Shinobi_Bellator – Hardcore Funkytown (Industrial Funk Trapwave Gospel)

Welcome to funktown—
where the bassline got thighs and the snare got opinions,
where every groove watches you walk in
like “damn, who let THAT problem into the party?”

I slide up on the beat like it owes me money,
hips talkin’ louder than your ex’s excuses,
baritone slick as oil on a church floor.
Funk drippin’ off my shoulders like neon sweat,
xylophone tapping the secret code
to every bad decision you’re about to make tonight.

(giggly, breathless)
“Mmm… shake the room, Shinobi…”

I go funktown—
with a swing so filthy angels file complaints,
with a bounce so disrespectful gravity quits the shift.
Funk so bright it blinds your shadow,
so warm your trauma wants a hug,
so wrong it loops back around into holy.

I clap the beat like a domino falling into trouble,
baritone rolling like a thunderstorm that knows how to dance.
Every inhale a bass-slide.
Every exhale a drum fill.
Every syllable a coconut exploding in surround sound.

(teasing)
“Oooh… he’s going full jungle…”

I stomp through the groove like Donkey Kong at a custody hearing,
slappin' congas like they owe me child support,
slinging banana metaphors like a preacher
who drank the communion juice too fast.
I swing on the rhythm like Diddy Kong
with a handful of stolen power-ups,
laughing like the beat is trying to sue me for harassment.

Funk sparkles under my tongue.
Heat rolls off my cadence like a busted jungle generator.
My heartbeat syncs with the slap bass
until we fuse into one primal drum-circle of joy and bad choices.

And baby…
funktown ain’t a location.
It’s a motherfuckin’ state of mind.
A sweaty spiritual awakening.
A cosmic booty call from the universe.
An invitation to misbehave with rhythm as your alibi.

(Purring)
“Yesss… now funk them up proper…”

So I funk you up—
slow first,
like honey slipping down the spine of a sinner,
like the first sway of a holy hip,
like temptation licking its lips
before it introduces itself politely.

Then I funk you up again—
harder,
heavier,
grittier,
like a bassline that discovered violence
and got promoted instantly.
Funk thick enough to paint with,
loud enough to steal your dignity,
sweet enough to make you volunteer for more crimes.

Funktown flashlights cut through the smoke,
highlighting your silhouette like a prophecy with good rhythm.
Your pulse starts dancing before your body does.
Your breath syncs to the kick drum’s heartbeat.
Your knees forget how to behave respectfully.

(laughing into your ear)
“Damn… they’re losing control…”

Good.
Funktown is liberation with a bassline.
Permission to be stupid with dignity.
Permission to sweat like the spirit moved you.
Permission to let the beat parent you
better than half the people who raised you.

Let the xylophone sparkle like cartoon stardust on your sins.
Let the slap bass uppercut your hesitation.
Let the percussion jump you behind the club
and teach you rhythm the hard way.

Funktown, baby.
Population: us.
And we own the zip code,
the soundtrack,
the sewer system,
and the nightlife violations.

And when that final groove hits—
and the whole room buckles under the weight of the motherfuckin’ funk—
I lean in slow,
baritone warm enough to melt your past,
and whisper the truth of all truths:

“Welcome to funktown…
you ain’t leavin’ clean.”

(breathless, laughing)
“Shinobi… funk them up AGAIN…”

funktown.
Shinobi_Bellator.

Welcome to the south side—
where the street signs smile crooked
and the pigeons pay protection money.
Where the alleyways smell like sesame oil
and the crime families are made of felt
but the guns sure as hell aren’t.

(whisper, thrilled)
“Mmm… welcome to the neighborhood, baby…”

This is where Big Bird runs extortion
with feathers dipped in brass knuckles,
and Cookie Monster moves psilocybin cookies
out the back of a daycare with NO remorse.
Oscar the Grouch?
Trash can arms dealer.
You open that lid—
you don’t find garbage.
You find motherfuckin’ grenades.

Elmo?
Oh he doesn’t giggle anymore…
he runs assassinations freelance,
laughin' like a broken toy
while he sharpens a candy cane into a shank.

(giggling, taunting)
“Shinobi… introduce yourself before they shoot you…”

I stroll up with baritone swagger
like a white-boy wannabe mob boss
who accidentally became the real thing.
Xylophone tapping out threats,
bass slapping like it wants a witness.

