A new magistrate controversially takes over village life in the Japanese countryside, his internal corruption as diabolically treacherous as any materialistically composed absolutist.
Soon the local market where craftspeople gather to sell their unique and delicious items, sees its profits voraciously devoured with airtight avarice and age old greed.
A local inn known to be trustworthy is indirectly commandeered, and flagrantly transformed into a gambling den salaciously accompanied by a brothel.
There's nothing the outraged owner can do since to throw them out would mean his life, the licentious spontaneous awkward carnival wantonly consuming his honourable discourse.
Fortunately, Zatoichi is soulfully wandering the surrounding fields, and soon finds himself a' dwellin' close to the inn and its unwelcome occupants.
But a local sword craftsperson who's turned to drink bluntly lets him know his weapon is damaged.
As he begins to forge a dynamic blade.
For the wild officials causing all the trouble.
Through modest endurance, upright custom attempts to uphold hardworking virtue, its innocent rituals and heartfelt traditions defiantly refusing to be brushed aside.
The polluted state(s) in which they find themselves as pestiferously spawned as it is disillusioning, after centuries of loyal service and dedicated wholesome self-sacrificing industry.
Reminiscent of the old school Western no doubt within which the faithful settlers, must contend with deception and carve a living out of hostile stone as lazy idlers cheat and rob them.
The middle-class in carnal danger as bold adventurers act inimically.
Sour sincere stardust stride.
Ebb and flow.
Incarnate Zatoichi.
