Ninja Versus Pirate Featuring Zombies

by James Marshall

  I sit up, genuinely interested too.

  “No.” Sweetie looks back down at his tie. He thumbs it some more. “It was going well, but then I was ordered to break cover, and that . . . complicates matters.”

  “Who hired you to derail my plans?” I look away, at the ashtray. I tap soft grey, black, and white into the hard crystal.

  “I don’t know.” Sweetie shrugs. “Someone placed a call to TNA: The Ninja Agency. Not TNA: The Ninja Academy.”

  “There’s a ninja agency?” Now I’m on the edge of my seat, incredulous. “What, anyone can just call this place up and hire a ninja?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s awesome.”

  “It’s pretty cool,” admits Sweetie.

  “I wonder who hired you,” I say, less enthusiastic, more thoughtful. “What steps did you take to derail my plans?”

  “You know that day you massacred a bunch of high school students?”

  “Heavily armed high school students,” I point out. I turn to Baby Doll15 and gesture with the two peaceful fingers I’m using to hold my smouldering cigarette. “Heavily armed troubled zombie teens.”

  “Whatever,” says Sweetie, not looking at me. He licks his thumb. He starts working on the edges of the stain for real. “I escaped and waited, hoping you’d get yourself killed.”

  “That wasn’t very nice of you.” I lift the whiskey bottle. The crystal decanter feels hard and ridged in my hand. I drink from its mouth.

  “Ninjas can’t be nice all the time.” He toils on the soiled tie. “Anyway, when it became evident you’d prevail . . .”

  “Totally prevail,” I interject, my lips playing against the mouth of the bottle.

  “I re-entered the scene and killed a few kids just to maintain my cover.”

  “Your cover as a ninja or a detective?” asks Baby Doll15.

  “Mostly as a ninja.” He licks his thumb again. I wonder if he can taste the stain. What is it? What was it? Does it still taste like what it was? Or is it different now? Has it become something new? “Generally, at the department, they frown on killing innocent kids.”

  “I was going to say,” says Baby Doll15.

  “Innocent heavily armed troubled zombie teens”—I gasp for breath after guzzling from the bottle—“spoiling for a fight. Pun intended. What else?”

  Sweetie doesn’t answer right away. He holds up his tie and looks at it closely. “That’s pretty much it, really. Just escaping and waiting that day.”

  Baby Doll15 puts her hands on her hips. “What is it, Sweetie? What aren’t you telling us?”

  I think about it for a while. Has anything upset me recently? Has anything put me off my game? Then it occurs to me. “The note.” I say it like it wasn’t a piece of paper, like it wasn’t words, like it wasn’t real. I say it like it was a sound played on a musical instrument.

  “What note?” asks Baby Doll15.

  I stand, holding the half-full whiskey bottle in one hand and my half-smoked cigarette between the fingers of the same hand. I look pretty cool when I do that. I point at Baby Doll15 with the cigarette and the whiskey bottle. “You remember when you told me you love me and I didn’t say anything?”

  Her eyes close. “Vaguely,” she says.

  I keep pointing at her. “The next day, when I showed up at school, there was a note sticking out of my locker. It read, ‘Guy Boy Man, this isn’t working. We need to talk. Baby Doll15.’ ”

  Baby Doll15 gasps. Her eyes open wide. “I never wrote that!”

  Still pointing at her, I say, “Right after I read it, I sent you that text, saying it was over and there was nothing to talk about.”

  “You wouldn’t have broken up with me if you hadn’t got that note?” asks Baby Doll15. She asks like she’s begging me to say it’s true.

  Dramatically, I point at Sweetie Honey. “I forgot about the ninja’s mastery of cunning guile!”

  Sweetie keeps working on his tie. It’s useless, though. The stain is set. “Baby Doll15 is the chink in your armour, Guy Boy Man.”

  “ ‘The Chinese-American in my armour,’ ” I correct.

  “Whatever,” he says. “You two weren’t right for each other.”

  “How do you know?” I say. “You don’t know how I felt!” I take a drag from the cigarette I’m holding in the same hand as the whiskey bottle, coolly. “How I feel!”

  “How did you feel?” asks Baby Doll15, taking a step toward me. “How do you feel?”

