I've gone back into all the old posts and created paragraph breaks. I've been meaning to do that and now I have. Now I can mean to do something else for a month. Also, I've been thinking about having a squimonk design contest. Let's give it a whirl. If you would like to conceive of and then render a squimonk in some fashion and then send it to me electronically, I will consider that a contest submission. If I get one that I would like to put on a t-shirt, I will send you a free t-shirt first. I guess I have to put the legal stuff here, but I don't know how it goes. I'll just say that if you send me stuff, you agree to let me put it on shirts and possibly make money off that design and you'll get a free shirt out of the deal, but won't make profit off the shirt sales (it's minimal anyway). I won't put a date or anything on the contest, I'll just put the first one I really like on a shirt and that'll be that.
Also, while I'm writing, would some of you readers mind clicking on the ads? You don't have to buy anything from them, but I'm tryin to raise some beer money for myself and maybe get some money to buy my wife a nice birthday present. If I don't get her something sparkly, she'll hit me. She's asian, and they know how to hit people. They're all born with this Kung-fu know how. It's awesome. We had to fight actual ninjas one time, and she kicked them all in the face with one foot and in the butt with another ALL AT THE SAME TIME! I wish I'd taken a video of it, but you usually don't think of video cameras when you're being attacked by ninjas. So, in short, if you don't want me to be a bruisy face/butt guy, please just click an ad after you read and before you hit the "stumble" button.
Thanks.
PS, those submissions can go to squimonk@gmail.com
PPS If I get anything in there about getting a new mortgage or improving my *ahem* manliness, it will be deleted without even looking. Just to be safe, put something from a Pat O'Neil post in the subject line.
Monday, January 26, 2009
No more bacon!
I think I will never have anything to do with bacon every again as long as I live. I will eat no more BLTs, no more bacon cheeseburgers and quite indubitably no more bacon chocolate chip cookies. Now, I ain't never thought I'd reach a point in my life where I'd be swearin off bacon like it was tobacco and I was a canary running on a treadmill in an asbestos lined coal mine, but that's exactly what I am doing starting yesterday. So, goodbye bacon. You were my friend once, but now I got you pegged for what you truly are; foodstuffs of the devil.
No, bacon, I don't mean that. I just got all worked up. I can't let you go, bacon. Even if you done me wrong lately, I gotta take you back. It's like you, bacon, are a hot twenty-year-old blond with shapely gams and I'm a wheelchair-bound octogenarian with a billion dollars and a bottle of Viagra, no matter how bad you treat me, I gotta take you back. Except in this case, you're not a hot twenty-year-old blond with shapely gams, and you are, instead, a smoked, cured meat product.
I apologize, people. I seem to got a little ahead of myself there. I didn't want for you to be a part of my breaking love affair with bacon, but I had to get it off my chest right up front. As you'll see, bacon has done me wrong over the weekend and I aim to get it back somehow. Maybe I will get my revenge by eating a pack of it a day from here on out. I seen on the tv where there was this 108 year old man that eats a pack of bacon and smokes a pack of tiny cigars every day and he's still goin strong. I figure that's the right kinda diet for me. I could do that one. It would certainly have to be better than the "eat only oranges and mucilex" or whatever diet Frank is on this week. There I go gettin distracted again.
I suppose y'all may want to know how the whole Jared situation shook out. I just wanna warn ya up front that there's gonna be some more adulty-type stuff in this one, but nothin too dirty. If it were a movie, I'd call this one pg-13. Now ya know what's goin on right up front, you can't blame me for this later. If you don't care for that kind of stuff, I'm not hurt, you should just skip ahead to the last paragraph of the next update. If you are all right with that kind of stuff, read on, because the kind of stuff I've got in here that made me warn you about that kind of stuff is exactly the kind of stuff I was talkin about. Just so we're clear, we're talkin a little nudity, nothin graphic, and some vomit here.
After Jared disappeared, we were frantic at the shop. Alistair began the search usin some of them latest investigative techniques like you can see on CSI, except this was real and didn't use them weird CGI shots. Actually, if you were watching it, maybe it would have them shots, but I was involved and didn't get to see them edited in later. Even with his super Nasa space technology stuff, he couldn't find anything. Apparently, ninjas don't really leave traces behind. I didn't know that before, but you learn somethin new every day. They wear gloves so they don't leave fingerprints and their heads are all wrapped up so the don't drop any hair or nothin. Alistair told me that when I was gettin too nosy and a little too CSI about what I was askin, he explained that what he was really lookin for was vegetative spores that would give us a clue as to where the ninja who took Jared was comin from. It took him a couple hours and work with some of the tiniest, cutest tools I've ever seen. I wouldn't suggest tellin a squimonk his tools are cute, though, unless you want to wake up with a squimonk pulling out one of your nose hairs with his tiny little pliers yellin, "Who's got cute tools now!?" If that's your thing, though, go right to it.
After gettin nothin on the whole spore thing, Jared's mom came by the shop. She was there to pick him up after work. She was askin where he was and I said that he had to run down to Wal-Mart to get us some more powdered sugar for the donuts. Then she told me she had just come from the Wal-Mart and Jared most certainly wasn't there. So I told her that he had to take my truck and they won't even allow my truck into the Wal-Mart parking lot these days and she asked me, "The rabies thing?" and I responded, "Yeah, the rabies thing." But then she pointed out that my truck was in front of the shop and I ran out of things to tell her at that point. As I was reaching into my magical sack of hot air, she closed her eyes and fell right to sleep. I thought she was either tired or a narcoleptic. It turns out that it was actually the tranquilizer dart in her neck. It was put there by Douggy. When I discovered it, I looked up at him and he just shrugged and told me, "Half ninja," as if that explained everything. What was done, was done though, so we trussed her up, and kept her on a steady drip of knock-out drops until we could figure out where her black-nailed kid had gone.
Following another coupla hours of waitin, the squimonk found their first clue. Even though they hadn't found any plant spores, they did find animal droppings. They sent it through some special analyser or something and finally had an answer.
"Penguin poop," Alistair announced.
"Really?" I was surprised. I'd never really had a penguin in the shop. One day last week, a seagull flew into the window, but I don't think that counted. "How do you know?"
"First of all," he explained, "we found an unusually high level of mercury in the droppings, which led us to thinking it was a marine creature or fed on marine creatures. Second, we analysed the substance of the droppings and found that the mercury was coming from herring, which is a favorite of all types of sea birds. Finally, we checked composition and found that the scat itself was black and white, leading us to the penguin."
I learned yet another new thing. "Penguin poop is black and white?"
"Oh certainly, penguins are the only purely monochromatic species in the world. Scientists used to believe that Zebras were also entirely monochromatic, due mostly to their striped poo, but, since the advent of the color camera, we have discovered that Zebras are red inside, putting them in the 'partially monochromatic' family of animals with polar bears and orca."
"Wait, wait, wait! Penguins are black and white on the inside, too?"
"Oh, most definitely," he stated evenly. It was at that point that he lost his composure and started laughing. "I'm sorry, Pat, I couldn't resist trying to get one past you. Victoria bet me ten dollars I couldn't do it. Regardless, we just analysed the DNA and found it to be penguin."
I was shocked. He was pretty convincin at that makin stuff up stuff. It's a good thing he's on my side. I asked him what this meant for Jared and he didn't know right then so he went and did some additional research that proved fruitless. We then had to call Lindbergh, who put all of his computers and his spy network towards the effort of finding Jared. On Saturday, he called us back to tell us he had discovered that Amelia Earhart kept a secret snow base a mile below the antarctic, the only entrance to which was through a volcano that only she had the control to.
I thought it looked hopeless, but Alistair and Douggy felt that we just needed the right plan. After some pretty serious back and forths, three of which ended in blows and one of which ended in a balloon animal making contest, it was decided that, in order to penetrate the volcano, we needed to drop in on it from above, falling fast, while covered in some sort of combustible material that would burn off as we torpedoed our way though the lava. Ideas were bandied about as to what the combustible material would be. It would have to be something that we could coat ourselves with, but nothing toxic. It would also have to be something that would not freeze in the antarctic air that we were falling through. I only knew of one material that had those properties, and that was bacon grease. I do regret saying anything about it now, but at the time, it seemed like a good idea.
The final plan was this: we would fly the stealth zeppelin to the Antarctic, jump from a mile up wearing only flight suits and a four inch thick layer of bacon grease. We would then plummet through the heart of an active volcano, going fast enough that we would penetrate into Amelia Earhart's secret lair before the bacon grease was burned off and we were consumed by fiery liquid magma. Then, we would attack the ninjas, find Jared, see if we couldn't steal some secret plans or something while we were in there, boogie out and get back home in time for Idol.
There was one small snag to the plan. I was informed, just a little too late, that squimonk are vegetarian creatures who cannot stand to see any food wasted. This meant that only two of us going on this mission had to eat all the bacon we had to fry up in order to render it for its fat, and those two were Douggy and me. For the four days it took to get here, Douggy and I did nothing but fry bacon, eat bacon and regurgitate bacon. Now, we are preparing for our assault on the Antarctic Volcano base. Wish us luck.
No, bacon, I don't mean that. I just got all worked up. I can't let you go, bacon. Even if you done me wrong lately, I gotta take you back. It's like you, bacon, are a hot twenty-year-old blond with shapely gams and I'm a wheelchair-bound octogenarian with a billion dollars and a bottle of Viagra, no matter how bad you treat me, I gotta take you back. Except in this case, you're not a hot twenty-year-old blond with shapely gams, and you are, instead, a smoked, cured meat product.
I apologize, people. I seem to got a little ahead of myself there. I didn't want for you to be a part of my breaking love affair with bacon, but I had to get it off my chest right up front. As you'll see, bacon has done me wrong over the weekend and I aim to get it back somehow. Maybe I will get my revenge by eating a pack of it a day from here on out. I seen on the tv where there was this 108 year old man that eats a pack of bacon and smokes a pack of tiny cigars every day and he's still goin strong. I figure that's the right kinda diet for me. I could do that one. It would certainly have to be better than the "eat only oranges and mucilex" or whatever diet Frank is on this week. There I go gettin distracted again.
