The Emotional Ninja
Editorial Note: In honor of
‘s Throwback Thursday, I present what is to my knowledge the first superhero story I ever wrote, back in the mid-2000s. I had been to a purity retreat in the non-denominational church I was then attending, and the speaker said that men should strive to be like “emotional ninjas”. Naturally I wondered what that would look like. This was the result.It was dark in the city. Very dark. So dark that the stars seemed to have given up shining, and the only light came from the streetlamps glimmering dully on the sidewalks.
On the corner of Third and Rowan Streets, Mr. Matthew McGowan turned his key in the door of his little restaurant, The Fried Egg. The name was deceptive. The Fried Egg served both breakfast and dinner courses, all day long, for reasonable prices. Maybe too reasonable. In twenty-five years, The Fried Egg had yet to turn a substantial profit.
Mr. McGowan sighed as he finished locking the door and turned towards his rusted blue Volkswagen Beetle, sitting quietly by the curb. He had saved up for ten years to buy that car. It was old, and clunky, and the radio only picked up two stations. But it was his car, and he had grown attached to it.
He reached for the door handle, and then it happened. Without warning, two scruffy teenage boys waving ugly-looking handguns rushed out of a nearby alleyway. Before Mr. McGowan could react, they snatched his keys, leaped into the Beetle, viciously gunned it to life, and roared maniacally down Rowan Street, leaving trails of exhaust in their wake.
Mr. McGowan had no cell phone. The old man was just about to rush for the ancient pay phone which still remained on the corner, when another figure appeared in the darkness. He was tall, cloaked in black, and carrying an odd sort of sword. Mr. McGowan had never been to Japan, or even out of his own state, but he knew enough from the late-night TV specials to recognize what he was looking at.
"You, you're a ninja!" he exclaimed.
Ignoring Mr. McGowan's outburst, the dark-clad figure looked past him, down the length of Rowan Street, his hooded eyes falling upon the rapidly vanishing tail-lights of the carjacked Beetle. At last, he spoke, in a voice cold and menacing. "That your car?"
"Y-yes, but-"
"I'll get it back."
The ninja slipped away into the alley. Then, quite suddenly, he returned and looked the trembling Mr. McGowan straight in the eye. "You seem troubled. Would you like to talk about it?"
Mr. McGowan blinked. "I, ah...."
"Don't be afraid to express your feelings," the ninja intoned. "Men need intimacy to thrive. It's part of the process of maturing. Remember that."
And as the ninja disappeared once more into the night, Mr. McGowan blinked once again. Then, he hurried towards the phone.
---
The police arrived at the corner of Fourth and Rowan Streets, in response to Mr. McGowan's belated phone call. They found a rusted blue Volkswagen Beetle, sitting quietly by the curb. On the sidewalk lay two scruffy teenaged boys, completely unconscious, their handguns lying neatly beside them. There was no trace of the mysterious ninja. He had vanished, once again, into the darkness of the city.