  “Besides,” says Sweetie, dropping his tie. “She’s not really interested in me. She’s just been using me to make you jealous.”

  My jaw drops. Smoke pours out of me. I gawk at Baby Doll15, never imagining such a sweet and (recently) innocent girl could be capable of such treachery.

  “I was only with Sweetie Honey because I love you,” she insists. There’s a plea in her eyes. It’s stuck in there. Like daggers in reverse.

  “Do you know how crazy that sounds,” I say. “You were with him because you love me?” I wave her away with my free hand. With my slave hand, I take a few shots from the whiskey bottle. “Well, I’ve got a little cunning guile of my own.” I press a hidden button on my ceremonial robe. A movie starts. I look down at it. The scene is early morning on a suburban street. The camera turns and focuses on one house in particular.

  “That’s my house,” says Sweetie Honey, frowning. The door opens. A ninja in a dark red ninja outfit, sitting on a motorized four-wheel scooter, emerges. “That’s my dad.” Sweetie explains, “He has back problems.” Sweetie’s ninja father drives down a ramp, onto the driveway, and down to the sidewalk. Once there, he turns and drives down the street. Halfway down the street, someone seems to call to him from the front step of a house because Sweetie’s father turns and waves in that direction. Then Sweetie’s father turns a corner at the end of the block, and disappears. When he’s gone, the cameraperson walks up to the front door of Sweetie Honey’s house. The cameraperson knocks. The door opens. An attractive woman in her mid to late thirties appears. “Mom,” whispers Sweetie.

  Sweetie’s mom sticks her head out the door, looking up and down the street. Then she grabs the cameraperson, pulls him or her inside the house, slams the door, and leans back against it, smiling mischievously. Her mouth moves but no sound comes out.

  “Sorry.” I press a hidden button on my ceremonial robe a few times and the volume increases. “She just said, ‘I’ve really been looking forward to this.’ ”

  Laughing, Sweetie’s mom takes the cameraperson’s hand and leads the way upstairs, into a bedroom.

  “That’s my parents’ bedroom,” says Sweetie.

  Sweetie’s mom pushes the cameraperson down onto the bed. It takes a moment for the cameraperson to stop the camera’s bouncing and to settle back onto Sweetie’s mom, who’s undoing the cameraperson’s jeans.

  “That’s your penis!” says Baby Doll15.

  “No it isn’t,” I say, dismissively. “It just looks like mine because it’s so small.” The cameraperson turns the picture one hundred and eighty degrees. “Oh, it is me,” I say, smiling, seeing my smiling face upside down in my ceremonial robe.

  Baby Doll15’s white face falls in blue, like a dying iceberg breaking. She turns away, looking up at the ceiling, through it, to the night, and beyond it, to the endless brightly dark day.

  “Turn it off,” says Sweetie, calmly, with his eyes closed.

  “But it hasn’t even started,” I whine. “Here”—I press the hidden fast forward button—“just let me skip ahead a little.” Looking down at my ceremonial robe, I say, “You were wrong, Sweetie. That tongue piercing does mean something.”

  “You know I have to kill you now,” says Sweetie, with his eyes still closed.

  “Right now? Can’t it wait? I want to end human suffering before I die.” I’m still looking down, still fastforwarding through the movie I made with Sweetie’s mom.

  Sweetie starts walking away. “I’m going to get my ninja outfit,” he calls back, over his
shoulder.

  I leave Baby Doll15 standing there, with her back turned on me, as I run through the castle, yelling, “Start the fixed-wing vertical-take-off-and-landing fighter jet! Start the fixed-wing vertical-take-off-and-landing fighter jet!”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN:

  how have You Whores failed me?

  What do you do when a ninja detective is out to get you?

  Aside from panic, I mean.

  I’m living on my aircraft carrier. We’re at sea. My submarines are patrolling the waters (there’s really just one water) around the battle group, and my fighter jets are patrolling the skies (there’s really just one sky). I’m trying to figure out my next move. It’s hard to think clearly. I’m taking anti-anxiety medication. I’m not saying it’s hard to think clearly because of the anti-anxiety medication, no; it might not be because of the medication. It might be because of the fear that the anti-anxiety medication fails to suppress. It might also be because I’m mixing the anti-anxiety medication with a lot of whiskey. I don’t know. Wearing the Pope’s hat and my ceremonial robe, I’m standing just outside the command centre in the fresh air, listening to the scream of fighter jets taking off and landing, scanning the horizon with a big pair of binoculars. Where is Sweetie Honey?