I suppose y'all may want to know how the whole Jared situation shook out. I just wanna warn ya up front that there's gonna be some more adulty-type stuff in this one, but nothin too dirty. If it were a movie, I'd call this one pg-13. Now ya know what's goin on right up front, you can't blame me for this later. If you don't care for that kind of stuff, I'm not hurt, you should just skip ahead to the last paragraph of the next update. If you are all right with that kind of stuff, read on, because the kind of stuff I've got in here that made me warn you about that kind of stuff is exactly the kind of stuff I was talkin about. Just so we're clear, we're talkin a little nudity, nothin graphic, and some vomit here.
After Jared disappeared, we were frantic at the shop. Alistair began the search usin some of them latest investigative techniques like you can see on CSI, except this was real and didn't use them weird CGI shots. Actually, if you were watching it, maybe it would have them shots, but I was involved and didn't get to see them edited in later. Even with his super Nasa space technology stuff, he couldn't find anything. Apparently, ninjas don't really leave traces behind. I didn't know that before, but you learn somethin new every day. They wear gloves so they don't leave fingerprints and their heads are all wrapped up so the don't drop any hair or nothin. Alistair told me that when I was gettin too nosy and a little too CSI about what I was askin, he explained that what he was really lookin for was vegetative spores that would give us a clue as to where the ninja who took Jared was comin from. It took him a couple hours and work with some of the tiniest, cutest tools I've ever seen. I wouldn't suggest tellin a squimonk his tools are cute, though, unless you want to wake up with a squimonk pulling out one of your nose hairs with his tiny little pliers yellin, "Who's got cute tools now!?" If that's your thing, though, go right to it.
After gettin nothin on the whole spore thing, Jared's mom came by the shop. She was there to pick him up after work. She was askin where he was and I said that he had to run down to Wal-Mart to get us some more powdered sugar for the donuts. Then she told me she had just come from the Wal-Mart and Jared most certainly wasn't there. So I told her that he had to take my truck and they won't even allow my truck into the Wal-Mart parking lot these days and she asked me, "The rabies thing?" and I responded, "Yeah, the rabies thing." But then she pointed out that my truck was in front of the shop and I ran out of things to tell her at that point. As I was reaching into my magical sack of hot air, she closed her eyes and fell right to sleep. I thought she was either tired or a narcoleptic. It turns out that it was actually the tranquilizer dart in her neck. It was put there by Douggy. When I discovered it, I looked up at him and he just shrugged and told me, "Half ninja," as if that explained everything. What was done, was done though, so we trussed her up, and kept her on a steady drip of knock-out drops until we could figure out where her black-nailed kid had gone.
Following another coupla hours of waitin, the squimonk found their first clue. Even though they hadn't found any plant spores, they did find animal droppings. They sent it through some special analyser or something and finally had an answer.
"Penguin poop," Alistair announced.
"Really?" I was surprised. I'd never really had a penguin in the shop. One day last week, a seagull flew into the window, but I don't think that counted. "How do you know?"
"First of all," he explained, "we found an unusually high level of mercury in the droppings, which led us to thinking it was a marine creature or fed on marine creatures. Second, we analysed the substance of the droppings and found that the mercury was coming from herring, which is a favorite of all types of sea birds. Finally, we checked composition and found that the scat itself was black and white, leading us to the penguin."
I learned yet another new thing. "Penguin poop is black and white?"
"Oh certainly, penguins are the only purely monochromatic species in the world. Scientists used to believe that Zebras were also entirely monochromatic, due mostly to their striped poo, but, since the advent of the color camera, we have discovered that Zebras are red inside, putting them in the 'partially monochromatic' family of animals with polar bears and orca."
"Wait, wait, wait! Penguins are black and white on the inside, too?"
"Oh, most definitely," he stated evenly. It was at that point that he lost his composure and started laughing. "I'm sorry, Pat, I couldn't resist trying to get one past you. Victoria bet me ten dollars I couldn't do it. Regardless, we just analysed the DNA and found it to be penguin."
I was shocked. He was pretty convincin at that makin stuff up stuff. It's a good thing he's on my side. I asked him what this meant for Jared and he didn't know right then so he went and did some additional research that proved fruitless. We then had to call Lindbergh, who put all of his computers and his spy network towards the effort of finding Jared. On Saturday, he called us back to tell us he had discovered that Amelia Earhart kept a secret snow base a mile below the antarctic, the only entrance to which was through a volcano that only she had the control to.
I thought it looked hopeless, but Alistair and Douggy felt that we just needed the right plan. After some pretty serious back and forths, three of which ended in blows and one of which ended in a balloon animal making contest, it was decided that, in order to penetrate the volcano, we needed to drop in on it from above, falling fast, while covered in some sort of combustible material that would burn off as we torpedoed our way though the lava. Ideas were bandied about as to what the combustible material would be. It would have to be something that we could coat ourselves with, but nothing toxic. It would also have to be something that would not freeze in the antarctic air that we were falling through. I only knew of one material that had those properties, and that was bacon grease. I do regret saying anything about it now, but at the time, it seemed like a good idea.
The final plan was this: we would fly the stealth zeppelin to the Antarctic, jump from a mile up wearing only flight suits and a four inch thick layer of bacon grease. We would then plummet through the heart of an active volcano, going fast enough that we would penetrate into Amelia Earhart's secret lair before the bacon grease was burned off and we were consumed by fiery liquid magma. Then, we would attack the ninjas, find Jared, see if we couldn't steal some secret plans or something while we were in there, boogie out and get back home in time for Idol.
There was one small snag to the plan. I was informed, just a little too late, that squimonk are vegetarian creatures who cannot stand to see any food wasted. This meant that only two of us going on this mission had to eat all the bacon we had to fry up in order to render it for its fat, and those two were Douggy and me. For the four days it took to get here, Douggy and I did nothing but fry bacon, eat bacon and regurgitate bacon. Now, we are preparing for our assault on the Antarctic Volcano base. Wish us luck.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
A bad afternoon
So I'm out and about this afternoon on a little errand and I leave Jared in charge of the shop. His mom wants to boost his confidence or whatnot. That's how it is today, always tryin to boost the confidence of the kids. But in my day, my ol' pappy taught me that confidence ain't gonna get no oil changed and, unless you're some sorta public speaker or carnival barker or somethin, confidence ain't gonna put food on the table. Not that I got anything against carnival barkers. My great uncle Astrid was a carnival barker when he was young, or so the story goes. He was known far and wide for bein able to separate any sortsa penny pincer from the pennies he or she was pinchin. One time, an old lady on a pension came to the carnival to get herself a candy apple and nothin more, but Astrid was havin none of that. He lured her in with every trick in the book, he started out with the 'hear ye, hear ye', then moved smoothly into the 'step right up', then he started convincin the woman of the relative merits of seein the bearded lady and aligator boy, pointin deftly at their pictures with his cane and finally convincin the woman that, if she were to part with her immortal soul that very evenin, she could do so secure in the knowledge that she did not pass up on seein even one of God's miracles of show business. She did not budge, however. So Astrid starts talkin to her about the candy apple she was eatin and was told that she wanted to have just one to remember her dear, departed husband who perished from a military fever those many years ago. Tearin up and sobbin, Astrid explained how his very own pappy had also died of a military fever shortly after defeating the kaiser, leaving him, Astrid, as the sole provider for his bizarrely shaped family, including his unusually hirsute sister and his brother whose eczema was so bad he had to sleep in a tub full of calamine lotion with a straw stickin out of his mouth so as to breathe with. He went so long and so deep into the bait that he may really have believed what he was sayin, despite the fact that he knew his father was alive and well, travelin the rails in order to learn the fine art of whimsy carvin. Well, the old lady begins weepin over her apple and soon they're just collapsed on the ground in each other's arms carryin on and cryin so much they form a lake around them and have to swim to safety. Their tears flowed so profusely that they flooded the entire state of Mississippi in the middle of the dry season and it resulted in the largest bumper crop seen in them parts for 100 years. Afterwards, the old lady was so grateful for the catharsis, that's the word she used (I don't know what it means, but I've always figured it had somethin to do with swimming), that she paid him the nickle without even tryin to see the bearded lady. In the end, Alligator Boy's eczema was completely cured by the flood of tears and he went on to become so successful in business that he cornered the brick market in Peru for 20 years and had himself a palace made out of gold and emu skins. What I'm tryin to say here is that confidence in itself ain't gonna harm a person, unless you're one of the 30 people drowned in a tear flood, but havin some skills to back up that confidence may be better for a lot of people than bein a carnival barker. That bein the case, I figure I'd help Jared get some of the skills he's gonna need before goin off to college along with the healthy dose of confidence he's gonna need if he wants to deal with elderly women carryin candy apples, or if he wanted to be a faith healer. I'm not sayin he does, but I wanna hedge my bets just in case.
With this in mind, I was on my way to the Wal-mart in the next town to pick up some spark plugs, wires, an oil filter, a case of 10w-40, some windshield wiper fluid, toothpaste and a spark plug gapper, all of which I thought I'd use to show Jared how to tune up a car, using the Continental we towed in as an experiment. Well, that's not exactly true. The toothpaste I was gonna use to brush my teeth and I thought I'd pick it up while I was out. For a week or two now I been nearly out of toothpaste, but I never remember when I'm anywhere toothpaste is so every day I gotta squeeze that little tube harder and I get less and less for it, kinda like a boa constrictor tryin to suffocate a troll about sunup time, just as the troll's turnin to stone. This mornin, I had to set up a contraption in my front yard so I could back Mable Lou up over the tube of toothpaste and have a drop no bigger'n a pea forced out onto my brush. That's why I'm finally breakin down and buyin toothpaste. That and I got a cupon in the mail yesterday, which I found in the pocket of my overalls this mornin. Ok, I'll admit it, the trip was largely a ruse in order to convince myself to finally by that toothpaste I needed. There, I said it. In the meantime, though, since I was travellin all that way and risking life and limb on the county roads out here, I thought Jared might as well learn how to tune up a car.