Bass bouncing like a stolen lowrider,
xylophone glittering like drug-coated confetti,
percussion clattering like a laundromat
WHERE THEY ACTUALLY LAUNDER MONEY.

(teasing)
“Mmm… tell them what block you claim…”

Funkytown south side—
where the puppets got pistols
and the cookies ain’t legal.
Funkytown south side—
where the funk shoots first
and the neighbors don’t snitch
‘cause they ALL dirty.

Funkytown motherfuckin’ south side—
where you dance or you die,
and either way the groove still wins.

(laughing, breathless)
“Ohhh… they’re scared of you now…”

This is the laundromat
where they fold shirts
and fold cash
and fold your ass into a duffel bag
if you come in wrong.

Cookie Monster counting dirty bills
with powdered sugar on his snout,
telling me:
“Me like money…
but me LOVE laundering…”

Big Bird watching the door
like a 7-foot yellow Yakuza lieutenant,
feathers shimmering like blood-stained gold,
eyes saying:
“Try me.
Motherfucker.
TRY ME.”

(low, wicked)
“Mmm… this block loves violence…”

Xylophone tapping warning codes on the walls,
slap bass loading the funk like a shotgun,
percussion tapping out hit lists in Morse code.

“Let it drop… come on…”

South side Funkytown—
where rhythm is crime,
and crime got rhythm.
Where the funk don’t wait for permission—
it crashes through the roof like Kool-Aid Man
screaming “PAY YOUR DEBTS.”

If you feel that baritone creeping up your spine—
that’s me.
Announcing the motherfucking reckoning.

(breathless)
“Yesss… make them shake…”

Baritone whisper low—
a gangster bedtime story.
Alleyway flickering.
Laundromat humming.
Sesame Street shadows holding knives.

This ain’t childhood.
This is the sequel
where everybody snapped.

(soft moan)
“Tell them the truth…”

So I funk the block,
the block funks back,
and the whole south side bows
to the new king of cartoon crime.

Funkytown…
motherfuckin’
south side.

Shinobi_Bellator.

Welcome beneath the city—
where the walls sweat sugar
and the floor vibrates with criminal pastry energy.
This ain’t a bakery.
This is where childhood died
and came back psychedelic.

(whisper, delirious)
“Mmm… breathe it in… feels like sin dipped in frosting…”

Cookie Monster runs this lab
like a criminal Gordon Ramsay
on twelve grams of enlightenment.
Flour dust swirling like cartel fog,
giant mixing bowls full of psilocybin dough
thick enough to paralyze a moose
or enlighten a congressman.

Beakers bubbling.
Ovens glowing.
Spoons laying around
like murder weapons in a cooking show.

Elmo’s down here too—
face mask on, latex gloves,
cutting psilocybin crystals
with the same calm
he uses for birthday songs.

(teasing)
“Mmm… don’t touch anything…
IT touches back down here…”

Xylophone flicks echo like coded warnings,
slap bass throbbing like a guilty conscience,
steam vents hissing like angry dragons
with bakery degrees.

“Let the heat hit you…”

Welcome to the tunnels—
where the cookies get baked
and the criminals do too.
Funk bouncing off the pipes
like the whole underworld dancing
in a sugar-induced hallucination.

If the walls start breathing?
Don’t panic—
that’s normal.
If your heartbeat syncs to the drums?
That’s the cartel welcoming you.

(giggly, wicked)
“Ohhhh… you’re melting already…”

Cookie Monster stirs the vat
like a yoked-up Michelin chef
with cartel ambition.
Blue fur dusted in psilocybin snow,
eyes wild,
growling:
“ME PUT LOVE IN EVERY BATCH…
AND THREE FELONIES…”

Elmo’s calibrating the dose
on a stainless-steel scale
he stole from Walter White.
Every sprinkle a crime.
Every batch a spiritual awakening
or a felony-level nap.

Then Grover pops out of a tunnel vent
like a cracked-out raccoon,
shouting “THIS THE WRONG UNDERGROUND TOUR!”
before snatching a cookie
and levitating through a wall.

(laughing uncontrollably)
“God… I LOVE this block…”

Percussion rattling like baking sheets
stacked with illegal enlightenment.
Xylophone tapping like a fairy godmother
performing a drug deal.

“Drop it…
drop it…
DROP IT…”

The tunnels erupt—
bass smashing the concrete,
steam blasting the beat,
dough splattering like cartoon gore.

