the monsters that I do.
I just tell them I swore on the rice ball tattoo on my neck. I’d fill it up for my beautiful 35 stone wife. A lot to love.

Lady fat fighter they called her. She would go off to hunt down the tastiest rice balls, fighting the monsters along the way. She used her bare fists while I use a gun and she was terrifying. She forced marriage on me when we met at a gypsy dance club. Pushed me into a corner with her round belly. Said she’d break my back, she nearly did in the bedroom.

But her hunting days came to an end when a bus rode into her. It was a merry bus ride, one I enjoyed taking often. I liked how it went past the zoo. I was on it the day it collided and the bus was a wreck, many people died. As she stood in the road looking at the chaos she promised never to leave the house again. And I vowed to hunt the rice balls. For love. For freedom.

And now the house we sit in is surrounded by the ghosts of the monsters. I see them fly around at night but nobody else does. They seem to appear when we cook rice balls, and I had to be sure I could see them. It reminds me that nothing is forever, and the wispy spirits are more relaxing than the skin they lived in. I can be sure they are dead when I come back home. They live in the empty houses like people once did. A town for ghosts. A weight off my back as I walk through the streets with them. Mentally and physically. She wants another child.

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