I'm stopped at the side of the road on 15, havin myself a little "me" time. I'd drunk a mess of coffee this mornin and some of it was ready to be released back into the wild, if you know what I mean. So, there I am, enjoyin the outdoors in the way it was meant to be enjoyed (steadily more satisfying), when I see a black figure crawlin up towards me in the grass. Now I figured that it was either a) another robot ninja who just picked the wrong time or b) Hammish's shadow which had torn free from its master and come to seek its revenge on those who did it wrong. With the array of choices before me, I found myself surprised at hoping that I would be fightin a ninja. I wouldn't even begin knowing how to fight a shadow. I suppose you could shine a light on it or somethin, but I don't know if that would be effective at all, not to mention that what I was currently holding in my hand was not a flashlight, nor was it capable of shining light in any way. I highly doubt that a shadow is defeated by spraying it with a little ammonia. Lucky for me, though, it turned out to be a ninja and I didn't have to resolve that particular confuddlement right then. I did have to return to a civilized state before readying myself for some more punching and head popping and possibly fire that seems to happen when I fight these things.
The ninja's just crawling along, trying to be stealthy, so I decide to be helpful by yellin', "I see you there in the grass, you might as well stand up if you're here to fight me."
And he does. He stands up out of the grass like an afternoon shadow gettin longer. For a bit, he tries lookin' around all innocent like, sorta like when a cat runs into a glass door and then pretends to clean itself, hopin you'll just ignore the fact that it walked into a door that's always been there. The only difference is that the ninja in this case does not clean itself. Also, the ninja is not a cat and there's not a door in sight. Another difference is that, after you see a cat run into a door, it rarely jumps at you in a spinning double roundhouse kick aimed at where the coffee goes in and also where the coffee comes out. Rarely, I've noticed, do you have to jump backwards from said kick and then jump forward and, with both fists, punch the cat, or in this case, ninja, directly in the stomach and solar plexus while he or she or it is in the air. It is also very uncommon for the cat, or ninja, to be more yielding than previous robots that you have fought, leading you to the conclusion that this is, in fact, not a robot. Furthermore, cats do not often, in my experience, have small platypus stitched into their chests. So, except for the fact that I was now fighting a real ninja, and a member of clan platypus, it was just like that cat thing.
The ninja was down on his face for a couple of seconds and I took the time to apply my alligator wrestlin skills. I jumped on his back and covered his eyes with my hands. Unlike alligators, ninjas do not fall asleep when you cover their eyes. I learned just today, in fact, that they are far more likely to kick you in the back of the head and then put you in some weird arm-lock while you are down than they are to fall asleep. In my experience, that happens 100% of the time when fighting actual ninjas. Luck, and invisible zeppelins, were on my side, though. Just as it felt like the ninja was ready to turn my arm into several thousand toothpicks, he was attacked by a half dozen or so squimonk. They raced up his back, legs and arms, biting and scratching the entire time. He let go of me to focus on his smaller enemies.
From above, I heard, "Quick, Pat, Run!" And so I turned and headed for the truck. I threw Mable Lou into drive and looked back to see how the fight was coming along. The ninja could barely get his hands on one squimonk when another would stand on his hand and pry his thumb back. He was thrashing around like a bearded lady trying to swim in a newly formed lake of tears, but it didn't seem the squimonk were making any headway. I was gettin ready to drive off when I started thinkin about all the good things them squimonk have done for me in the past couple of months. They're always protectin me and makin donuts for me. They fixed Mable Lou twice. They introduced me to Charles Lindbergh who has always been a hero of mine, even if he is a little nutty and his breath smells like brine. With all of that, I couldn't take the risk that one of those squimonk, one of my friends, could get hurt or killed while I just ran away. Somethin rose up from deep inside me and I yelled out, "No ninja hurts my friends!"
With that, I slammed the truck into reverse and drove it straight at the evil covered in fur in the middle of the road. Just before impact, I yelled "Squimonk, clear out!" They did without a moment's hesitation. It looked as if a yeti had exploded, leaving only a burnt husk behind. Then I hit him. I was goin pretty fast, but he still tried to jump into the bed. He missed the jump by only an inch or so and so he flipped around and landed face first on Mable Lou's heiny. He stood up and I could see that his nose had been bloodied but he was still ready for action. Just as he was pullin his fist back to punch through the glass, I hit the brakes and he was thrown clear. It's a good thing I stopped when I did because he was thrown right back into the black hole that's out there on 15. He got all stretchy for a bit and then just sorta disappeared. I know he's in there right now being all swirled around with the light and the time and all, like when I put my light-up watch in the blender by accident that once.
When he was taken care of, I drove forward to where I left the squimonk. They were dusting themselves off and getting ready to reboard the stealth zeppelin when I pulled up.
"What was that?" I asked.
"I don't know, Pat," said one, "I just don't know. We'll have to check with Alistair to get a full report."
Once I got back to the shop, Alistair started grillin me on what happened. He said he got back this afternoon and the shop was empty except for a Clan Platypus throwing star left blithely on the counter. That and a whole tray of Boston Cremes was missing. I guess ninjas love Boston Creme. Then it struck me.
"Jared," I said, "Where is Jared?"
Alistair looked around but none of the squimonk met his eyes. "None of us have seen him," he said.
His mom called me about an hour ago and I told her that he was out back fixing the car. I don't know what I'm going to tell her next time she calls. Hopefully, by then, we'll have found them. Until then, we're all hoping for the best. Wish us well.
With this in mind, I was on my way to the Wal-mart in the next town to pick up some spark plugs, wires, an oil filter, a case of 10w-40, some windshield wiper fluid, toothpaste and a spark plug gapper, all of which I thought I'd use to show Jared how to tune up a car, using the Continental we towed in as an experiment. Well, that's not exactly true. The toothpaste I was gonna use to brush my teeth and I thought I'd pick it up while I was out. For a week or two now I been nearly out of toothpaste, but I never remember when I'm anywhere toothpaste is so every day I gotta squeeze that little tube harder and I get less and less for it, kinda like a boa constrictor tryin to suffocate a troll about sunup time, just as the troll's turnin to stone. This mornin, I had to set up a contraption in my front yard so I could back Mable Lou up over the tube of toothpaste and have a drop no bigger'n a pea forced out onto my brush. That's why I'm finally breakin down and buyin toothpaste. That and I got a cupon in the mail yesterday, which I found in the pocket of my overalls this mornin. Ok, I'll admit it, the trip was largely a ruse in order to convince myself to finally by that toothpaste I needed. There, I said it. In the meantime, though, since I was travellin all that way and risking life and limb on the county roads out here, I thought Jared might as well learn how to tune up a car.
I'm stopped at the side of the road on 15, havin myself a little "me" time. I'd drunk a mess of coffee this mornin and some of it was ready to be released back into the wild, if you know what I mean. So, there I am, enjoyin the outdoors in the way it was meant to be enjoyed (steadily more satisfying), when I see a black figure crawlin up towards me in the grass. Now I figured that it was either a) another robot ninja who just picked the wrong time or b) Hammish's shadow which had torn free from its master and come to seek its revenge on those who did it wrong. With the array of choices before me, I found myself surprised at hoping that I would be fightin a ninja. I wouldn't even begin knowing how to fight a shadow. I suppose you could shine a light on it or somethin, but I don't know if that would be effective at all, not to mention that what I was currently holding in my hand was not a flashlight, nor was it capable of shining light in any way. I highly doubt that a shadow is defeated by spraying it with a little ammonia. Lucky for me, though, it turned out to be a ninja and I didn't have to resolve that particular confuddlement right then. I did have to return to a civilized state before readying myself for some more punching and head popping and possibly fire that seems to happen when I fight these things.
The ninja's just crawling along, trying to be stealthy, so I decide to be helpful by yellin', "I see you there in the grass, you might as well stand up if you're here to fight me."
And he does. He stands up out of the grass like an afternoon shadow gettin longer. For a bit, he tries lookin' around all innocent like, sorta like when a cat runs into a glass door and then pretends to clean itself, hopin you'll just ignore the fact that it walked into a door that's always been there. The only difference is that the ninja in this case does not clean itself. Also, the ninja is not a cat and there's not a door in sight. Another difference is that, after you see a cat run into a door, it rarely jumps at you in a spinning double roundhouse kick aimed at where the coffee goes in and also where the coffee comes out. Rarely, I've noticed, do you have to jump backwards from said kick and then jump forward and, with both fists, punch the cat, or in this case, ninja, directly in the stomach and solar plexus while he or she or it is in the air. It is also very uncommon for the cat, or ninja, to be more yielding than previous robots that you have fought, leading you to the conclusion that this is, in fact, not a robot. Furthermore, cats do not often, in my experience, have small platypus stitched into their chests. So, except for the fact that I was now fighting a real ninja, and a member of clan platypus, it was just like that cat thing.
The ninja was down on his face for a couple of seconds and I took the time to apply my alligator wrestlin skills. I jumped on his back and covered his eyes with my hands. Unlike alligators, ninjas do not fall asleep when you cover their eyes. I learned just today, in fact, that they are far more likely to kick you in the back of the head and then put you in some weird arm-lock while you are down than they are to fall asleep. In my experience, that happens 100% of the time when fighting actual ninjas. Luck, and invisible zeppelins, were on my side, though. Just as it felt like the ninja was ready to turn my arm into several thousand toothpicks, he was attacked by a half dozen or so squimonk. They raced up his back, legs and arms, biting and scratching the entire time. He let go of me to focus on his smaller enemies.
From above, I heard, "Quick, Pat, Run!" And so I turned and headed for the truck. I threw Mable Lou into drive and looked back to see how the fight was coming along. The ninja could barely get his hands on one squimonk when another would stand on his hand and pry his thumb back. He was thrashing around like a bearded lady trying to swim in a newly formed lake of tears, but it didn't seem the squimonk were making any headway. I was gettin ready to drive off when I started thinkin about all the good things them squimonk have done for me in the past couple of months. They're always protectin me and makin donuts for me. They fixed Mable Lou twice. They introduced me to Charles Lindbergh who has always been a hero of mine, even if he is a little nutty and his breath smells like brine. With all of that, I couldn't take the risk that one of those squimonk, one of my friends, could get hurt or killed while I just ran away. Somethin rose up from deep inside me and I yelled out, "No ninja hurts my friends!"