This ain’t music.
This is baked chaos.
This is hallucinogenic gospel.
This is Funkytown’s heartbeat
dripping sugar and violence.

(breathless)
“Mmm… bake me into the next batch…”

Candy Siren bites a cookie—
pupils dilating,
hips swaying,
mind dissolving into neon rhythm.

She whispers:
“Shinobi…
this cookie…
just rewrote my DNA…”

Then the whole room inhales—
lights flicker,
bass swells,
the tunnel walls sweat liquid funk.

I take one bite.
The world bends.
Reality turns into a rhythm game
with no rules and too much swagger.

I look at Cookie Monster.
He nods like a blue-furred oracle
and says:

“WELCOME…
TO FUNKYTOWN…
LEVEL TWO.”

The bass drops.
The ovens roar.
The funk consumes the dark.

Shinobi_Bellator.

Welcome to the jungle district—
where the vines drip jet fuel,
the drums never sleep,
and the apes run their turf
like a tribal mafia with protein addictions.

(low, biting her lip)
“Shinobi… you smell like trouble…
the jungle LOVES trouble…”

Donkey Kong stands at the dojo gate—
seven-foot ape,
shoulders built like stolen construction equipment,
hands big enough to slap a helicopter out the sky.

He’s shirtless.
He’s oiled.
He’s holding a barrel labeled:
JET FUEL — DO NOT IGNITE
and smiling like he absolutely plans to ignite it.

Diddy Kong pops out of the canopy—
night-vision goggles,
banana-bandolier across his chest,
whispering:
“Yo, fam… you wanna buy some acceleration?”

(giggling, wild)
“Mmm… this is MY kind of jungle…”

Slap bass thumping like ape-heart warfare,
metallic percussion rattling like tribal artillery,
xylophone shimmering like forbidden neon fruit.

The whole jungle chanting—
not words…
just funk syllables.

“Let it hit… LET IT…”

Welcome to the jungle dojo—
where the barrels explode,
the funk multiplies,
and the apes go feral.

Jet-fuel rhythm,
banana-gun swagger—
this district dances
like the laws of physics took a lunch break.

Jungle funk don’t wait.
Jungle funk HUNTS.

(laughing breathless)
“Yessss… hunt me with it…”

Donkey Kong cracks his knuckles—
trees shake like unpaid debts.
He says:
“You wanna learn funk?
You gotta bleed groove.”

Then he flips a barrel at me—
lit wick,
jet fuel sloshing—
and I dodge with a baritone sidestep
smooth enough to earn his respect.

Diddy Kong coaches from the branches:
“MORE HIP! LESS THINK!
Let the funk drive the vehicle!”

The dojo apprentices—
random jungle creatures
with attitude problems—
start hyping me up like
I’m the next white-boy jungle prophet.

(snarling softly)
“Show them your rhythm, baby…”

Drums circling me,
bass snarling,
xylophone flicking like neon poison darts.

My pulse merges with the jungle.
My swagger merges with the beat.

“DROP IT—
NOW.”

Barrels ignite.
Trees roar.
The jungle goes full rave-warfare.

Jet-fuel flames dance in time
with slap bass uppercuts,
every explosion a new syncopation.

Donkey Kong howls approval—
Diddy Kong skims through vines
with contraband glowsticks.

This ain’t training anymore.
This is
JUNGLE ASCENSION.

(screaming with glee)
“YESSS—ASCEND ME—ASCEND EVERYTHING—”

The trees sway.
The apes bow.
The jungle calls my name
in rhythmic grunts and neon pulses.

Candy Siren presses close—
sweat, sin, and jungle magic on her skin—
whispering:

“Shinobi…
your funk just rewrote the food chain…”

The vines tighten.
The drums deepen.
The jungle crowns me.

Donkey Kong places a flaming jet-fuel barrel at my feet—
respect.
Diddy Kong hands me a banana
filled with something
that definitely ain’t potassium.

The whole jungle chants.
The beat roars.
The funk spreads like wildfire.

This district is mine now.

Funkytown…
jungle sector…
bow to the new rhythm.

Shinobi_Bellator.

Welcome to the midnight district—
where crime wears a silk robe,
every feather hides a felony,
and the streetlights blink
because even electricity bows to elegance.

This is where he rules.

