The Best Side: Part 7

The carnage was too terrible to describe.

Well, actually, it just a lot of dead guys with the occasional random limb thrown in. The walls were splashed red, which really clashed with the orange and purple décor. Ninjas and mimes were slumped or laying on every conceivable surface, some dying, some already dead, some doing their taxes.

There was still a spirited battle going on, as ninjas and mimes fought back and forth across the diner. A ninjas went down to an imaginary bat with nails in it. As he writhed on the floor, the mime went for the killing blow, only to be struck by 112 shurikens and a menu. Ninjas died with muted screams, as they clutched at their ragged wounds and wandered around, looking for a clear spot to fall down on. Mimes died silently, with many an exaggerated gesture or last attempt to get out of a box.

Only about a dozen were left on either side and they were panting. A ninja was catching his breath right by the door to the kitchen when I burst out. He caught three Kens in the kisser before he knew what was up. A mime with an imaginary shotgun ran by, trying to get a clear shot on the ninja with the shuriken launcher. The Kens were not kind to him either.

“What’s in that thing?” the Dame asked from behind me.

“I filled the Ken dolls with steel shot. What?” I said, with a quick glance over my shoulder. “I’m not stupid.”

“The jury’s still out on that.”

The fighting was now centered on the buffet, where the remaining clowns and mimes fought for honor and possibly, the last of the pepperoni pizza.

There were a dozen dead mimes around one of the ninjas, his shinobi katana gleaming with invisible mime blood. A mime stood near the salad bar, some twenty feet away, fallen ninjas and spilled dressing littering the floor around him.

They were both exhausted and wounded, but they fought on, their strikes and punches still strong and true. These men fought not for pride or riches, but because in their cold, dark worlds, there was nothing else they could do. They were also really stoked for the new Hobbit movie.

They suddenly noticed each other: ninja and mime. Two men with vastly different fashion sense, but experts in their own deadly art.

“Oh!” I said, as the two ninjas went after the mime and a pair of mimes tried to outflank the ninja. The attackers went down in a frenzy of swordplay and imaginary baguette work and now the two masters were the last ones standing.

“’Oh!’ what?” asked the Dame.

The ninja and mime eyed each other. The ninja brought up his sword in a salute, which the mime returned.

“I just figured it out,” I said, as the last ninja and mime began to circle. “We’re not the ones in the John Woo movie. They are.”

“Huh?”

“Two men, both badasses, from different worlds develop mutual understanding and respect, yadda yadda.”

“Oh, I get it,” said the Dame, stepping forward to stand by me. On cue, the doves flew out of the kitchen in slow motion, curving gracefully between the two foes as they still circled. “What normally happens at the end of a John Woo movie?”

“I honestly haven’t seen that many,” I said, laying my flail across my shoulder. “But I think the heroes tend to die a lot.”

“Then that makes it easy.” The Dame walked forward, her heels squishing on the now soaked carpeting. Both the ninja and mime turned towards her as she approached.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” the Dame said. The ninja and mime glanced at each other and shrugged.

At which point, the Dame double-tapped them both.

“I can’t decide,” I said after a moment. “Whether or not that was really mean.”

The Dame blew the smoke from the barrel of her .38. “Who am I to argue with John Woo?”

“You have a point.”

“So,” she said, as she stepped over a body. “Do we have a deal?”

“Well, everyone who knows where I am is dead, so I guess you didn’t blow my cover.”
I took a deep breath, which was a bad idea in a room full of dead people and spilled pizza. “How about this,” I finally said. “Can you hole up for a week? Give me some time to come up with a plan?”

“I think I can manage.”

I held out my hand. “Then we have a deal.” She stepped forward to shake. “On one condition,” I said. Her eyebrow raised. “No poisoning, shooting, or knocking me unconscious.”

“That’s three conditions.”

“Take it or leave it.”

“Fine.”

We shook and then made our way towards the front door.

“Come find me in a week,” I said, holding the door open for her.

“Bet on it,” she replied, stepping out into the cold Oregon winter and turning right.

I followed her out and then turned left, pulling my coat collar up against the crisp air. “Looks like things are going to get interesting,” I said, as I neared my pickup.

Something hit me in the head as I pulled my keys from my pocket and as the world went dark, I heard a distant voice say, “The Montebank says ‘hi.’”

Le Fin