With that, I slammed the truck into reverse and drove it straight at the evil covered in fur in the middle of the road. Just before impact, I yelled "Squimonk, clear out!" They did without a moment's hesitation. It looked as if a yeti had exploded, leaving only a burnt husk behind. Then I hit him. I was goin pretty fast, but he still tried to jump into the bed. He missed the jump by only an inch or so and so he flipped around and landed face first on Mable Lou's heiny. He stood up and I could see that his nose had been bloodied but he was still ready for action. Just as he was pullin his fist back to punch through the glass, I hit the brakes and he was thrown clear. It's a good thing I stopped when I did because he was thrown right back into the black hole that's out there on 15. He got all stretchy for a bit and then just sorta disappeared. I know he's in there right now being all swirled around with the light and the time and all, like when I put my light-up watch in the blender by accident that once.
When he was taken care of, I drove forward to where I left the squimonk. They were dusting themselves off and getting ready to reboard the stealth zeppelin when I pulled up.
"What was that?" I asked.
"I don't know, Pat," said one, "I just don't know. We'll have to check with Alistair to get a full report."
Once I got back to the shop, Alistair started grillin me on what happened. He said he got back this afternoon and the shop was empty except for a Clan Platypus throwing star left blithely on the counter. That and a whole tray of Boston Cremes was missing. I guess ninjas love Boston Creme. Then it struck me.
"Jared," I said, "Where is Jared?"
Alistair looked around but none of the squimonk met his eyes. "None of us have seen him," he said.
His mom called me about an hour ago and I told her that he was out back fixing the car. I don't know what I'm going to tell her next time she calls. Hopefully, by then, we'll have found them. Until then, we're all hoping for the best. Wish us well.
Monday, January 19, 2009
My conversation with Jared, the goth kid who saw me burn up a robotic ninja and then told his mom about it
"Military school!" These were the first two words out of Jared's mouth when I met him yesterday. The next few were, "She's threatening to send me to military school! In Alaska! And it's all your fault!"
"Let's be fair, there, Jared," I responded, "it's not ALL my fault. I didn't build no school and I certainly didn't have anything to do with the purchase and subsequent acquisition of Seward's Folly, so I am not responsible for there being a military school up there in Alaska to which your mom said she'd be sending you."
"But she thinks I've gone crazy!" he belted out. "I went home and told her about you burnin up that guy and she thinks I hallucinated the whole thing because of drugs or video games or something. But I know what I saw."
"Burnin up a guy?" I figured my best move was to redirect. "I didn't burn up no guy yesterday. What you saw was me tryin to dump the donut grease and gettin harassed by a raccoon."
"That wasn't a raccoon," he stated bluntly.
I decided to pile the obfuscation into drifts. "Of course that was a raccoon. Haven't you never heard about the Great Iowan Plains Raccoon? Some of 'em grow up to 10 feet tall. They pretty much only eat fat and sugar, which is why they're drawn to the donut grease. They're pretty rare nowadays, but if you're carryin a big ol' tub of sweetened grease, you just might lure one in by the smell. If I recall, they were gonna be Iowa's state bird until the legislature figured out that the one member of the species was just a clever raccoon that had glued some feathers onto itself in a bid to be on the flag and, therefore, famous. You know that the competition for gettin on the flag is like the bird version of American Idol."
"That's not true," he scoffed, "that wasn't no raccoon. First of all, he was standing on two legs. Second, he was wearing clothes. Plus he was swinging a big stick at you."
"Those are all properties of the Great Iowan Plains Raccoon," I calmly explained, "they have developed the ability to walk upright in order to reach cookies on the top shelf of the supermarket and to have quicker access to the lower branches of trees for when they're being chased by Plains Tigers and things. Also, in the winter, they shed their coat and so have to keep warm by poaching people clothes, usually from hotel lost and found boxes. Plus, they're very advanced for raccoons and have learned to use simple tools, like levers, to open up garbage cans. He prolly just mistook me for a walking garbage can and was tryin to pry me open. Poor little guy, he was just hungry and I prolly spooked him a little when I tipped the can over."
"Look, I'm sixteen, and I've lived in this town all my life," he was getting snippy, "I ain't never heard of no Great Plains Raccoon that walks like a man and fights like a man. Like they always say, if it walks like a duck and it quacks like a duck, it sure isn't some weird kind of raccoon. Now are you gonna come clean with this or do I have to start an internet campaign against you? I could do it, you know, I have fifty Twitter followers."
"I don't know what that means," I admitted.
He rolled his eyes. "That means that there are fifty people who listen to my opinions and what I say. And if I say to boycott this donut shop until you come out with the truth, they will. Oh, you better believe it."
"Huh," I nodded slowly, "and do any of these people frequent this donut shop?"
He furrowed his brows. "I don't know. It's all anonymous."
"Well, do they live in Iowa?"
"I said it's anonymous!"
"Well, I heard that, but I'm just trying to get a gauge of what kind of power I'm dealing with here. You may not believe me, but I've had some dealing on this internets thingy but I've never really seen a boycott. Also, I may not be totally familiar with this Twitter thing, but I just don't think a bunch of bird watchers are the type to get political. Now, if you don't believe me about the raccoon, that's one thing, but if you come into my shop and start issuing hallow threats, I'll call you on it. Now, we can sit here and speak about our options as adults or you can continue to be a baby about this and see how far it gets you." Sometimes, when dealing with young people, it's really best for the adult to act like and adult so a kid can see how it's done. That's how you learn 'em. If that doesn't work, then military academy in Alaska is a good backup plan.
Jared and I sat there in silence for a bit, just lookin at each other. Then I brought him another bear claw, and that seemed to soften him. Like my mom always used to say, eatin a lot of sweets will make a man soft. I fully agree. I eat plenty of sweets and I got a level, easy goin temperament.
After sippin my coffee a bit, I decided to take another try at this thing. "So what is it you want from me, Jared?"
He continued staring daggers at me for a minute, slumped in his chair with his arms crossed. Then he reached out and poked at the bear claw for a minute, just movin it around on his plate. He pulled his fingers back to his mouth and as soon as he tasted the warm, cinnamon apple goodness that was oozing out the claw parts, he livened up a bit. He picked up the treat and took a big bite out of the pinkie portion. Then, only with his mouth full of food, would he say something. He said, "Mrpmh, hmph mrt fmrlumph."
That coulda been a lot of things, and not all of it flattering. Before I threw him out, though, I thought I'd clarify. "What was that?"
He swallowed heavily and took a drink of his coffee. "I said, 'I need you to tell mom the truth.' You gotta tell her that you really were fighting a guy and that you burned him up. Then she'll know I'm not on drugs and I don't have to move to Alaska."
"What's so wrong with Alaska?" I asked, "It full of wildlife and, um, trees and some...uh...you know...salmon?"
"For starters, it's not about Alaska, it's about my mom thinking I'm some sort of weirdo who's on drugs and who plays so many video games that I can't tell what's real any more. Second, I'm afraid of moose. I saw this special about moose once and it scared the daylights out of me. And one thing Alaska's got in spades is moose."
Well, I can get softened up by donuts as well. I told him, "You know, Jared, you're right. That wasn't a raccoon I was fighting yesterday."
"I knew it!" he yelled.
I put a hand up, "Hear me out. It wasn't a raccoon, but it wasn't a man, either. That was a robotic ninja I was fighting yesterday. I didn't kill nobody."
"That was a...a...a robot?!" he stammered.
"Yeah."
"That...is...soooooooo.....COOOOOOL!" he nearly jumped out of his chair. "Did you make that thing? Is it fast? Does it have all its moves programmed in or was someone controlling it? What's it made out of? Is it titanium? I bet it's not titanium because that's got a higher melting point, so it'd have to be steel or something. Was it steel? How much did it cost to build that thing? It looked expensive. Was it expensive? Do you have other robots? Do you have a donut making robot? Is that how your bear claws always turn out so good? Are your robots programmed with the three rules of robotics? Or did you read Asimov and see what happened? Why were you fighting that one? Did it go all crazy and short out and think it was a person or something so you had to kill it to prevent the apocalypse or something like that?"
I've heard machine guns rattle slower than this kid. I put up both my hands, "Woah woah woah! Enough with the questions already! Stop before you give yourself an aneurysm or something."
"I'm sorry," he took a breath, "I just got excited. I've been working on computers and programming for a few years now and I've never even heard of a robot that advanced."
"Alright, Jared. I can't tell you everything that's going on here, but I guess I'll have to let you in on some. But you can't tell anybody, not even your mom."
"But if you don't tell her, she's going to send me away!" His eyes grew to the size of bowling balls and got teary like bowling balls just after the lane's been greased. At the bowling alley here, they grease the lanes on Tuesday mornings to repair the damages of league night on Monday. They apply a little extra grease because kids' league night is on Tuesday and the kids don't really care how much grease there is because they can't throw a curve and they use them bumpers anyways, which always felt to me like teachin kids how to cheat. So if you go bowlin on Tuesday mornings, expect your ball to get all greased up like a pair of sixteen year old eyeballs when the kid attached to them thinks he's gonna be sent to military school, which is what we were discussing in the first place.
"Well, how about we do this," I proposed, "We'll say you saw me fightin a raccoon, but it was dark and I was by a tree, so it just looked like a man. Then, we'll tell your mom that we agreed you need to get out of the house some and so you'll come here three days a week to do some work for me."
"Can you teach me how to build robots like that?" he asked.
"Nah," I admitted, "I don't build 'em. I just have to fight them."
He looked confused, "Why?"
"That's part of what I can't tell you," I explained, "but rest assured, it's for a very good reason."
So, in the end, Jared didn't get sent to Alaska and his mom agreed that he should come work at the shop. He'll be workin here a few times a week sweepin floors and stuff, maybe fixin cars. The squimonk know about this and have promised to stay out of view while Jared's around. Seems to me the problem is solved.
"Let's be fair, there, Jared," I responded, "it's not ALL my fault. I didn't build no school and I certainly didn't have anything to do with the purchase and subsequent acquisition of Seward's Folly, so I am not responsible for there being a military school up there in Alaska to which your mom said she'd be sending you."
