I’m gluten free, which is super trendy, almost as trendy as being bisexual, but a lot less messy. Which is why it was strange this week when I got online and ordered a PapaJohns pizza and had it delivered. I am not really the type for crappy corporate terrible and unhealthy pizza, but the NFL playoffs had begun and I was too bored and lazy to leave my couch.
There was a knock on the front door and I figured it must be the pizza guy, although in my mind I was sure I had only ordered it maybe five minutes before. I answered and was immediately punched directly in the jaw and I fell backwards.
A ninja dressed in all black Lululemon workout gear strode in, wrongly thinking he had knocked me out, but in my ghetto neighborhood, you get used to answering the door to a fast punch in the face, so I was already rolling to my left side, shaking my head and getting my senses back. The ninja was taking a moment and getting the lay of my entryway, looking at the pictures of some of my children on the far wall and an original Gabriel St. John framed piece of art right there against the dark pastel wall.
I reached quickly to my left, my hand quietly sliding along the old wood flooring, until I could sense the ninjas achilles heal right in front of me. With a sudden burst, I grabbed and twisted his tendon as hard and fast as I could. Almost immediately he fell to the stairwell, screaming out in agony.
I got to my feet and he was crawling away. I kicked at his flailing leg, but he pulled that away and stood on his one good remaining leg. Before I could adjust to fully standing up on my own and shaking the cobwebs from my head, his sharp right fist hit me on the shoulder and when I went slowly to block that punch, his left hit me in the ribs and we both could hear at least one of the bones break.
He smiled. I quickly punched out and into his chest, driving his entire body into the plaster wall behind the stairs. He hit it hard and I put my full weight into what remained of the punch. He cried out in pain, then in one unexpected motion he slammed both his fists onto either side of my head. I fell back this time, landing on my ass. He stood over me, looking down at hopeless and helpless body laid out sprawled on the floor in front of him, his one good foot stepping precariously onto my crotch. He drew in a dramatic breath. Then he spoke. “Where’s Beth?”
Back story: Beth Libitard is my lawyer. She is a Harvard educated lawyer, brilliant, vibrant, stylish, young and a super sexy lesbian. Plus she’s an Australian Shepard. So there’s that. She leads a life of intrigue and confusing sexual morals. She knows all my secrets, I don’t understand a single word she says, so we get along very well. The fact that she has worked for, betrayed and at least twice killed world famous leaders and banking executives, makes Beth one of the most feared, dangerous and most wanted women on the planet. So, it’s not surprising that every now and then a ninja shows up at my door. I always play stupid, which for me, is not such a leap.
“Beth who?” I asked, trying to not focus on the foot on my left ball and instead on the pounding pain in my head.
“Beth, the lawyer, she is here?”
“She is here? You ask that like you are Russian.”
“I am Russian, but that is neither here or there. She is here?”
“She is not here, nor there.”
“Where is she?”
“Apparently trapped in a Dr. Suess book,” I said, with a degree of snideness I would have thought impossible with a leather shoe stepping heavily on my package.
Beth had taken the day to work on her Drone skydiving techniques. That’s all true, Beth has been a leader in not only killing people via drone (a skill the president pays her quite well for), but actually hitching a ride on the militaries largest industrial sized drone and parachuting into dangerous war zones to negotiate important deals for some of her clients.
The ninja in my entryway seemed to grow impatient, his foot felt heavier. “You tell me where she is, we stop playing game.”
The pain was intense, but almost bearable. I laid there, on my own wood floor and I noticed how silent the house was. I had muted the TV when I heard the knocking on the door, thinking I would be dealing with some teenage pizza delivery stoner. So, laying there, feeling the weight of the world on my sac, I could hear a far off whirling noise. In the distance, I kind of surmised I could have left the dryer on, up on the third floor, that could have been the noise I heard. Instead, I looked up at the masked Ninja and I said, “Beth has been working on her drone sky diving techniques, want to watch?”
I could see his face contort as he tried to figure out what I was trying to say and right at about that moment when he seemed to grasp what was happening, the unmistakable sound of a crashing small jet engine grew louder that one could imagine and Beth, riding on top of a beautiful bright pink drone crashed right into my front porch. She stepped off the igniting fiberglass fuselage and walked to a far corner of my igniting porch, grabbed an extinguisher and pointed it at the flames and let loose. Within seconds there was just a gray cloud of dark smoke enveloping everything. That’s when the empty extinguisher came firing through the empty space that used to be my front door and hit the Ninja right on the top of his head, knocking him straight out. His seemingly lifeless body collapsed backwards onto my stairs.
I stood up, walked past Beth and the mess on the porch and met the pizza delivery driver. He handed my my piping hot sausage pizza and I made my way past the smoldering drone and into my house.
The PapaJohns pizza was cold and terrible, which is what you always expect from this terrible company. I walked back to my couch and watched some more football, forgetting for a few hours about the smoldering drone, the lifeless ninja and my lesbian attorney, who had scattered upstairs in a rare moment of shame.