[ Majima is a little closed off at the start of the night. Being back in this environment is... a little gut-wrenching for him. He genuinely looks a little nauseous, green in the face. He shouldn't be back here. Not without Saejima. He is on the edges of a meltdown, a panic attack, but... someone comes by and puts a drink in his hands, so he drinks it as fast as possible. It keeps up like that until he's drunk enough to deal with this.

Eventually, they even get him into the cage. He peels off his shirt to keep it from getting any blood on it, showing off his large irezumi: a shrieking hannya mask in white down his back existing in a whirlpool of black and flowers. There are a pair of white snakes that twine around his arms, one of the heads coming out hissing onto his chest. Shirtless also shows off he's a little gaunt for his size. That won't get in the way of his fights though. He's very fast and very clever, clearly a street fighter with no formal training but an extremely experienced one. For unfairly large opponents, he also pulls out the tanto knife from the back of his slacks for a little extra leverage.

He'll also take a fucking baseball bat, if ya got one lying around!

His most entertaining moves are the ones he learned from the break dancers; legs spinning above his head as he uses momentum to do ridiculous bullshit. It's not a bad idea to bet on Majima, share if he makes you a little money. ]

[ Majima is drunk enough to pick any fight he's told to. He has the yakuza act down pat, standing with a crowd of his own sneering and laughing until he finally gets under someone's skin enough. He has an annoyingly arrogant slice of a grin as they approach, fangs out and waggling his split tongue at them with provocation. The crowd backs up around them to make room, cheering and hooting. He will gladly beat the fuck out of anyone.

Find him later... lying down in a booth. Tired and drunk. Someone take this man home. ]

[ He will be throwing up all night, thanks. When he's done, he will be... morose. Sitting in a window with the cold early morning air on his face smoking a cigarette. No those are not tears on his face, get the fuck out of here. He folds his arm on the sill and puts his head down for a while. ]