"But she thinks I've gone crazy!" he belted out. "I went home and told her about you burnin up that guy and she thinks I hallucinated the whole thing because of drugs or video games or something. But I know what I saw."
"Burnin up a guy?" I figured my best move was to redirect. "I didn't burn up no guy yesterday. What you saw was me tryin to dump the donut grease and gettin harassed by a raccoon."
"That wasn't a raccoon," he stated bluntly.
I decided to pile the obfuscation into drifts. "Of course that was a raccoon. Haven't you never heard about the Great Iowan Plains Raccoon? Some of 'em grow up to 10 feet tall. They pretty much only eat fat and sugar, which is why they're drawn to the donut grease. They're pretty rare nowadays, but if you're carryin a big ol' tub of sweetened grease, you just might lure one in by the smell. If I recall, they were gonna be Iowa's state bird until the legislature figured out that the one member of the species was just a clever raccoon that had glued some feathers onto itself in a bid to be on the flag and, therefore, famous. You know that the competition for gettin on the flag is like the bird version of American Idol."
"That's not true," he scoffed, "that wasn't no raccoon. First of all, he was standing on two legs. Second, he was wearing clothes. Plus he was swinging a big stick at you."
"Those are all properties of the Great Iowan Plains Raccoon," I calmly explained, "they have developed the ability to walk upright in order to reach cookies on the top shelf of the supermarket and to have quicker access to the lower branches of trees for when they're being chased by Plains Tigers and things. Also, in the winter, they shed their coat and so have to keep warm by poaching people clothes, usually from hotel lost and found boxes. Plus, they're very advanced for raccoons and have learned to use simple tools, like levers, to open up garbage cans. He prolly just mistook me for a walking garbage can and was tryin to pry me open. Poor little guy, he was just hungry and I prolly spooked him a little when I tipped the can over."
"Look, I'm sixteen, and I've lived in this town all my life," he was getting snippy, "I ain't never heard of no Great Plains Raccoon that walks like a man and fights like a man. Like they always say, if it walks like a duck and it quacks like a duck, it sure isn't some weird kind of raccoon. Now are you gonna come clean with this or do I have to start an internet campaign against you? I could do it, you know, I have fifty Twitter followers."
"I don't know what that means," I admitted.
He rolled his eyes. "That means that there are fifty people who listen to my opinions and what I say. And if I say to boycott this donut shop until you come out with the truth, they will. Oh, you better believe it."
"Huh," I nodded slowly, "and do any of these people frequent this donut shop?"
He furrowed his brows. "I don't know. It's all anonymous."
"Well, do they live in Iowa?"
"I said it's anonymous!"
"Well, I heard that, but I'm just trying to get a gauge of what kind of power I'm dealing with here. You may not believe me, but I've had some dealing on this internets thingy but I've never really seen a boycott. Also, I may not be totally familiar with this Twitter thing, but I just don't think a bunch of bird watchers are the type to get political. Now, if you don't believe me about the raccoon, that's one thing, but if you come into my shop and start issuing hallow threats, I'll call you on it. Now, we can sit here and speak about our options as adults or you can continue to be a baby about this and see how far it gets you." Sometimes, when dealing with young people, it's really best for the adult to act like and adult so a kid can see how it's done. That's how you learn 'em. If that doesn't work, then military academy in Alaska is a good backup plan.
Jared and I sat there in silence for a bit, just lookin at each other. Then I brought him another bear claw, and that seemed to soften him. Like my mom always used to say, eatin a lot of sweets will make a man soft. I fully agree. I eat plenty of sweets and I got a level, easy goin temperament.
After sippin my coffee a bit, I decided to take another try at this thing. "So what is it you want from me, Jared?"
He continued staring daggers at me for a minute, slumped in his chair with his arms crossed. Then he reached out and poked at the bear claw for a minute, just movin it around on his plate. He pulled his fingers back to his mouth and as soon as he tasted the warm, cinnamon apple goodness that was oozing out the claw parts, he livened up a bit. He picked up the treat and took a big bite out of the pinkie portion. Then, only with his mouth full of food, would he say something. He said, "Mrpmh, hmph mrt fmrlumph."
That coulda been a lot of things, and not all of it flattering. Before I threw him out, though, I thought I'd clarify. "What was that?"
He swallowed heavily and took a drink of his coffee. "I said, 'I need you to tell mom the truth.' You gotta tell her that you really were fighting a guy and that you burned him up. Then she'll know I'm not on drugs and I don't have to move to Alaska."
"What's so wrong with Alaska?" I asked, "It full of wildlife and, um, trees and some...uh...you know...salmon?"
"For starters, it's not about Alaska, it's about my mom thinking I'm some sort of weirdo who's on drugs and who plays so many video games that I can't tell what's real any more. Second, I'm afraid of moose. I saw this special about moose once and it scared the daylights out of me. And one thing Alaska's got in spades is moose."
Well, I can get softened up by donuts as well. I told him, "You know, Jared, you're right. That wasn't a raccoon I was fighting yesterday."
"I knew it!" he yelled.
I put a hand up, "Hear me out. It wasn't a raccoon, but it wasn't a man, either. That was a robotic ninja I was fighting yesterday. I didn't kill nobody."
"That was a...a...a robot?!" he stammered.
"Yeah."
"That...is...soooooooo.....COOOOOOL!" he nearly jumped out of his chair. "Did you make that thing? Is it fast? Does it have all its moves programmed in or was someone controlling it? What's it made out of? Is it titanium? I bet it's not titanium because that's got a higher melting point, so it'd have to be steel or something. Was it steel? How much did it cost to build that thing? It looked expensive. Was it expensive? Do you have other robots? Do you have a donut making robot? Is that how your bear claws always turn out so good? Are your robots programmed with the three rules of robotics? Or did you read Asimov and see what happened? Why were you fighting that one? Did it go all crazy and short out and think it was a person or something so you had to kill it to prevent the apocalypse or something like that?"
I've heard machine guns rattle slower than this kid. I put up both my hands, "Woah woah woah! Enough with the questions already! Stop before you give yourself an aneurysm or something."
"I'm sorry," he took a breath, "I just got excited. I've been working on computers and programming for a few years now and I've never even heard of a robot that advanced."
"Alright, Jared. I can't tell you everything that's going on here, but I guess I'll have to let you in on some. But you can't tell anybody, not even your mom."
"But if you don't tell her, she's going to send me away!" His eyes grew to the size of bowling balls and got teary like bowling balls just after the lane's been greased. At the bowling alley here, they grease the lanes on Tuesday mornings to repair the damages of league night on Monday. They apply a little extra grease because kids' league night is on Tuesday and the kids don't really care how much grease there is because they can't throw a curve and they use them bumpers anyways, which always felt to me like teachin kids how to cheat. So if you go bowlin on Tuesday mornings, expect your ball to get all greased up like a pair of sixteen year old eyeballs when the kid attached to them thinks he's gonna be sent to military school, which is what we were discussing in the first place.
"Well, how about we do this," I proposed, "We'll say you saw me fightin a raccoon, but it was dark and I was by a tree, so it just looked like a man. Then, we'll tell your mom that we agreed you need to get out of the house some and so you'll come here three days a week to do some work for me."
"Can you teach me how to build robots like that?" he asked.
"Nah," I admitted, "I don't build 'em. I just have to fight them."
He looked confused, "Why?"
"That's part of what I can't tell you," I explained, "but rest assured, it's for a very good reason."
So, in the end, Jared didn't get sent to Alaska and his mom agreed that he should come work at the shop. He'll be workin here a few times a week sweepin floors and stuff, maybe fixin cars. The squimonk know about this and have promised to stay out of view while Jared's around. Seems to me the problem is solved.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Caught Grease Handed
Boy howdy, fightin robot ninjas every day is harder'n wrestlin gators, which is the part time job I had just after I gradjiated high school and lit out for the territories, as it were. I found myself, after some thumbin and train jumpin, down in Louisiana, broker than a dropped record on a cold day. I was out in the middle of nowhere with no one comin to pick me up and with the sun fadin fast into the swamp. Now, you don't want to be caught in them Louisiana swamps at night because they've got that musk ape down there that'll come out and rip your arms off if you can't answer his three riddles. If you ever find yourself in that position, the answer to his first riddle is "barking spiders". My uncle Ted told me that when I was young and I never forgot it. He never did tell me what the riddle was, though, so if you lose your arms because of that, don't blame me for tryin to be a good Samaritan. I wasn't intent on losin my arms, either, cause I figured my arms had come in handy up to that point and I might be needin them for things later in life, kinda like a swiss army knife that you somehow manage to find a use for every day. Sure enough, the day you're without either you're gonna find somethin you need it for. You leave your knife at home, you know you're gonna have to open a box or punch a hole in a piece of leather. You lose your arms to a musk ape, you're probably gonna need them for somethin the next day like liftin a box or scratchin your nose or standin up outta bed. I started walkin down the highway a bit and, just as the last sliver of sun was dippin below the horizon, I stumbled upon one of them roadside zoos. It smelt like they was raisin a whole family of musk apes by feedin 'em burnin tires ala skunk, but it was shelter. There was a little tar-paper shack just inside the gate, so I knocked at the door, told the owner, Jim Bob, about my predicament and asked if I could sleep there for the night. He said that was all right by him, but if I wanted to eat anything, I'd have to work for it. So started my career at the roadside zoo. In the 6 months I was there, I learned to slop tiger cages, milk a two-headed snake and wrestle alligators. That last one is the most exhausting of the three. You gotta jump on the alligator, hang on while he's thrashin around and get his eyes covered as quick as you can. After that, though, it ain't too hard because alligators don't have very strong muscles to open their jaws. The real exciting part is when you jump off again. Sometimes, they get mad at havin lost, alligators are poor sports, after all, and they try to flip around and bite you. On a side note, I ended up leavin that job because the star attraction, the two-tailed albino gator ran off in the night. I thought she was taken by the musk ape, but Jim Bob said they'd probably eloped. Up to this past week, that was the most tirin thing I'd done, but, as I said, fightin robot ninjas is more tiring.