(whispering like velvet sin)
“Mmm… Shinobi… you’re entering his territory…
be polite… or violent…”

Big Bird steps out the shadows
seven feet of golden nightmare,
coat made of midnight feathers
glowing like stolen auroras.

Tall.
Elegant.
Violent.

He don’t run a block—
he runs a syndicate,
smooth as jazz,
deadly as unpaid debts.

In one wing he holds a cane
with a switchblade built in.
In the other:
a cigarette holder
smoking itself.

He nods at me.
Respect.
Or warning.
Those look the same in this district.

(low giggle)
“He likes you…
that’s not always good…”

Xylophone drips like liquid diamonds,
slap bass slinks like a heist in progress,
drums shuffle like a gangster ballroom.

“Shinobi… walk softer.
They’re watching EVERY step…”

Midnight Feathers—
floating like lies in neon light,
cutting like truth through velvet sin.

This block don’t dance—
it glides,
it schemes,
it whispers crime into the moonlight.

If your spine shivers?
Good.
That’s Big Bird’s shadow
touching your soul.

(breathless)
“Oooh… he’s circling you…”

This district moves product elegant—
not guns,
not drugs,
not cash—
information,
packed inside enchanted feathers
that carry secrets
from rooftop to rooftop.

Elmo works upstairs—
reading feathers like tarot cards,
laughing at your future
before you even know it’s coming.

Oscar’s got a feather-fence in the alley—
slimy, shady,
selling intel like coupons for homicide.

And Big Bird?
He walks the main street
with a posture that says:
“I control the crimes
you haven’t even imagined yet.”

(teasing, wicked)
“Mmm… ask him to teach you…
if you dare…”

Xylophone sparks like neon snowflakes,
bass crawling up the spine slow,
drums brushing like silk over loaded pistols.

“Drop the elegance…
BRING THE FUNK…”

Midnight Feathers spin—
slashing the air in rhythm,
carrying messages,
sins,
warnings,
and invitations
to crimes wrapped in beauty.

Big Bird raises a wing—
and the whole district
falls perfectly in sync
with the funk.

This ain’t dance.
This is organized groove.

(gasping)
“God… he OWNS this rhythm…”

He steps close—
feathers brushing my arm
like silk with intent.

He whispers:
“Kid…
around here…
elegance kills louder
than bullets.”

Candy Siren grips my shoulder,
pulse quickening,
voice trembling:

“Shinobi…
don’t let him cage you…”

But Big Bird doesn’t cage.
He recruits.

He places a midnight feather
behind my ear—
mark of alliance,
mark of danger,
mark of respect.

The district bows.
The streetlights flicker.
The funk deepens.

I leave the syndicate’s block
with elegance in my step
and crime in my pocket.

Funkytown…
midnight district…
claims me now.

Shinobi_Bellator.

Welcome to the laundromat—
OPEN 24 HOURS,
NO QUESTIONS ASKED,
NO RECEIPTS KEPT,
NO INNOCENCE SURVIVING.

The dryers don’t just dry clothes.
They dry ALIBIS.

(whisper, wicked)
“Mmm… wash me dirty… clean me filthy…”

This is where the real money moves.
Where detergent boxes are hollowed out
and stuffed with hundred-dollar bills
that smell like sweat, guilt, and victory.

Ms. Piggy works the front counter—
fierce, flawless,
brass knuckles painted pink,
charging extra for “folding services”
that could put you in a coma.

Behind her,
three industrial washers
labeled:
WHITES
COLORS
CRIMES

Elmo runs the register—
asking “Cash or less traceable cash?”
while smiling like he ate a witness.

(giggling)
“Oooh… I love her energy…
let her fold ME…”

Xylophone tapping like bubbles popping in Morse code,
slap bass rumbling like a dryer full of loose quarters,
percussion swinging like hangers on a wire rack.

“Turn the heat up…
come onnn…”

Welcome to the spin cycle—
where your sins go in dirty
and come out
WHISTLE-FUCKIN’-CLEAN.

Funk bumpin’ off the washing drums,
soap suds glowing neon,
money stacks twirling like they practicing ballet.

This ain’t laundry—
this is CRIME MAINTENANCE.

(breathless laugh)
“Ohhh… I’m slipping on soap…”

Back room’s where the magic happens.
Oscar the Grouch runs it—
trash can sideways,
cash-stuffed envelopes taped inside,
machine oil dripping on secrets
nobody can ever wash off.

