Ninjas Are From Japan... Final Thought

The boys and the mystery woman arrived at a shoddy warehouse… there's always a warehouse.

"Okay, Gavin. How say we clean you up, darling,” she said as she screeched to a stop. The boys followed her as she began to introduce herself. “Gavin, you know me. Just not right now. I’m Sheila, and that’s all you’ll need to know. Jacob has been waiting for you to show up for a long time.”

“Wait, what do you mean ‘show up’? And who is Jacob? No, wait. I know him, too, right? Just not right now?”

“Precisely,” Sheila assured.

“Uh, Gav? What the hell are we doing here?” Craig nervously asked.

“I’m sure I know, just not right now,” Gavin irritably replied.

Gavin’s demeanor was no longer nervous as he followed Sheila inside. He was more collected, focused, and in deep thought trying to gather recollection from this woman, from this building, from anything in the past few weeks, the past few years. They walked across the empty warehouse to a case of grated stairs. Sheila stopped and stepped aside. She blushed.

“Gentlemen, after you. I seem to have forgotten my knickers this morning,” she confessed.

Craig's eyes widened in interest... a slight change from the fear that still settled in his gaze. Gavin simply marched up the stairs, his hormones in check. Once they reached the top, Sheila directed them into a room full of shadows, lit only by a dim desk lamp.

“Hello Mr. Riley,” greeted a man’s antiquated Irish voice from behind the desk. “I’ve been waiting for you…”

“To show up,” Gavin finished.

“You remember?” Asked the man.

“No, Sheila just told me.”

“Who?”

“My apologies, Jacob,” Sheila interrupted, “I told ‘em my name was Sheila.” She turned to the boys, Craig still bewildered, Gavin focusing. “The name’s actually Colleen.”

“Enough of the charades,” Gavin demanded. “What the hell is going on here? Who are you all? Where are we? Why are we here? Who was that man? Are you involved with what happened in Shanghai? And most importantly, who the hell am I?”

“Mr. Riley, who are we to answer your last question? If you do not know, how should we?” Jacob answered as he swirled around to face Gavin and Craig.

Colleen was now standing next to the desk a few feet from the boys. “Now, the only thing I can answer you is that Yes, we were involved in Shanghai. We had to clean up your mess to keep it from the media. Just like we are doing now as we speak at the MacDonald’s,” Jacob answered sternly.

Jacob was a balding man with red hair at his temples. The wrinkles on his face showed decades of restlessness. His skin was freckled and leathery, as if he spent an eternity in the sun. And with his eyes slightly slant, he convincingly could pass for Jinn, the Muslim devil.

“Mess? What about Self-defense?”

“My boy, that self-defense mambo-jumbo only works for civilians. You, son, are an international defense system. Are you remembering now?”

Gavin closed his eyes and grabbed at his forehead. A slight pain jolted through his brain. Craig looked confused. He had spent countless hours with Gavin for the last 15 years. So much time that they would often have trouble telling whose house they were staying at when they woke up. Brotherly were the two that it was impossible for Gavin to be away from Craig even once without noticing a difference.

Gavin crinkled his forehead as he began to remember years of confrontations in distant lands. Scars he had nursed himself to hide from his family and closest friends. He didn’t know if it was the man’s accent or his eyes that rushed Gavin’s mind with experiences and skills he had not known he had acquired. People he had not known, killed by his own hands. Families crushed and diplomatic relations hampered.

“But now it’s too close,” Jacob continued. “This project is terminated... effective immediately.”

“Terminated?!?!” Craig squealed out.

Craig looked over and saw the dark Russian wrap his branch of a forearm around Gavin’s neck. It was like the cold beast bled from the shadows. Gavin did not struggle as the Russian pulled up a syringe filled with orange and green liquid and pricked Gavin in the temple. As Craig was about to shout out to Gavin he, too, felt a sting in his temple.

…

“You gonna eat the rest of those fries?” Craig snatched Gavin’s fries before he could even answer.

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 and those in attendance froze as the man glided towards the friends.

“Mr. Gavin Riley?” The mysterious man questioned in a heavy Russian accent.

“Uh, na-na-na-nooo?” Gavin replied, feeling droplets forming a river down his spine.

The man’s towering structure intimidated the boys. He was especially frightening to Gavin as he began to shake uncontrollably. Craig’s was frozen in awe with fries corked in his mouth.

“Please excuse, you are not Gavin Riley?” Questioned the man for a second time.

“NO!” Gavin Squeaked, “I’m Gav, Ga-Gavin Roberts.”

The tall man smiled, “Forgive me, Sir.” He turned around and walked back out the door, all eyes on him until he was out of sight down the street. Gavin was still shaking. Craig quicly gulped down his food.

“Dude,” Craig broke the silence as Gavin sniffled, “Did you piss your pants?"

Gavin looked down in his lap, his face flushed. Next to their table a mother and her two young sons snickered. One of the boys pointed towards Gavin's lap, "Look, Mommy. He pee-pees in his pants, too!"

Craig threw a fry at Gavin, then burst out laughing. "Dude, you totally pissed your pants!!!”

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.”

Ninjas are From Japan

He sensed he was being watched. No; it was something worse... they were out for Gavin's blood.

Dressed as the wait staff - black slacks, black collarless and un-tucked, buttoned up shirts, with black, lace-less loafers - two men passed by and joined another waiter already busting the table behind Gavin.

“How many China men does it take to set a table?” He thought to himself. “What is this, a joke?”

He knew they were after him but didn't want to show his panic by looking back. That would be too obvious and would prompt an early attack.

“They're raised to be on the defense. You have to catch them when they don't expect it—upon their attack.” So Gavin calculated his next move.

“I think I'll butter my bread.” He reached for his sesame roll and jabbed it with the oversized butter knife. “Hmph, too much yeast.”

He smushed the bread in his hand and dissected the roll until the knife made an incision. There was no cutting through it. He put his knife down and with his thumb and index finger he punctured two orifices and pried the roll apart. Gavin picked up the knife again and swooped a dollop of butter. As he spread it, something caught his eye. There were three pairs of eyes in the reflection of his knife staring right back at him. He continued buttering his bread nonchalantly.

Next, he attempted to get a jiggling jab of jelly. As he returned his knife to the bread, he saw one of the men approaching swiftly over his shoulder. “Here we go.”

With one direct movement he extended his arm upward and jabbed the first 5 foot 6 Chinaman in the neck right under the chin with the butter-tipped knife. Gavin held the attacker high, raising him above his head as blood trickled onto his shoulder.

He kicked his chair back, the man still frozen with death looming from the knife, life slowly escaping his eyes. The other two Chinamen flanked Gavin and closed in...