Yesterday's ninja ambushed me with a stick when I went to pour out the donut oil. I was carryin a 50 pound drum of oil, on a dolly to save my back, and this guy just jumps out of the bushes with no sorta preamble or conversation or anything. Well, I just holler and jump back, lettin the dolly go so I could block my face. Now, I never got hit in the face with a big ol' stick, but I don't need to touch a fire to know it's hot, if you know what I mean. So, there I am tryin to ward off the attack when, out of the corner of my eye I see the barrel reach the apex of it's arc and slowly tip over.
Now we got oil all over everywhere and we're slidin all over the place. I got no idea how to get inside the range of his stick so I can punch him or somethin and I start thinkin I'm gonna need a shield of some kind. I'm desperately lookin around for somethin, anything to help me while gettin my arms pretty banged up when I see this camper shell for a pickup sittin over by the wall. I'm tryin to slide my way over there, windmillin my arms with every step when, by some miracle of physics or somethin, I manage to grab the stick while it's in mid-swing. Now, I may have goofed around in school thinkin about girls and whatnot, but I paid enough attention to still remember my Newton to this day, so I gave that stick a shove, sent the ninja out of range and propelled myself towards the camper shell. I picked it up and held it in front of me while I walked towards the ninja, hopin to back him up against the dumpster. He kept swingin that stick and punched a couple of holes in the fiberglass, but he didn't land anything on me, which was a definite improvement. I finally got him backed up to where I could do somethin when I started to smell smoke. I looked down and saw that the ninja's foot was on fire and, me bein wet to he waist with donut grease, I turned and ran as fast as I could. When I felt like I was a safe distance away, a couple hundred feet or so, I turned to see that ninja goin up like 4th of July, Chinese New Year, Chernobyl, the heart of the sun and Richard Pryor combined. I never saw nothin go from normal to pile of ash quicker, even in them cartoons with that martian that's always tryin to blow up the earth. You know, that one that fights that rabbit and the rabbit always turns the laser back on the martian and he's like Lot's wife, only he gets made into ask instead of salt. This ninja was just like that, minus the rabbit, laser and bein a martian. Also, it wasn't drawn and he wasn't a person-shaped pile of ash, just a regular pile. And he was covered in donut grease. Other than that, it was exactly the same.
I later figured out that the plexiglass windows on the camper top, bein curved, concentrated the sunlight into a small point, like a magnifyin glass will do over an ant hill, if you're a young man and disposed to that kinda thing, which I am not, but I've heard about it from some people I used to know.
After defeatin the ninja with help from my friend, the sun, I turned around to go change my pants and who was standin behind me tryin to catch flies in his open mouth but Jared. He was just gapin, lookin back and forth from me to the pile of ash and the still burnin donut grease, his jaw just flappin up and down like a bass that's just been caught. Finally, he squeaked out a little, "Oh.....my....GOD!"
Well, I just didn't know what to say, so I just told him, "Don't worry, that fire'll burn itself out." And then I walked back in the shop, mutterin "Durn it all! Consarnit! Flippin Flapjacks!" Under my breath. I'm sorry for the foul language, but I figure y'all can handle it after bein exposed to whatever else on the internets.
I didn't tell no one about what had happened, because I didn't know what to say. I thought I'd just blown the whole operation. I was pretty jumpy there for a couple hours. Then Jared's mom called. I went to high school with Brenda. She's a couple years younger than me, and we didn't run in the same circles or anything, but we see each other at potlucks and cake walks every now and then, but I doubted she was callin me to buy a raffle ticket this time.
She began, "Hello, Pat, this is Brenda."
I decided to play it cool. "Hi Brenda, it's been a long time. To what do I owe this pleasure? Is it Girl Scout Cookie season again?"
"Actually, Pat," she wasn't havin any nonsense, "I'm calling about Jared. I've heard some disturbing things this afternoon."
"Is this about those extra bear claws?" I asked. "Because I gave those to him."
"No, Pat, it's not about that." She took a deep breath. "Look," she sighed, "I know we don't know each other that well, but I'm worried about Jared. He spends all his time in his room playin them video games of his and I think it's starting to harm him." Her voice went all shaky and I think she started to cry. "I think the divorce has been really hard on him. I mean, he used to be such a sweet kid and now he's always wearin black everywhere and he's listenin to this music that sounds like people are hittin their guitars with cats. And then today, he comes home and says he saw you fight a man with a stick and then BURN him to death."
My mind went blank. "Well, uh, Brenda," I stammered, "I, um, don't...uh"
She interrupted me, "I know, Pat. It's ridiculous. I think those video games got into his head and now he's hallucinating or something. Maybe, I don't know, maybe he's on the drugs or something."
Then I heard Jared in the background yellin, "Mooooooooooooaaaaamm! I'm not making it up! Jeez! Why can't you believe me?!"
She covered the phone with her hand, but I heard, muffled, "Jared, I am on the phone!" She said this last stucatto, like all moms know how to do when they're angry. Then, she returned to me. "I'm at wit's end here, Pat. So, I was wonderin, could you sit him down and talk to him or something?"
I don't know what came over me, but I agreed to talk to him. He's comin in tomorrow morning at 7. I don't know what I'm going to say, but I'm sure I'll let you know.
Yesterday's ninja ambushed me with a stick when I went to pour out the donut oil. I was carryin a 50 pound drum of oil, on a dolly to save my back, and this guy just jumps out of the bushes with no sorta preamble or conversation or anything. Well, I just holler and jump back, lettin the dolly go so I could block my face. Now, I never got hit in the face with a big ol' stick, but I don't need to touch a fire to know it's hot, if you know what I mean. So, there I am tryin to ward off the attack when, out of the corner of my eye I see the barrel reach the apex of it's arc and slowly tip over.
Now we got oil all over everywhere and we're slidin all over the place. I got no idea how to get inside the range of his stick so I can punch him or somethin and I start thinkin I'm gonna need a shield of some kind. I'm desperately lookin around for somethin, anything to help me while gettin my arms pretty banged up when I see this camper shell for a pickup sittin over by the wall. I'm tryin to slide my way over there, windmillin my arms with every step when, by some miracle of physics or somethin, I manage to grab the stick while it's in mid-swing. Now, I may have goofed around in school thinkin about girls and whatnot, but I paid enough attention to still remember my Newton to this day, so I gave that stick a shove, sent the ninja out of range and propelled myself towards the camper shell. I picked it up and held it in front of me while I walked towards the ninja, hopin to back him up against the dumpster. He kept swingin that stick and punched a couple of holes in the fiberglass, but he didn't land anything on me, which was a definite improvement. I finally got him backed up to where I could do somethin when I started to smell smoke. I looked down and saw that the ninja's foot was on fire and, me bein wet to he waist with donut grease, I turned and ran as fast as I could. When I felt like I was a safe distance away, a couple hundred feet or so, I turned to see that ninja goin up like 4th of July, Chinese New Year, Chernobyl, the heart of the sun and Richard Pryor combined. I never saw nothin go from normal to pile of ash quicker, even in them cartoons with that martian that's always tryin to blow up the earth. You know, that one that fights that rabbit and the rabbit always turns the laser back on the martian and he's like Lot's wife, only he gets made into ask instead of salt. This ninja was just like that, minus the rabbit, laser and bein a martian. Also, it wasn't drawn and he wasn't a person-shaped pile of ash, just a regular pile. And he was covered in donut grease. Other than that, it was exactly the same.
I later figured out that the plexiglass windows on the camper top, bein curved, concentrated the sunlight into a small point, like a magnifyin glass will do over an ant hill, if you're a young man and disposed to that kinda thing, which I am not, but I've heard about it from some people I used to know.
After defeatin the ninja with help from my friend, the sun, I turned around to go change my pants and who was standin behind me tryin to catch flies in his open mouth but Jared. He was just gapin, lookin back and forth from me to the pile of ash and the still burnin donut grease, his jaw just flappin up and down like a bass that's just been caught. Finally, he squeaked out a little, "Oh.....my....GOD!"
Well, I just didn't know what to say, so I just told him, "Don't worry, that fire'll burn itself out." And then I walked back in the shop, mutterin "Durn it all! Consarnit! Flippin Flapjacks!" Under my breath. I'm sorry for the foul language, but I figure y'all can handle it after bein exposed to whatever else on the internets.
I didn't tell no one about what had happened, because I didn't know what to say. I thought I'd just blown the whole operation. I was pretty jumpy there for a couple hours. Then Jared's mom called. I went to high school with Brenda. She's a couple years younger than me, and we didn't run in the same circles or anything, but we see each other at potlucks and cake walks every now and then, but I doubted she was callin me to buy a raffle ticket this time.
She began, "Hello, Pat, this is Brenda."
I decided to play it cool. "Hi Brenda, it's been a long time. To what do I owe this pleasure? Is it Girl Scout Cookie season again?"
"Actually, Pat," she wasn't havin any nonsense, "I'm calling about Jared. I've heard some disturbing things this afternoon."
"Is this about those extra bear claws?" I asked. "Because I gave those to him."
"No, Pat, it's not about that." She took a deep breath. "Look," she sighed, "I know we don't know each other that well, but I'm worried about Jared. He spends all his time in his room playin them video games of his and I think it's starting to harm him." Her voice went all shaky and I think she started to cry. "I think the divorce has been really hard on him. I mean, he used to be such a sweet kid and now he's always wearin black everywhere and he's listenin to this music that sounds like people are hittin their guitars with cats. And then today, he comes home and says he saw you fight a man with a stick and then BURN him to death."
My mind went blank. "Well, uh, Brenda," I stammered, "I, um, don't...uh"
She interrupted me, "I know, Pat. It's ridiculous. I think those video games got into his head and now he's hallucinating or something. Maybe, I don't know, maybe he's on the drugs or something."
Then I heard Jared in the background yellin, "Mooooooooooooaaaaamm! I'm not making it up! Jeez! Why can't you believe me?!"
She covered the phone with her hand, but I heard, muffled, "Jared, I am on the phone!" She said this last stucatto, like all moms know how to do when they're angry. Then, she returned to me. "I'm at wit's end here, Pat. So, I was wonderin, could you sit him down and talk to him or something?"