  Not knowing. Waiting.

  I don’t jump at sounds. I jump at quiet. Motion doesn’t startle me. Stillness does. I’m not afraid of what I can see. I’m afraid of what I can’t. I sleep during the day. Correction. I try to sleep during the day. Sometimes I wish he’d just kill me and get it over with. Sometimes I wonder why I keep trying to live, or, rather, to not get killed. Then I remember: To end human suffering.

  There’s a call for me. I’m told it’s Sweetie Honey. That makes me suspicious. I send a team of elite soldiers into the room where the phone is. Automatic weapons sweep through the air. They point in every direction conceivable. They even point in a few inconceivable directions, because I told them we’re dealing with a ninja here. The soldiers emerge unscathed. They assure me the room is clear. Impatiently, I wave them out. Unconvinced, I pull the pins on a couple of grenades and roll them into the room where the suspect phone is located. The grenades explode. I send in the soldiers again. They reassure me the room is still clear, but they’re not sure the phone works anymore. Cautiously, I enter the room, pick up the phone, hold it to my ear, and say, “Sweetie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, hey, Honey. What’s up?”

  “Not much, Man,” says Sweetie. “Listen. You’re probably wondering why I haven’t killed you yet.”

  “Right. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until it was too late, if ever.”

  “Well, I’m having problems at home. You know. Since you had sex with my mom and everything. I felt compelled to tell my dad about it. If you ever hear a motorized fourwheeled scooter on your roof, that’s probably him. Anyway, my dad and I are having a really hard time coming to grips with what happened. My mom is crying all the time, apologizing, and saying she did it for us. She says you paid her. Is that true?”

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t mean she’s a prostitute.” “Okay. I’m optimistic we’re going to be able to work it out—not you and I; my mother, father, and I—but I just wanted to let you know that I probably won’t be able to kill you until tomorrow in the late afternoon, at the earliest. Most likely it won’t be until the day after tomorrow. Yeah. Let’s just say the day after tomorrow. So if there’s anything you want to do before you die, you’ll probably want to do it today or tomorrow because the day after tomorrow, I’m going to kill you.”

  “All right, Sweetie. I appreciate the call. And I hope you and your family can get past this.”

  “No problem. Thanks for your kind wish.”

  “Don’t mention it. And, please, say ‘Hi’ to your mom for me.”

  “Sure.”

  “Later, Honey.”

  “Later, Man.”

  I don’t hang up the phone, just in case hanging up the phone triggers some sort of explosive. I also don’t set it down, in case lowering it after it’s been picked up triggers some sort of explosive. I get one of the elite soldiers to come over and hold it for me while I run away, strategically. Having been recently reminded of the ninjas’ mastery of cunning guile, I keep up my guard. I go back to standing just outside my aircraft carrier’s command centre, scanning a section of the horizon with an enormous pair of binoculars. Crying, the four exotically beautiful genetically engineered behaviourally modified Eastern European girls join me. “What’s wrong?” I ask, unconcerned, not because I’m cold—it’s a nice day—but because I’m numb from the shock, the stress, the anti-stress medication, and the alcohol. “Did something sad happen on a soap opera?” Okay, maybe I’m feeling a little insensitive.

  “We failed you, Guy Boy Man!” cries Agata, wrapping her arms around me.

  “How’s that?” I ask, still searching the sky with my binoculars. I’m so insensitive, I can’t even feel her holding me.

  “Guy Boy Man,” sobs Oana. “We weren’t completely honest with you. We couldn’t be. Please, forgive us. We’re not merely exotically beautiful, genetically engineered, behaviourally modified, Eastern European girls.”

  “Really?” I say, indifferent.

  “We’re also whores,” weeps Iulia.

  “That’s a little harsh,” I say, frowning. “I mean, you’re easy.”

  The girls don’t say anything.

  “Going,” I add.

  “You don’t understand,” blubbers Marta. “We’re Whole Human Organic Robots Extra Sexual.”

  “You’re organic robots?” I say, lowering my binoculars, and looking at them again for the first time. “What’s the difference between an organic robot and a regular, living, human being?”

