I had this daydream over the weekend of putting together a little Flash comic (and that’s what makes this whole thing implausable, BTW) of a modern-day ninja-like dude being the innocent victim of these injustices, but then taking ninja-style revenge.
For example…
Nin-Joe is sitting zen-like in his economy sedan, waiting for the red light to change. Behind him are two guys in a gas-guzzling Army surplus vehicle that has been modified with extra spoilers, hydraulic shocks, and the floor-mounted bass speakers that allow it’s passengers to project their hip-hop enough to make Nin-Joe’s zen-like state difficult. The tank chugs almost as loud as their radio, billowing thick gray smoke from its sewer-drain-sized tailpipe.
The light turns green and Nin-Joe applies his ninja reflexes to scan the intersection for any remaining crossing traffic before he wheels his 3-cylindar econocar across the street. Before he can react (which is amazing considering Nin-Joe’s hyper-attuned reflexes), the car freak driver behind him leans on his horn, the noise from which nearly propels Nin-Joe’s little car into the intersection.
Nin-Joe blinks. In his rear-view he see the looks of disdain on the faces of the men behind him for delaying them, then the laughs of insult at his meager car.
Perhaps he does it just to discuss reason, but in his heart he knows how this will end. Nin-Joe opens the door gently and steps a sandalled foot onto the pavement. Nin-Joe is thin, and dressed in a simple, tight-fitting robe. The two guys in the truck burst in laughter at Nin-Joe’s Buddhist-temple activewear, then step out of their own vehicle to face him.
The lanky guy on the passenger side spits tobacco to the curb, then pounds a set of brass knuckles into his palm, stained-teeth grinning. Pseudobling swings from his neck like a suburban white wannabe. The driver is just a bit taller and is wearing a brand-name jogging suit. He never jogs, but you can picture him easily in a lawyer’s suit or a doctor’s gown, or maybe in his swimming attire doing the backstroke in his pool full of Benjamins. Too much money to know what to do with it, and can’t buy common sense or common courtesy. This is the same guy who passes you in highway construction; the same guy who won’t hold the door for you at the store; the same guy who runs to the newly opened register even though you’ve been waiting for 15 minutes.
Nin-Joe stands open-handed near his open driver’s side door, contemplating his opposition. His eyes fix on the driver’s, then the passengers. He gazes deeply into the headlamp eyes of these men’s self-given license to be rude - a rumbling machine whose daily fuel consumption is larger than several African countries. There is no turning back now.
They barely note his left hand flick into the car and retrieve something long and thin from behind the driver’s seat. With his right hand, he draws the blade from it’s sheath in a clean motion, as his feet propel him with inhuman speed toward the monster. A solid push off from the ground, a rush of air pulling the folds of his robes upward as he falls back down toward the vehicle, the slackjawed looks of surprise slowly registering on the faces of the enemy, and as suddenly as it began, it’s over.
Nin-Joe resheathes his blade and returns to his car, closing the door gently behind him. His econocar engine putters up to revolution, and he builds momentum through the intersection and down the street, out of sight.
Just after green light turns red again, the front left quarter of the now wasted surplus vehicle - including the washer fluid container, the entire battery, a dozen or so hoses, a headlight, half the radiator, and a good portion of the engine block - slides from the suddenly convulsing truck onto the ground with a resounding and satisfying metallic clank! A cough, a whirr, and a jet of steam later, the driver falls to his knees on the pavement beside his $50,000 hunk of salvage.