I don't know what came over me, but I agreed to talk to him. He's comin in tomorrow morning at 7. I don't know what I'm going to say, but I'm sure I'll let you know.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Ninja Fights in the New Year
Well, friends, the holidays have come and gone. The presents are all opened, the champagne is all drunk, the balls are dropped. We shut down the shop for a week or so during this time so the employees could spend time with their families. Bein as the only two "official" employees is me and Douggy and seein how Douggy came over to my family's house for the festivities, as he's done every year since we was knee high to a nutcracker, it prolly wasn't the best business decision I've ever had to make. O' course, I don't really need to be concerned about makin this a terribly successful business; well, not the up front part of it, anyway. The stuff goin on in the back, with the ninjas and the fighting and the zeppelins and everything, I'd like that to go successful, but it seems on an even keel lately. But, not everything's been popcorn and cake for Pat O'Neil lately. I been fightin these durned robot ninjas almost daily for the last coupla weeks. Every one's been pretty much the same; ninja comes in the shop, says he's gotta fight me, then I offer him a donut, he takes it and then he starts shootin sparks and stuff. Lindbergh says that he's tryin to give the robots some sort of autonomy so they can make decisions for themselves while they're fighting, but he keeps running into the problem he's calling the "donigma". As it was explained to me, it's something like this: robots can't eat nothin cause the got no stomach or throat or teeth, they know they ain't supposed to eat nothin but if a robot's gonna fight or do anything, really, they gotta have their minds programmed right and, unfortunately for robot ninjas, no one in their right mind can turn down a free donut. So, the robots, because they're in their right mind, they gotta take the donut and try to eat it, which causes all sortsa sparks and stuff. It's usually ok, but Friday Jared, the goth kid in town, came in to rustle himself up a mess of bear claws cause he said he was gonna "play wow" on the internet all weekend. I told him that I didn't need that kinda honesty, but I gave him a couple of extras because I remember when I was a lad and I'd "play wow" all weekend, 'cept I had to use the Sears catalogues, and how I needed to keep my strength up. Anyway, when he walked in, there was a headless ninja robot just layin on the floor. I tried explaining that it was one of them vacuuming robots that I'd got for Christmas, but I don't think he bought it. Now he's been lurking around all weekend. I guess headless robots are more interesting than wow to today's kids. How times change.
So, anyway, I finally roused myself from my holiday ham and cookie coma to check in at the shop today. When I got in, I saw there was a message on the answering machine. Well, to be honest, it wasn't right when I got in, a man has to have his coffee, eat his donut and solve his crossword in the morning, after all, so, let's say, about an hour or two after I got in this morning, I got the message which had, itself, been left about a week ago, so I don't think that couple of hours made a difference. Turns out a friend of my cousin's roommate's niece's dog sitter had gotten a new car for Christmas and wanted us to come tow away the one she had, which was a pretty decent 1971 Lincoln Continental with most of the original interior actually in the car. Sure, most of it was wadded up in the back seat or had been cut into strips to patch leaks in the engine, but I'd say a good eighty percent of it was still attached to the vehicle itself in one form or another. Alistair and I talked about this for awhile until Douggy came in. I thought we should repair it, but Alistair pointed out that, as of yet, we do not have any refurbished cars and so we were really letting the middle part of Pat O'Neil's Body Shop, Refurbished Car Emporium and Donut Eatery really sag; sag like carrying a bowling ball on a rubber band; a real wide rubber band, not one of them thin ones. It would be too hard to carry a bowling ball on one of them thin rubber bands. It may work if you kinda pulled it tight and set the bowling ball in the space in the middle. But then, the rubber band would be taut, and wouldn't sag that much. Let's start over on this metaphor. Let's say sagging like a granny's triceps and leave it at that without worrying about some really strong granny that is capable of juggling fully grown trees, like Douggy's grandma used to until she was hit by a meteor one day back in '71. So, ignoring that, Alistair's point was that we needed to refurbish at least one car, in order to go with the name. In order to refurbish it, we needed to get it in the shop, and that meant we needed Douggy to drive the tow truck. I was gonna give him a couple more days off, because he had some project he was working on for his wife, I don't know exactly what it was but it involved macrame and egg crates, but I gave him a call and he was there in a half hour.
When he got there, I didn't want to rush him, so we had some coffee and a couple donuts and then, because I'd already solved the crossword, I let him go ahead and solve the sudoku puzzle in the paper. I usually like doing them, but Douggy needed something after getting involved in one of Geraldine's big craft projects. Last year about this time, she decided she was gonna knit scarves for all the kids down at the orphanage, but she got a little carried away and ended up knitting one big scarf that all the orphans had to share and it had bells in it. The nuns down there said it helped them out, though, because they always knew where the kids were and that they were warm. So, after bein in that kinda environment, I thought I'd give Douggy a little Douggy time. After he got that puzzle solved, I talked to him about towin in the Lincoln and he was ready for it.
"There might be a problem though," he told me.
"Whassat?" I asked.
"Well, I don't see any body layin around," he gestured to the clean floor, "so it looks like your ninja hasn't been here today. What do we do if he comes while we're out?"
"That's a good question," I thought about it for a time, "How about we leave a sign?"
"A sign that says, 'gone to tow a car, robotic ninjas wait here until we get back'?"
When he said it that way, it did sound like less of a good idea, so I told him, "When you say it that way, it does sound like less of a good idea."
We debated it for a bit and ended up leavin a sign that said, "Gone to tow a car. We will return in an hour. Anyone in all black can help themselves to a donut." Then, we left a plate of donuts sitting just outside the front door. We figured that, this way, if a roboninja came, maybe I could defeat him without even confronting him. Also, if Jared came by, he could keep his "wow" energy up, just so long as he washed his hands after the last time playing wow. So, that bein done, we grabbed Albert and headed off.
As we were ridin in the tow truck, Douggy asked me some about how the training was going. I told him about the 'donigma' and how that was making it less of a challenge than I'd expected. He pointed out that Charles was the guy who figured out sweet potato burritos on sea monkey tortillas would extend life and so he'd probably be able to find a way to get robots to stop eating donuts. Then, he offered to give me some fighting tips, to which I agreed.
"When your fighting," he explained, "don't expect. If you expect your opponent to strike with the right hand, but they strike with the left hand, you have to react to the fact they're hitting with a different hand and then figure out what to do. But, if you wait with a clear mind, then you can react much faster no matter which hand they strike you with."
I didn't really get it, but he said he'd show me some things when we got home. After that, we got to the car and, even though we weren't going to do any of the repair work ourselves, we opened the hood and stared at the engine for awhile. After a few minutes, Douggy chimed in with the obligatory, "Well, I think we're gonna have to pull it," thereby fulfilling our manly duties in front of automobiles. When that was completed, we hooked up the Lincoln to the chain and headed back towards the shop. Everything seemed fine except Douggy kept lookin in the rear view mirror.
Eventually, he tells me, "Pat, I think there's somethin movin around in the car back there."
"Oh, yeah?" I ask.
"Yeah," he responds, "I thought it was the ceiling lining flappin at first, but now I think something's in there. You wanna go back and check it out?"
I can't help but notice that we're still moving, so I inquire, "What? Now?"
"Well, wait for the next stop sign," he concedes.
"Ok," I tell him, "is it dangerous?"
He scoffs, "Nah, it's usually just a cat or a drunk that crawled in there to get warm. Just open the door and shoo it out."
I hop out at the next stop sign and open the door to the car. I don't see nothin at first, but I push the interior around a bit and I finally see what was movin around. It turns out Douggy was wrong, it wasn't a cat OR a drunk. Instead, it was a ninja. It jumped out and grabbed my arm.
"Pat O'Neil!" yelled the ninja, "I must fight you!"
I knew how to handle this. "Sure, that sounds fine," I tell the ninja, "But you want a donut first?"
"No Donut!" screams the ninja.
"Are you sure?" I ask, "It's free!"
"No Donut!" screeches the ninja again. "Diabetic!"
It looked like Charles had solved the donigma. It was pretty clever, too, making the ninja diabetic. It looked like I'd have to actually fight this one. I was tryin to remember what Douggy had told me when the ninja clocked me a good one across the jaw. I haven't been in that many fights, but I know now I don't like bein punched in the face. I wasn't about to take another one of them, so I pushed the ninja back in the car and slammed the door. Then I went and hopped back into the tow truck.
"Cat?" asked Douggy.
"Ninja," I said.
"Huh," he grunted. I figured I wouldn't bother him with the fact that it was a ninja with a head still attached. I figured we could do something about it when we got back to the shop.
We'd gone about a block when the back window of the truck cabin shattered and a black clad fist followed the cold air through to grab me by the beard. Before I knew it, I was standin on the back of the tow truck with the robot ninja takin swings at me. Douggy was a little discombobulated and so he was swervin, which actually helped me some. Every time the ninja would swing, Douggy would swerve and I was pushed out of the range of the fists. This couldn't last long, I knew, before I would go skidding off the truck and onto the road like that chicken from that joke about the chicken and the road, only I would be crossing it on my face. To avoid that, I grabbed the chain that was holding the Lincoln on to the back of the truck. You think a bowling ball puts some tension on a rubber band, you should try grabbing a chain pulling a 2 ton car by its axle at 30 miles an hour. Douggy took the next turn pretty quick and my legs flew out from under me, sticking straight out the side of the trick. This knocked over the ninja, too, but he didn't have no chain to hold on to. He went sprawling on the back of the truck, but he managed to hang on pretty well. He got up in a squatting position and started to take swipes at me. The best I could do was keep my legs and face out of harm's way and try to kick his fingers when I could.