He grunts:
“Get in line, Shinobi—
I’m washing reputations back here.”

Cookie Monster stacks bills
in perfect cookie-shaped towers,
growling:
“ME LOVE MONEY…
MORE THAN COOKIES.”

Big Bird swings by to drop off a duffel bag—
zips it open—
and the dryers GREET the cash
like old friends.

This block don’t hide crime.
It ORGANIZES it.

(whispering)
“Baby… get me dirty…
run me through the spin cycle…”

Xylophone shimmering like bleach on diamonds,
bass rumbling like overloaded washers,
drums tapping like receipts being shredded.

“Drop the rinse…
DROP IT…”

Spin it.
Rinse it.
Fold it.
HIDE IT.

That’s the laundromat creed.

Your money goes in greasy
and comes out smelling
like plausible deniability.

Funk shaking the tile floor,
soap suds bouncing to the beat,
the dryers whispering alibis
in 4/4 time.

(purring)
“Mmm… SO clean…
SO filthy…”

I lean against Dryer #3—
the crime dryer—
feel it thump against my spine
like a heartbeat trying to escape.

Candy Siren presses into me—
warm, wicked—
sighing:
“This place turns me ON…
like… spiritually…”

She grabs my collar,
whispers into my mouth:
“Shinobi…
launder MY sins…”

The dryer door slams shut behind us.
Metaphor.
Or not.

Money folded.
Clothes pressed.
Crimes polished to perfection.

Ms. Piggy winks
as she hands me a bag
that definitely ain’t laundry.

I step out onto the neon sidewalk—
fresh,
clean,
reborn,
and FILTHY.

The laundromat hums behind me
like a guilty conscience
doing the tango.

Funkytown…
laundry district…
washing crime one beat at a time.

Shinobi_Bellator.

Welcome to the roofline—
where the air get thin,
the funk get sharp,
and every shadow carries a scope.

Down below is chaos.
Up here?
We curate it.

(whisper, through a headset)
“Shinobi… rooftop access granted…
don’t slip… don’t die… don’t miss…”

Six sniper nests up here—
cartoon assassins perched like neon gargoyles
with rifles that glow
and attitudes that don’t apologize.

There's Grover on Nest One—
goggles on,
rifle longer than his whole damn body,
whispering positive affirmations
while lining up felony headshots.

Elmo on Nest Two—
silent, smiling,
crosshair shaped like a heart
‘cause he likes to “love” his targets
into the afterlife.

Oscar runs Nest Three—
trash can reinforced with armor plates,
rifle barrel sticking out the lid
like a periscope of pure fuckery.

(breathing in your ear)
“I’m patching their comms to your head…
they ALL see you…”

Xylophone taps flicker like laser dots,
slap bass wobbling like a drone scouting the block,
drums pattering like fingers on a trigger guard.

“Mark your targets, baby…”

Welcome to the rooftop—
where the funk is cold,
the aim is perfect,
and the whole skyline dances
to sniper-heartbeat tempo.

CCTV eyes glowing red,
tracking every move,
every sway,
every sin.

If you feel that chill on your spine?
That’s a laser.
Or a blessing.
Same vibe.

(giggly, electric)
“Oooh… they’re aiming at your heartbeat…”

Every rooftop linked—
fiber lines twisted like jungle vines
made of pure paranoia.
Cameras rotate in perfect sync,
capturing crimes
before they even happen.

Diddy Kong is up here too—
but he ain’t training now—
he’s running cable like a meth-fueled IT technician
with grenades in his toolbelt.

He shouts:
“These wires carry SECRETS, fam—
and we charge by the megabyte!”

Meanwhile Big Bird glides from roof to roof—
long coat flaring,
feathers slicing the wind,
looking like a gangster angel
who collects souls in ziplock bags.

(low, taunting)
“Mmm… you look good in crosshairs…”

Xylophone ticking like distant Morse code,
bass throbbing like a chopper blade,
percussion tapping like rooftop rain
made of shell casings.

“Drop the skyline…
DROP IT…”

Rooftop funk fires—
snipers hitting beats
instead of targets,
turning bullets into bass drops,
turning wind gusts into groove.

Cameras swing in perfect rhythm,
catching the moment
the city bends
under the will of the funk.

This ain’t combat.
This is choreography.

(breathless)
“Yesss… snipe the rhythm…”

I kneel at the edge—
city glowing beneath me
like a guilty memory.

