With my cohorts relegated to the aforementioned penalty box (the details of which I have been agreed, under duress, not to discuss here) , I set out in search of midday sustenance.
My car's engine hummed with vigor, as if it shared my urgency to complete today's quest. I rolled a few blocks toward downtown, noticing a curious black smoke cloud that was rising into the sky, peeking through alleys into my line of vision.
With the city's customary parking gridlock in full effect, I parked three blocks from my destination and emerged from the vehicle into the first biting chill of a new winter. Something darted across my peripheral vision -- up high, the barest hint of a shadow, gone before my hunger-addled mind could process the information. I set out toward my goal, a row of stoplights impeding my progress for seemingly eternal moments.
One foot, then the other. Repeat. Almost there.
The hairs on the back of my neck tingled, and I knew that this was not a result of the frigid air.
"You might as well show yourself," I intoned, more to myself than to the faceless buildings that surrounded me.
A slight rustle, a whisper of a whisper, and I knew. I turned around to face my assailants.
Damn it. Ninjas. Why does it always have to be ninjas?
The stoplight changed again, transforming the forbidding scarlet hand into a cordial invitation to proceed. Reaching my destination, I shouldered open the wooden door and was greeted with the welcoming embrace of central heating.
"Chicken Masaman, Thai hot?" a familiar voice asked.
"Why yes," I answered, wiping the last of the blood from my katana. "That would be lovely."
Those damned ninjas will try and get your every time!
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