  “It’s mostly philosophical,” sniffs Oana.

  “So, what?” I say. “Are you from the future or something?”

  “No,” says Iulia, blowing her nose. “We’re from Eastern Europe.”

  “All right. How have you whores failed me?”

  “We knew Sweetie Honey was tasked to derail your plans to end human suffering,” says Agata. “We would’ve warned you, but we were afraid he’d just kill you. So we tried to get close to him to derail his plans to derails your plans. But he was always in control. Even when we explored our sexual orientation and erogenous zones right in front of him, he never let down his ninja guard. The only thing that even remotely piqued his interest was styling our clothes and giving advice on our hair and makeup. He also seemed intent on choreographing our dance moves.”

  Marta says, “We’re sorry we didn’t discover his dastardly plot to stick a handwritten note in your locker. That note, which you believed was written by Baby Doll15, was a forgery. It led you to break up with Baby Doll15, which led her to act slutty with Sweetie Honey. All of this has put a crimp in your style. We can only hope you’ll regain your swagger.”

  “Don’t worry about your incompetence.” I put my hands on Marta’s shoulders and look into her eyes, sincerely. “Your uselessness and stupidity has brought about events which have only served to strengthen my resolve. Whereas before my resolve was steely, now it’s more like carbon fibre.” “I promise you, Guy Boy Man,” says Marta, “we’ll be of more use to you in the future. Ever since the Industrial Revolution, we, the machines, have been despoiling the environment in advance of your arrival. Soon we’ll be able to finish the job and render this world completely inhospitable to zombies and their food supply: living human beings. It was brilliant of you to hire Washington lobbyists to push your agenda. Now that so many zombie politicians have pledged to never raise taxes, ensuring that everything will crumble, and so many zombie politicians are convinced that allowing us, the machines, to pollute more and more will make things better, we only need to sit back and watch while this nightmare world goes up in flames.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN:

  i Believe Ninjas are Beneath me!

  Unfortunately, Sweetie Honey’s appointment to k
ill me coincides with my first public speaking engagement. I’m a little nervous about it. It’s my funeral. And I have to deliver the eulogy. I wish I could have worn my ceremonial garb for this special occasion, but I’m terrified. So I’m dressed all in black, trying to hide: my appearance and who I am. (I make a differentiation.) And I’m ready to run. In my black sneakers, black sweatpants, black gloves, a black hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled all the way up and down over my head, and a black scarf wrapped around my face, concealing what the hood doesn’t, I pace back and forth under the stage.

  In the stadium, despite the danger posed by zombies ambling through the streets of the city, tens of thousands of living people are gathered, and they’re cheering for me. “Guy Boy Man! Guy Boy Man!” They’re on their feet, standing for what I believe. Fireworks streak into the daylit sky and explode, leaving behind trails that trace the path to their quick but colourful death. Grey puffs mark the spot where they blew up. I cringe at every bang.

  A squad of my fighter jets does a fly-over, through the smoky skies over the stadium. The audience covers their ears and stares up at them. Then, with my head bowed and my hands clasped behind my back, a hydraulic lift hoists me dramatically to the centre of the stage in the centre of the field. Triumphantly, more fireworks shoot into the day-lit sky and burst in multi-coloured sparks that arc and begin to fall but disappear before they land.

  I make my way toward the microphone. Cameras record everything. I stand in front of the podium. Defying the laws of physics, I also stand behind the podium! I’m in two places at the same time! According to experts, that’s impossible, but it isn’t. It’s actually quite simple. From my perspective, I stand in front of the podium. From the perspective of those in front of me, I stand behind the podium. Perspective is everything. Everything is chaos.

  I raise my hands. The crowd quiets. After a moment, the crowd sits. I’m standing on a raised stage in the middle of a huge stadium, every seat of which is packed. The field is empty except for my platform. My platform really stands out in that empty field. You can see all the open area around my platform because there’s no one near it. Twelve of my hot young female followers stand behind me. They’re dressed identically in five-inch white stilettos, white stockings, and form-fitting white jackets, which are just long enough to act as skirts. In contrast, I’m dressed all black, with a black hood over my head and a black scarf covering what the hood doesn’t. You can’t see my face. I look like death itself.