Death and . . . : Part 3

“Why are you still here?” I asked the voice from the answering machine.

“I LIKE HAIKUS.”

“Ah.” I shrugged at the ninjas, who shrugged back. “Look, guys,” I began. “I would normally be overjoyed to fight you all, but this thing, y’know?” I gestured vaguely towards the answering machine.

The lead ninja bowed once again. “We understand, Polack-sama. We will withdraw until such time as you need burial.”

“Gee, thanks.”

All the ninjas simultaneously threw down their smoke pellets and there were a dozen flashes and the living room immediately filled with smoke. If you listened closely, you would have heard a two-dozen tabi-clad feet move to the doorway, briefly tug on the handle, realize it was locked, unlock it, and then move out into the entry, closing the door behind them, and then arguing about who got to ride ‘shotgun’ in the official ninja van. I, however, heard none of this, as I had turned on the kitchen fan and was fanning the smoke towards it.

“Well,” I said to no one in particular as the last of the smoke dispersed and I put my bayonet back on top of the weapon rack. “This has been a day.”

“TELL ME ABOUT IT.”

I frowned. “Don’t you have better things to do? Like terrorizing small children or poking aardvarks?”

“NOT REALLY.”

“Great. I’m gonna get some dinner, pet the cat, and maybe watch a movie. I’ll call you in the morning.”

“WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO WATCH?”

“I dunno. I haven’t really thought about it.”

“CAN I WATCH IT WITH YOU?”

“Uh . . . “ A thought formed in my head. It had something to do with building gun that shot pork. A second thought occurred right after that one and I went with it. “If you tell me what this is all about, maybe.”

“REALLY?”

“Sure.”

“UMM . . . THERE’S A DISCREPENCY WITH YOUR ADDRESS AND IT NEEDS TO BE CLEARED UP.”

“That’s it? You scared the ninjas and all that just for an address change?”

“YES.”

“Why?”

“I’M TERRIBLY, TERRIBLY LONELY.”

“Right.” I shrugged. “Your choice: 36 Chambers of Shaolin or My Young Auntie?”

“OOOH, 36 CHAMBERS!”

“You got it.”

The rest of the night proceeded uneventfully.

Cheers,
-Jason

Death and . . . : Part 2

I walked to the answering machine as the ninjas silently watched. Again, something they do very well. I pressed the ‘Message’ button and prepared for the worst.

I got it.

“YOU!” boomed a voice from the machine. It was a dark voice, full of malice and venom, the likes of which Sauron had only wished he had. The voice clearly indicated a person who would not only kick a puppy, but would take pleasure in doing so. It was, in short, the voice of the I.R.S.

“AN ERROR HAS BEEN FOUND! YOU WILL CALL THE FOLLOWING NUMBER BETWEEN THE TIME OF 8:00 AM AND 5:00 PM AS SOON AS POSSIBLE! TARRY NOT, THE I.R.S. IS NOT PATIENT!” A number followed. I will not list it, as it is the number of Hell itself and I’m afraid it might wipe my hard drive.

“Wow!” I said, after the beep. “That was a voice.”

“THANK YOU!” boomed the voice.

“Uh, is this part of the recording?”

“NEGATIVE!” said the voice, still emanating from the answering machine.

“Then how are you doing that?”

“DO NOT QUESTION THE WAYS OF THE I.R.S.!”

“Okay,” I said. “I won’t.”

“GOOD! THAT IS ALL!”

The answering machine fell silent. I turned to the assembled ninjas, one of whom seemed to have wet himself. “I guess I’m calling tomorrow.”

“It has been a pleasure knowing you,” said the ninja. “We have already fashioned a haiku in your memory.”

“Really?”

The ninja held up a hand and the others sprang into action. Flutes, biwas, and other instruments were produced and on some invisible signal, they played a haunting tune.


“+3 against us
Many ninjas he did strike
Like the winter, gone.”

I clapped politely.

“VERY NICE!” said the voice from the answering machine.

Tomorrow: The Conclusion (and no more haiku, I promise)

Death and . . . Part 1

I arrived home yesterday, tired, but filled with the satisfaction that a good day’s work had been done. Granted, said work hadn’t been done by me, but I was pretty sure somebody, somewhere, had done it.

Actually, in all honesty, I work very hard. Very, very hard. So hard, that if I were to try to work harder, my fingers would actually disintegrate the keyboard I was using. The friction from the movement of my mouse would catch the desk on fire and my monitor would have a burned-in picture of my face from me staring at it so intently.

Nobody, I’m sure, would want any of that to happen.

NOTE: The preceding two paragraphs were for my boss’ benefit.

So, having arrived home, I noticed something unusual: the ninjas were all there, waiting patiently in that ‘waiting patiently’ way ninjas do. I readied myself for the usual ‘Monday Night Donnybrook’ when a ninja stepped forward.

“Greetings, Iron Polack-sama,” he said, bowing low.

“Hey,” I replied, cracking my knuckles. “Where’s Steve?”

“Alas,” said the ninja. “Steve-san is recovering from last Thursday’s crowbar incident.”

“Yeah, I got him pretty good.”

“As you say, o’ hirsute one.”

“So what’s with the whole ‘non-attacking’ thing?” I asked, as I stared at my small collection of weaponry. I had been using the mace a lot lately, so I went with the bayonet.

“You have a message,” the ninjas said, bowing and gesturing towards the answering machine, which showed a single red ‘1.’

“Really? Who from?”

“The I.R.S.” The ninjas bowed. “We are all very sorry for your impending doom. Please accept our sincerest condolences.” All the ninjas bowed together.

“Well, catnuts,” was all I could say.

Tomorrow: Part 2