Joey & Johnny, the Ninjas: Epic Fail

JOEY AND JOHNNY ARE DOOMED

In which Joey and Johnny are doomed.

"Johnny, we are doomed!" whispered Joey.

The dooley-bopper sprouting from the top of Johnny’s ninja mask shot straight up in alarm. But that would be the third time since breakfast! Fourth, if you count breakfast itself!

The dust of the arena curled around their feet menacingly, as if trying to drag them into the earth. Dark blue thunderclouds gathered around to watch. The very air they breathed promised imminent destruction.

Together they shuffled farther out onto the arena, heroically resisting the urge to clutch each other by the arm. Headmaster FangSwan approached them, carrying a cruel-looking double-bladed instrument. It made a metallic ching as he held it aloft. At least the blades looked freshly sharpened, so the cut would be quick. The old man quieted the assembled crowd by flicking one eyebrow a tenth of a millimeter.

Students, he said. The headmaster’s voice hissed coldly. Several students touched their earlobes as if they could feel FangSwan’s breath. We are here to watch Pokey and Knucklebutter cut the ribbon for our new training arena. This grand reopening is a happy occasion, as you can see by these comically oversize novelty scissors! You will all clap for them.

A nervous spatter of clapping arose from the assembled crowd.

FangSwan handed the scissors to Joey and said, Congratulations. The word crawled out of the ancient headmaster’s mouth like it had too many legs and a pair of antennae. It was a word virtually unknown to the students of Kick Foot Academy. This was sad because pretty much everything you did at KFA deserved commendation. You woke up in the morning still breathing? Congratulations! You climbed up the school’s many treacherous staircases and got into a classroom without losing a limb? Congratulations! Here’s a blue ribbon! You lived through the whole class? CONGRATULATIONS! Take this trophy with a cheap gold-plated ninja on it!

But there were no gold-plated trophies or festive blue ribbons at KFA. If a student deserved a pat on the back they would have to develop the flexibility to do it themselves. FangSwan would not do it for them. For FangSwan, backs were just there to be snuck up on. That’s why he claimed to not actually have a back. FangSwan has a front on both sides, he told his students. No one dared debate with him, so they had to assume it was true. Hopefully it was some sort of metaphor.

Each and every Kick Foot knew that if there was a cruel, vicious, or sarcastic way to get something done, you could be certain that FangSwan had already improved upon it. So it wasn’t surprising that in spite of the grin on their headmaster’s face, and the scissors that Joey now brandished uneasily, the students of KFA stood watching this ceremony with an air of deep mistrust. The question on everyone’s mind was not so much When is the other shoe going to drop? but more Is the shoe going to be big enough to crush us all?

Why, you might ask, would anyone want to seek out this horrible old man? If you do ask, be sure to speak quietly so he does not hear you. The answer is simple: FangSwan is the greatest ninja master of this age. Under his guidance Kick Foot Academy had become the ninja school. If you wanted to be the best, you learned from FangSwan, or died trying.

Joey cleared his dry throat and addressed his fellow students: I . . . um, declare this, uh . . . arena open? Johnny grasped the bottom handle of the scissors while Joey held the top and together they snicked the blades through the ribbon. Half of the arena hung out over the side of the mountain, and with the ribbon gone, this half now stood open in front of them. Just a few short months ago Joey and Johnny had saved their school’s honor by defeating an army of mechs. The arena was destroyed in the process, and most of it went crashing down the mountainside. FangSwan thanked them by ordering them to fix it, and that is how the boys spent their summer.

Now, it’s important to note that students at Kick Foot Academy take many classes and learn thousands of useful skills, such as how to punch a shark in the teeth or how to disarm an enemy with an alligator. During all those lessons, however, they did not receive a single tip on how to rebuild a stone arena.

Like the original arena, the new one also hung out over empty space, thousands of feet off the ground. But that’s where their similarities ended. This was not the rock-solid construction of the old. The arena that lay before the assembled crowd of Kick Foots had been put together by two ninjas using the power of good intentions and fairy wishes. They were ninjas, not repair guys. What the arena really needed was an architect, several stonemasons, a variety of heavy equipment, and crews to work it. Between the two of them Joey and Johnny had a sword, a hammer, and a lingering fear that today would not end well.

Like a wolf, FangSwan had a nose that could smell fear. He savored it much like a food critic might appreciate the smell of a perfectly roasted chicken. He loved to sniff the air and catch the notes of desperation. Mmmmmm, is that a tangy hint of panic? Did he detect a faint whiff of hope? Hope was an essential ingredient in producing the sweetest scented fear. Without hope, you just had despair . . . which was rather sour.

FangSwan’s sniffer spoke true. An ember of hope burned inside the two boys. They were brimming with fear, and they could see failure right around the next corner. But somehow, they still had hope.

To celebrate this arena’s rebirth, the headmaster intoned, I shall have these kittens—a symbol of new life—be the first to walk upon its virgin surface. FangSwan produced a box that had been hidden under his robes. He opened the lid to pathetic mews and squeaks. FangSwan stroked his long beard for effect and then reached in and pulled out one of the tiny cats.

What did he say? Joey asked. He and Johnny could almost see the arena sagging under the weight of their gaze. Certainly their headmaster wouldn’t—

Kitten-Mittens! No! Johnny said as the first kitty sprinted onto the arena and then flopped to the ground to play with her paws. The others followed their sibling, causing the arena to produce a groan of strain. The gathered ninjas began to fidget uneasily.

Gah! Joey sputtered when a kitten Johnny had dubbed Puff-Muffin jumped onto his sister’s tail. The arena issued a crisp crack, followed by the sound of falling pebbles. The next ball of fuzz FangSwan pulled out of the box had an adorable round belly.

