A Ninja Story

An old stout man- Yoshitaka stood on the Bayton bridge. His long coat was struggling against the wind. As the surroundings grew dark washing off the crimson traces of a quick mating, he walked down the bridge to his soundly parked car. The man tilted his hat down, leaned on the car and lit a cigar.

By the end of the exotic chocolate flavored cigar, a young Ninja, disguised as a civilian, appeared out of the darkness from the other side of the bridge. He trotted to the man and greeted in Chinese. Yoshitaka started to speak slowly. As the Ninja watched him carefully, his eyes were getting wet. With the rising of each syllable of the old man’s words, the Ninja’s stone face became more tight. It was all about a bloody tale and a dirty feud. Man kills man, mind drinks blood.

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The Ninja bid farewell to his master and headed to the hotel where his victim slept sound. He was once again transformed into the killer bug. The yellow tint of the streetlights and the stark red tail lambs drew a pane as if it was a graphic novel. The Ninja checked into the hotel, received the keys and had his suitcase carried to his room.

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Martin Page was about to go to bed. He had to live in the cheap hotel for two more days. The uneasiness of the business, to Page was a queer thing. When it’s not there, there’s more uneasiness. It was the first time he was dealing with the mafia. Capone Alessandro himself asked his service to turn all those black money into white. He knew he was growing up. In a couple of years, he would get closer to the Giordano family, grab all luxuries he can, live like a god. Staying in bed, Page thought about his soul. It’s not going to pass the gates of heaven. He chuckled softly. Then it would go down to hell and tear apart a few more Yoshitaka souls. He chuckled again.

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The Ninja was an expert swordsman. Having mastered the deadly skills of Kung-Fu, He could kill like slicing a butter cake. He always believed in the superiority of Kung-Fu, always wondered what a man can’t do if he’s a dedicated disciple. Back in China, once he had fought ten thugs all at once to save a poor sheep and his Katana ridiculously pierced them dead. His mastery in the art brought him honor and that honor wiped out his sins of kills.

He walked up the stairs to the top floor and reached at Page’s door. He had his sword unsheathed, gleaming in moonlight. He knocked at the door with the hilt of his sword and stepped aside. Eventually, the footsteps of the poor Page began to trumpet in the ears of the Ninja, he was now focused, keenly observing every movements nearby. As the bolts of the door were withdrawn, the Ninja came into a stance, the poor Page would step front only to get cut into two pieces.

Martin page had lousily rambled to his door. It could be one of the messengers of Alessandro. He casually looked through a narrow crack in the door and saw a ninja sculpture placed right at his doorstep. On rubbing his eyes, he was able to perceive the reality, it was a true assassin, a Chinaman.

The Ninja was still as a rock, waiting for the door to open. His hands didn’t tremble, his heart beat was steady. One minute passed and he heard the cocking of a gun.

‘Ah.. fuck you Chinaman, go to hell with that spoon.. fuck.. fuck.. ha.. ha..’

A hysterical Martin Page with a Thompson fired through his door into the brains of the Ninja. Blood spurted out and formed a pool and in that pool fell the Ninja’s spoon of honor, lifeless and cold.