That lasted a couple of blocks until he looked up at my hand. Then he got this horrible gleam in his eyes. He stood and grabbed the chain with one hand while he started pryin my fingers with the other. Now, I don't know if you were aware of this, I wasn't until just today, but it turns out robots are incredibly strong. That bein the case, I couldn't resist him when he separated my fingers from that life-giving chain. I was in desperate straits, grasping anywhere I could with my other hand, and I guess I grabbed his hood just as Douggy braked for an old lady in the road. I was thrown back at the cab of the truck, which I hit my head on, but the ninja ended up with his body on one side of the chain and his head, in my hand, on the other side. As soon as I shook the cobwebs out, I could see that his head had come clean off in my hand and his body neck was sparking and spilling goo everywhere. I'd won my first actual fight against a robot ninja. I'll tell ya, except for the bump on my head and nearly dying being thrown from the back of a truck, it felt pretty darn good.
When we got back to the shop, everyone congratulated me, even Charles via telephone. This evening, Douggy and asked him if all ninja fights are like that.
He told me, "Yeah, pretty much, except their heads usually don't come off that easily. Also, most don't take place on the back of a tow truck, and there's usually weapons involved, plus, both people usually know how to fight. Come to think of it, most ninja fights are little to nothing like that fight. But that's ok, you have time."
So, anyway, I finally roused myself from my holiday ham and cookie coma to check in at the shop today. When I got in, I saw there was a message on the answering machine. Well, to be honest, it wasn't right when I got in, a man has to have his coffee, eat his donut and solve his crossword in the morning, after all, so, let's say, about an hour or two after I got in this morning, I got the message which had, itself, been left about a week ago, so I don't think that couple of hours made a difference. Turns out a friend of my cousin's roommate's niece's dog sitter had gotten a new car for Christmas and wanted us to come tow away the one she had, which was a pretty decent 1971 Lincoln Continental with most of the original interior actually in the car. Sure, most of it was wadded up in the back seat or had been cut into strips to patch leaks in the engine, but I'd say a good eighty percent of it was still attached to the vehicle itself in one form or another. Alistair and I talked about this for awhile until Douggy came in. I thought we should repair it, but Alistair pointed out that, as of yet, we do not have any refurbished cars and so we were really letting the middle part of Pat O'Neil's Body Shop, Refurbished Car Emporium and Donut Eatery really sag; sag like carrying a bowling ball on a rubber band; a real wide rubber band, not one of them thin ones. It would be too hard to carry a bowling ball on one of them thin rubber bands. It may work if you kinda pulled it tight and set the bowling ball in the space in the middle. But then, the rubber band would be taut, and wouldn't sag that much. Let's start over on this metaphor. Let's say sagging like a granny's triceps and leave it at that without worrying about some really strong granny that is capable of juggling fully grown trees, like Douggy's grandma used to until she was hit by a meteor one day back in '71. So, ignoring that, Alistair's point was that we needed to refurbish at least one car, in order to go with the name. In order to refurbish it, we needed to get it in the shop, and that meant we needed Douggy to drive the tow truck. I was gonna give him a couple more days off, because he had some project he was working on for his wife, I don't know exactly what it was but it involved macrame and egg crates, but I gave him a call and he was there in a half hour.
When he got there, I didn't want to rush him, so we had some coffee and a couple donuts and then, because I'd already solved the crossword, I let him go ahead and solve the sudoku puzzle in the paper. I usually like doing them, but Douggy needed something after getting involved in one of Geraldine's big craft projects. Last year about this time, she decided she was gonna knit scarves for all the kids down at the orphanage, but she got a little carried away and ended up knitting one big scarf that all the orphans had to share and it had bells in it. The nuns down there said it helped them out, though, because they always knew where the kids were and that they were warm. So, after bein in that kinda environment, I thought I'd give Douggy a little Douggy time. After he got that puzzle solved, I talked to him about towin in the Lincoln and he was ready for it.
"There might be a problem though," he told me.
"Whassat?" I asked.
"Well, I don't see any body layin around," he gestured to the clean floor, "so it looks like your ninja hasn't been here today. What do we do if he comes while we're out?"
"That's a good question," I thought about it for a time, "How about we leave a sign?"
"A sign that says, 'gone to tow a car, robotic ninjas wait here until we get back'?"
When he said it that way, it did sound like less of a good idea, so I told him, "When you say it that way, it does sound like less of a good idea."
We debated it for a bit and ended up leavin a sign that said, "Gone to tow a car. We will return in an hour. Anyone in all black can help themselves to a donut." Then, we left a plate of donuts sitting just outside the front door. We figured that, this way, if a roboninja came, maybe I could defeat him without even confronting him. Also, if Jared came by, he could keep his "wow" energy up, just so long as he washed his hands after the last time playing wow. So, that bein done, we grabbed Albert and headed off.
As we were ridin in the tow truck, Douggy asked me some about how the training was going. I told him about the 'donigma' and how that was making it less of a challenge than I'd expected. He pointed out that Charles was the guy who figured out sweet potato burritos on sea monkey tortillas would extend life and so he'd probably be able to find a way to get robots to stop eating donuts. Then, he offered to give me some fighting tips, to which I agreed.
"When your fighting," he explained, "don't expect. If you expect your opponent to strike with the right hand, but they strike with the left hand, you have to react to the fact they're hitting with a different hand and then figure out what to do. But, if you wait with a clear mind, then you can react much faster no matter which hand they strike you with."
I didn't really get it, but he said he'd show me some things when we got home. After that, we got to the car and, even though we weren't going to do any of the repair work ourselves, we opened the hood and stared at the engine for awhile. After a few minutes, Douggy chimed in with the obligatory, "Well, I think we're gonna have to pull it," thereby fulfilling our manly duties in front of automobiles. When that was completed, we hooked up the Lincoln to the chain and headed back towards the shop. Everything seemed fine except Douggy kept lookin in the rear view mirror.
Eventually, he tells me, "Pat, I think there's somethin movin around in the car back there."
"Oh, yeah?" I ask.
"Yeah," he responds, "I thought it was the ceiling lining flappin at first, but now I think something's in there. You wanna go back and check it out?"
I can't help but notice that we're still moving, so I inquire, "What? Now?"
"Well, wait for the next stop sign," he concedes.
"Ok," I tell him, "is it dangerous?"
He scoffs, "Nah, it's usually just a cat or a drunk that crawled in there to get warm. Just open the door and shoo it out."
I hop out at the next stop sign and open the door to the car. I don't see nothin at first, but I push the interior around a bit and I finally see what was movin around. It turns out Douggy was wrong, it wasn't a cat OR a drunk. Instead, it was a ninja. It jumped out and grabbed my arm.
"Pat O'Neil!" yelled the ninja, "I must fight you!"
I knew how to handle this. "Sure, that sounds fine," I tell the ninja, "But you want a donut first?"
"No Donut!" screams the ninja.
"Are you sure?" I ask, "It's free!"
"No Donut!" screeches the ninja again. "Diabetic!"
It looked like Charles had solved the donigma. It was pretty clever, too, making the ninja diabetic. It looked like I'd have to actually fight this one. I was tryin to remember what Douggy had told me when the ninja clocked me a good one across the jaw. I haven't been in that many fights, but I know now I don't like bein punched in the face. I wasn't about to take another one of them, so I pushed the ninja back in the car and slammed the door. Then I went and hopped back into the tow truck.
"Cat?" asked Douggy.
"Ninja," I said.
"Huh," he grunted. I figured I wouldn't bother him with the fact that it was a ninja with a head still attached. I figured we could do something about it when we got back to the shop.
We'd gone about a block when the back window of the truck cabin shattered and a black clad fist followed the cold air through to grab me by the beard. Before I knew it, I was standin on the back of the tow truck with the robot ninja takin swings at me. Douggy was a little discombobulated and so he was swervin, which actually helped me some. Every time the ninja would swing, Douggy would swerve and I was pushed out of the range of the fists. This couldn't last long, I knew, before I would go skidding off the truck and onto the road like that chicken from that joke about the chicken and the road, only I would be crossing it on my face. To avoid that, I grabbed the chain that was holding the Lincoln on to the back of the truck. You think a bowling ball puts some tension on a rubber band, you should try grabbing a chain pulling a 2 ton car by its axle at 30 miles an hour. Douggy took the next turn pretty quick and my legs flew out from under me, sticking straight out the side of the trick. This knocked over the ninja, too, but he didn't have no chain to hold on to. He went sprawling on the back of the truck, but he managed to hang on pretty well. He got up in a squatting position and started to take swipes at me. The best I could do was keep my legs and face out of harm's way and try to kick his fingers when I could.
That lasted a couple of blocks until he looked up at my hand. Then he got this horrible gleam in his eyes. He stood and grabbed the chain with one hand while he started pryin my fingers with the other. Now, I don't know if you were aware of this, I wasn't until just today, but it turns out robots are incredibly strong. That bein the case, I couldn't resist him when he separated my fingers from that life-giving chain. I was in desperate straits, grasping anywhere I could with my other hand, and I guess I grabbed his hood just as Douggy braked for an old lady in the road. I was thrown back at the cab of the truck, which I hit my head on, but the ninja ended up with his body on one side of the chain and his head, in my hand, on the other side. As soon as I shook the cobwebs out, I could see that his head had come clean off in my hand and his body neck was sparking and spilling goo everywhere. I'd won my first actual fight against a robot ninja. I'll tell ya, except for the bump on my head and nearly dying being thrown from the back of a truck, it felt pretty darn good.
When we got back to the shop, everyone congratulated me, even Charles via telephone. This evening, Douggy and asked him if all ninja fights are like that.
He told me, "Yeah, pretty much, except their heads usually don't come off that easily. Also, most don't take place on the back of a tow truck, and there's usually weapons involved, plus, both people usually know how to fight. Come to think of it, most ninja fights are little to nothing like that fight. But that's ok, you have time."
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Just a note
Hello readers.
I just want to let you know that I will be making a sincere effort to get back to more regular updates after January 9th or so. I've been reveling in being home and seeing family and friends and, unfortunately, I haven't had the time to sit down and write as I would like to. However, I'll be back on a normal schedule in about a week and I will do everything I can to keep the story coming. Thanks for hanging in there.
I just want to let you know that I will be making a sincere effort to get back to more regular updates after January 9th or so. I've been reveling in being home and seeing family and friends and, unfortunately, I haven't had the time to sit down and write as I would like to. However, I'll be back on a normal schedule in about a week and I will do everything I can to keep the story coming. Thanks for hanging in there.
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