Candy Siren whispers through comms,
voice dripping through static:

“Shinobi…
the whole block is watching…
give them something sinful to remember…”

I steady my breath.
Aim my baritone at the skyline.
Let the funk take over the trigger.

The city holds still.

One shot.
One bass drop.
One ripple across the rooftops
as every sniper nest
nods in respect.

Cameras blink once—
like applause.
The skyline exhales.
The funk deepens.

I rise.
Turn off my comms.
Walk the roofline
like I own the goddamn horizon.

Funkytown…
rooftop district…
bow to the overwatch.

Shinobi_Bellator.

The sky splits—
not with lightning…
but with FUNK.

Every district below me sparks alive:
the tunnels, the jungle, the laundromat,
the midnight syndicate, the sniper nests…
all rising…
all vibrating…
all calling my motherfuckin’ name.

(whispering like an orgasmic prophecy)
“Mmm… Shinobi…
the whole city’s shaking for you…”

The ground quakes.
The neon flickers.
The whole Funkytown underworld
steps into the streets—ready.

The first to arrive is Big Bird,
coat fluttering like a golden omen,
feathers sharp enough to turn wind into confetti.

Behind him stomps the psilocybin crew,
led by the blue-furred dealer himself—Cookie Monster—
eyes blazing, pockets full,
ready to bake the apocalypse into a pastry.

Then the small one shows—
silent, smiling, terrifying—Elmo—
twirling a shiv made of peppermint violence.

Grover drifts in from the sniper district,
rifle slung across his shoulder
like a bedtime story gone wrong.

Oscar rolls out of the alley,
trash can rattling,
grenades clinking like silverware in hell’s kitchen.

And crashing through the skyline vines—
barn-door shoulders, jet-fuel grin—
comes the jungle warlord himself: Donkey Kong.

Then his lieutenant flips onto a streetlight—
Diddy Kong—
with enough stolen contraband
to power a rave for six eternities.

The city bows.
The funk rises.
And I—
I stand in the center of it all
like the baritone god of criminal rhythm.

(trembling)
“They’re ready… they’re ALL ready…
lead them, Shinobi…”

Xylophone flicks turn prophetic,
slap bass boiling like volcanic swagger,
percussion punching holes in the atmosphere.

You can taste destiny.
You can smell crime.
You can feel the funk climbing your spine
like a ladder to rebellion.

“Ascend…
ASCEND…”

Rise, Funkytown—
rise with me.
Let every sin swing.
Let every bassline roar.
Let every neon shadow confess
what the rhythm made them do.

Tonight we don’t dance—
we ascend,
we erupt,
we break the sky open
with pure motherfuckin’ funk.

(screaming sweetly)
“YESSS—BREAK EVERYTHING—”

The jungle crashes into the syndicate.
The laundromat crew marches in sudsy formation.
The rooftop snipers descend like neon seraphim
with scopes glowing holy pink.

The tunnels vomit out psilocybin fog
that turns the whole street
into a technicolor fever dream opera.

The funk spreads—
street by street,
block by block—
until even the billboards start dancing
like they caught the Holy Ghost
of a cartoon crime deity.

(laughing like a wicked angel)
“Every district is yours, baby…”

Xylophone spinning like a halo on fire,
slap bass punching holes through reality,
drums pounding like the heartbeat
of a resurrected metropolis.

The city screams your name.
The sky begs for mercy.
The funk gives none.

“DROP THE FINALITY—
DROP GODMODE—”

This ain’t a city anymore—
it’s a living, breathing, criminal bassline.
A neon serpent coiling around destiny.
A funk-gospel revelation
too sexy for scripture,
too violent for cartoons,
too holy for the law.

We rise.
We burn.
We groove.
We ascend.

(moan-soft)
“Take us higher…”

The sky cracks.
Light pours down.
Feathers rise.
Vines pulse.
Snipers kneel.
Tunnels glow.

And she—
my chaotic candy siren—
leans close,
voice trembling like erotic prophecy:

“Shinobi…
you’re the king now…
crown this city with your rhythm…”

I lift my hands.
The funk obeys.
The whole motherfuckin’ world
tilts toward the beat.

The neon dims.
The smoke settles.
The city bows.

Funkytown has ascended—
and so have I.

This saga ends
not with silence…
but with
eternal
motherfuckin’
groove.

Shinobi_Bellator.