Ninjas Are From Japan (Cont...)

“Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait just a minute,” Craig interrupted. He had a confused look in his eyes as he snapped Gavin out of recounting his story. “You told me you were going over there to translate for the marketing firm.”

Craig was a rakish guy with dirty blonde hair and perfectly capped teeth. Aside from his current state of confusion, Craig always wore an animated smile, which now blended in with his five o’clock shadow. He stood only a few inches taller than Gavin, but he ascended over Gavin’s drooped figure. Out bar hopping the night before, he wore his old high school gym class grey t-shirt that fit snug against his athletic build.

Gavin wrinkled his nose, pushing his horn rimmed glasses up his broad nose, “I was… I mean… I did. That’s why I went.”

“If you really did wipe out all three of these guys, there would have been reporters from all over the globe covering this. You would have created a diplomatic tsunami—excuse the pun,” Craig grinned.

“Tsunamis are Japanese,” Gavin corrected.

In contrast, Gavin was a bookish, medium height, stocky 27 year old with greasy dark hair in a bowl cut. His shoulders slouched, his hairy arms were unsightly sprouting from his pale forearms, and he would sweat effortlessly at the slightest interrogation. His short sleeve button-up shirt was now drenched to the shoulders.

“Yeah, whatever, you said you took on three ninjas, single handedly.”

“Ninjas are from Japan, too. I went to Shanghai.”

“Kung Fu masters then, whatever. I don't give a shit and I don't believe you.”

Gavin was growing increasingly anxious, not because Craig wasn’t buying his rendezvous with death that he had experienced just last week, but because he sensed he was being watched... again. “I don’t think they were anything like that. I think they were spies, or underground members of the Red Army. The PLA,” Gavin theorized, squirming in his seat.

Gavin wasn’t your government issued espionage type. It was no surprise that Craig had a hard time believing his best friend’s story. Besides, Gavin was denied enlistment into the U.S. Coast Guard Reserves for his laundry list of allergies.

“Whatever Gav, you are so full of...”

“AHEM,” the lady sitting at the next table cleared her throat to rouse Craig’s attention before he could finish his sentence in front of her two young sons.

Gavin and Craig had just sat down for their traditional Sunday lunch at McDonald’s, the aroma of frying grease blanketing the restaurant. Gavin occasionally ran late getting dressed as he always thought to dress nice for such a tradition. It was 10:34.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Craig coyly apologized. He then gave her the once over and smirked. The lady shot him the thousand yard stare, unimpressed. Craig had always oozed confidence and wasn’t shy about advertising his interest in women.

“Okay, Gav, say you did Steven Segal these… spies, I still don’t believe you. I can’t believe you! I mean, you couldn’t even fire my old pellet gun when we were 13 without complaining about thinking that you had a hairline fracture in your index finger.”

“Look, I’m telling you the truth,” Gavin pleaded, placing napkins in his armpits to stop the hideous stains now blotching his underarms. “I don’t know where it came from. It was like… it was like I went into auto-defense mode.”

“Yeah? Okay Jason Bourne. You gonna eat the rests of those fries?”

As Craig devoured Gavin’s remaining fries like a Viking on a conquest, a dark figure entered the opposite side of the restaurant carrying in with him an overcast of fear. The building chilled as those in attendance froze when the man glided towards the friends.

“Mr. Gavin Riley?” The mysterious man questioned in a heavy Russian accent. The dark man towered over them in a pitch black trench coat and black slacks. His shoes matched; Italian black leather with gold tips. His oily black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, pulling more stress on his merciless widow’s peak. His goatee matched the hairs on his temple; peppered with white and gray.

“Uh, y-ye-yeah?” Gavin replied, feeling droplets forming a river down his spine.

“I am sent to collect you,” the Russian smiled, exposing a gold tooth that eerily gleamed in the light.

Craig was fixed on the man’s squared stature, fries corking his mouth, interfering with the completion of the gulp trapped in his throat. The man opened his trench coat, exposing the shiny gold-plated butt of a gun, with gold lining. “You must go with me… now,” he ordered in broken English.

Gavin cut his eyes at the lady sitting at the next table, motioning her with his chin towards the door behind the Russian. The dark man-beast turned his head and gave her a creepy smile. She grabbed her sons by the wrists and scurried towards the exit. “Mom, I wasn’t finished,” Cried one of the boys, both struggling to keep pace.

When the door closed behind the woman, Gavin grabbed the gun out of the man’s belt and blasted two shots, one in each of his knees. Blood sprayed across Craig’s face as the Russian dropped to the ground silently in the fetal position, clutching the crimson holes that were once his kneecaps.

The manager working the register squealed in horror, hurdled over the counter, and darted out the door. Three other customers that were scattered throughout the dining area followed. Five more employees peaked out from the kitchen and hurried cautiously out the door. Sounds of cars peeling rubber on the road ricocheted off the building.

Gavin grabbed Craig, who had remained plastered to his chair, trembling in shock, and ran toward the windows away from the scene. Shooting three more deafening shots, he shattered the glass and jumped through the open frame with Craig dangling behind him.


Once outside, he could feel his body cooling in the warmth of the sun. He strategically looked around for an escape route. Looking back into the restaurant, he saw the Russian lugging his massive torso across the floor towards their direction, leaving a trail of blood puddles. He was unfazed by his wounds. His jaw was clenched, the muscles in his face were tight, but he expressed no sign of pain; only determination.

Gavin tossed the gun into the sewage drain along the curb across the parking lot, when a topless, yellow 1971 Ford Thunderbird screeched to a halt right before him, blasting Warrant’s “Cherry Pie”.

“Get in, Love,” ordered a sinfully beautiful woman, in a sultry cockney accent.

Gavin pulled Craig along, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and waist of his jeans and tossed him in the backseat before he jumped over the closed front passenger door.

As they sped off, leaving skid marks on the asphalt behind them, Craig finally pulled out of his trance and spat out the masticated mush from his mouth. “WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!?!” He screamed at Gavin.

Craig was still attempting to wrap his mind around what had just happened. He was perplexed. Questions raced through his thoughts; What the hell just happened? Should we call the cops When did you learn to shoot a Beretta?

“It was a Glock 22. 40 cal actually,” Gavin replied. “And I don’t know where… or how I learned to shoot. I just... do.”

Craig looked at the digital clock on the dashboard. It was 10:38. He looked back at Gavin, who was staring motionlessly straight ahead. He was sweating again; his hair matted as droplets streamed down the back of his neck.

The British vixen turned around and smiled at Craig, handing him a tissue, “Lovely, you must wipe off. You’re a blimey mess. I believe you have bone chips in your hair.”