fiction by Jason Edwards
I am getting so damn tired of all these ninjas in my house. Stupid Japs. Look, I am not a racist. I’m not racist. I have three friends with Jewish names, my neighbor is a black guy, very friendly, and as for the Japs, I even like sushi, okay? I am not racist. I’m just so tired of all these ninjas in my damn house!
Like the other night, I’m in bed, trying to sleep, long day, I work for a living damn it. Then I hear something. Silent assassins my ass. I open my eyes, and up there, clinging to the ceiling, a ninja, just watching me. So I roll out of bed real quick, and thwip thwip thwip, three throwing stars right into the pillow where my head was just at! So I pull out a samurai sword from under the bed—yes, I have a sword, and you would too if you had ninjas—and when the little fucker drops down, I cut him up, good. Now I’ve got ninja blood all over my samurai sword, my bed, my clothes. And that pillow is ruined. I had to spend the rest of the night cleaning up, burying the body, bundling together towels for a pillow for the night since JC Penny isn’t open that late. I work for a living god damn it!
If they were predictable, that would be one thing. I can go two, three weeks with nary a ninja. And just when I think it’s over, it’s done, like they don’t come around in the spring or something, I’ll go to get some cereal out of the pantry and there’s one squatting there. Thwip thwip, use my cereal bowl to deflect the throwing stars, he comes flying out, I dodge, rip open the refrigerator door to block his ninja kick, and when he falls back, hurl the toaster-oven at him. I think the people at Bed Bath and Beyond are getting suspicious. I’ve been through, like, five toaster-ovens that way. I like toast.
I told James at work about it (he’s one of the guys I know with a Jewish last name). He thought it was a metaphor. “Get some Ninja-spray, Al.” They’re not goddamn slugs! They’re ninjas! 15th century feudal Japanese assassins! They’re not going to kept away with some pest strips and a good bleaching. Jesus Christ.
I showed him my scars. “I got this one a month ago. I was washing my car, minding my own business, and I couldn’t find the squeegee, you know, to wipe the water off the windows. Then I remembered it was in the trunk from when I took the car to the car wash that time. So I go to open the trunk, and out comes this ninja! In broad damn-it daylight! All dressed in black with that faggy red sash around his waist, waving a katana like a flag in a parade! He got me good, right here, before I wrapped the garden hose around his legs, punched him in the back of his head a few times, then stuffed him back into the trunk. Had to get seventeen stitches. The deductible on the insurance is killing me, James!”
He wasn’t impressed. Tried to show me a scratch he had on his shoulder. “Swordfight ,last week, with a pirate.”
I couldn’t tell if he was making fun of me, until Dave popped up from his cubicle. “My sister was chased by zombies last week.” James just stared him like he was an asshole until he sat down again.
So far, I’ve been lucky, I guess—it’s only at home. There’s this bar I go to a few times a week, a nice little place, clean. Got a nautical theme. Pretty much anti-ninja, which is nice. I’m in there once, and this old pro’s sitting next to me. Seen her a few times, she knows I’m not shopping, so we just talk about sports or whatever. I tell her about my problem. “One was hiding in my bathroom once, in the tub, I could see him through the curtain. Managed to slice him down before he even made a move, buried him in the same curtain. So that was an easy one.” I laugh at the irony of it , sip my ginger n’ rye.
“You sure they’re ninjas? Maybe you got Yakuzas.” She’s smoking a cigarillo, looks almost more like a bandito than a pro, in her cowboy hat and bandoleer and chaps.
“What, the Japanese mafia? Naw, they don’t wear pin stripe suits or sunglasses or have elaborate tattoos. Just short little fuckers in silk pajamas and face masks.” I shudder and finish my drink. Munch some peanuts.
“Maybe they’re in disguise?” The door opens, this huge werewolf thing’s standing there, she pulls out her six shooter and plugs him between the eyes, blows smoke off the barrel and reholsters. “Silver bullets,” she says.
I shrug. “Another one, Larry,” waggle my glass at him. “Maybe. Seems pretty elaborate. I mean they only attack me at home. I figure Yakuza, they’d go for a car bomb or something.”
She shrugs back at me, adjusts her hat, stands up and throws some bills on the bar. “Maybe it’s an honor thing. I gotta git—got a client at 3:30.” Then she moseys off, sound of gunfire coming from outside after she leaves.
I get up to the use the can, and right before I open the door, I get nervous. I got my hand stretched out, just frozen like a jerk. What if there’s a ninja in there? I don’t have my samurai sword, I’m not quite drunk yet but a good ways along, so my reflexes won’t be so good. What if there’s one in there, got his katana and nun-chucks all ready to go. I’ve led a good life, I guess, other than this ninja thing. But am I ready to buy it, right here, in this shitty little bar, a handful of peanuts my last meal?
The light underneath the door goes off, and I didn’t even realize it was on, and I get this cold rush down my spine, cause that means someone’s in there after all, and I’m still standing there with my hand out when the door opens and Chuck Harper walks out. He goes “oops” like I was grabbing the door right when he opened it. Heads back to the bar. I get the shakes, go in, feeling stupid, cause like I said, they never attack me anywhere except at home. Make a mess on the toilet rim, I’m shaking so bad. But I get it cleaned up as I calm down, a bunch of TP, three flushes worth. I ain’t no slob.
I’ve tried everything. I’ve called the cops, but they don’t seem to care. I saw a psychiatrist, just to make sure it wasn’t all in my head. By the time we were through my second session, she told me “Al, you’re not crazy, okay? You’ve got ninjas, and that just happens sometimes. I can give you a prescription for valium, to calm down between attacks, if you want.” I took the scrip, but never filled it.
Camus, I think it was, in Myth of Sisyphus, said something about how, once you accept your punishment, it isn’t punishment anymore. At least that’s what the back of the book said—I never read the whole thing. Of course, he was talking about the punishment we get for bothering to stay alive. Like it’s our own damn fault we’re so miserable, when there’s always the suicide option. It’s not giving up, and it’s not noble, either. It’s just a choice, like choosing a blue tie instead of red a one. I can quit my bitching, let the ninjas do what they do, or just man up. There’s kids starving in Africa. They don’t got ninjas, but they don’t got boiled hot-dogs on Fridays either.
(Ninjas came at me while I was cooking those once. Spilled ‘em on the floor in the ruckus. I was pissed something terrible, let me tell you, for that one. But I still ate ‘em.)
Anyway. Here I am, sitting in my living room. TV’s busted, big crack in the window, pile of dead ninjas ruining my sofa. Three of ‘em. Three of ‘em came at me at the same time. I thought they were supposed to work alone. Maybe they’re getting tired of me too? Maybe they’re getting fed up with how many times I haven’t been killed by them yet. I don’t know.
Sure, I could just let ‘em do it, let ‘em kill me, let ‘em then dissolve back into the night. Cops’ll call it a heart attack or something. I’m 54 years old, that’s not too young. But it’s the principle of thing, isn’t it? Okay, fine, ninjas killed my dad, and his dad before him. It runs in the family, maybe. But I thought we were supposed to be making the world a better place, each generation. Thought we were supposed to be happier. I need this curse like I need a hole in my head. I need to be digging ninja graves in my back yard like I need new taxes. Gimme a damn break!
And now there’s a sound coming from the ceiling, a scrabbling sound, and I can hear something crunching over the broken glass I laid down in the crawlspace. Five of ‘em in one day, are you shitting me? I’d move, but let’s face it, the housing market ain’t what it used to be. I guess this is just my cross to bear. Stupid ninjas.
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