Tubby Tum-Tums! Johnny cried.

Stop naming them! You’re only making it worse, Joey said.

But he’s the chubby one! Everyone gasped as the kitten’s clumsy frolicking was met with a rumble of settling rock and timber.

Johnny choked as Bumblekins followed Piddle-Paws followed Commander Cuddle-Fluff. There was a whole litter chasing, pouncing, and waving their paws at imaginary bugs. If not for the sound of concrete shuddering and clay tiles cracking, it would have made an extremely likable video.

Joey looked at Johnny. If the arena showed signs of collapsing—that is, more signs of collapsing . . . Okay. If the arena actually started to collapse they were going to rush out and save the kittens. Johnny looked back at Joey and nodded. It was a plan, but each boy felt a little tug of shame. If their friend Peoni had been there, she would have rushed out onto the arena five kittens ago.

Watching kittens had never been so stressful. Three Kick Foots fainted dead away when Tubby made a happy little hop, causing a racing spiderweb of cracks. By the time the last of the kittens thankfully wandered off the arena floor, beads of sweat had broken out on the face of every student. The remaining members of the audience who weren’t unconscious let out a stuttering sigh of relief.

Yes, the arena had successfully held up to the pressures of thumping tails and pouncing paws. FangSwan clapped his hands together and said, We are now ready to do our morning exercises.

There was a collective schloorp sound as everyone simultaneously retracted their sighs of relief.

Ladies first, FangSwan said.

The girls shuffled forward, giving Joey and Johnny a look that made it clear that if KFA ever had a prom, Joey and Johnny would be going with each other. Mai-Fan, being one of the smaller girls, delicately put her toe out before stepping onto the visibly crumbling arena. Joey cast his eyes to the ground while Johnny waved and gave the girls an encouraging gesture with his thumbs. Gestures were returned to Johnny, but they weren’t encouraging and they used other fingers.

FuShoe leaned close as she passed Joey and hissed in his ear, I’m going to take the time we spend falling to punch you repeatedly in the face.

By this time it was getting difficult to hear FangSwan over the continuous shower of snapping concrete. The headmaster made a little flick with his fingers, making it clear that the rest of the students were to proceed to their doom. They did so dutifully.

At least the kittens are safe, Johnny said, adding his weight to the arena. Still standing on solid ground, FangSwan began to lead them all in a rousing set of jumping jacks.

This was it, then. The end. Killed by shoddy workmanship. Joey took a deep breath and looked skyward, hoping that the old ninja masters might send them salvation. Instead, he found the word that saved them all.

That word was DRAGON!

PIRATES

In which we talk about something completely different.

"Arrrrrr!" said the pirate.

WISEMAN NOTE: Yes, this is the ONLY way to begin a chapter on pirates.

Arrrrr? he said again when the first arrrrr was ignored.

The pirate captain wearily looked up from the book he was jotting notes in. Yes, Captain First Mate, what can I do for you?

Captain First Mate eagerly stepped forward and gave a salute that looked as though he’d just made it up on the fly. He’d yet to discover a salute that looked piratey enough. This is possibly because pirates don’t salute. Aye, Cap’n Captain! Captain Lookout sez he saws a boat offin thar starboard side!

Cornelius Loon, otherwise known as Captain Captain, had to concentrate through a headachy fog to piece together what had just been said to him. The man’s pirate accent was thicker today.

Was it to the left or right, Captain First Mate?

Arrrr? It was tar the left, Cap’n Captain!

Cornelius rubbed his throbbing temples. Then that would be ‘port,’ Captain First Mate. Just stick with right and left, would you?

He’d said this countless times to his new officers, but it had never taken. Cornelius had no explanation for the mystery of the pirate accent. His crew was a mash-up of all sorts, from every walk of life you could imagine. He had ex–car mechanics from Jersey, lawyers from Spain, and a shoe salesman from the Congo. His newest recruit was a gentleman named Chadford Pennyworthington. He was an aging professor with an advanced degree in prehistoric English gardening. Before joining up he spoke as though politely arguing a point that everyone already agreed upon. After just five minutes on the ship he was telling his fellow crew members to Git thar barnacle-blistered backsides over the mizzenmast and untie the yardarm!

It would have been okay if they actually used the proper nautical terms, but most of the time they were just trying to sound more piratey. Their lookout, Captain Lookout, had the habit of always saying things were on the starboard side of the ship. This was because the word starboard sounded cooler. So Cornelius knew that on any given day there was only a 50 percent chance that their lookout was giving them the right directions.

When Cornelius had taken command, he—like many captains before him—made certain changes in the roster. Namely, he got rid of any officers or go-getters who were overly loyal to the previous captain. She had been a rather impressive captain, so Cornelius decided to clean house. Despite their faults, his new officers were intelligent men. They certainly were not shipshape yet, but they’d come around in time . . . he hoped.

Fortunately, Cornelius didn’t really need them for the day-to-day running of the ship. For that there were the veterans. At the core of any pirate ship lies a group of brutish, bloodthirsty brigands. Men with arms that look like carved pieces of wood, and legs that are, in fact, carved pieces of wood. These men didn’t care that there was a new captain; most of them didn’t even notice. They just waited to be told what to hit and when. The only thing they knew was pirating. The veterans maintained the ship, flowing through it like blood through your body. And like blood, it was a horrible thing when they came spilling out.

Cornelius was smart enough to know he needed them, but that didn’t make them any less terrifying.

And then there was the Captain thing. This was a part of their history, but it didn’t make it any less headache-inducing. It was all thanks to a rousing hundred-year-old speech.

Much has been said about how much ninjas and pirates hate each other. It’s sort of true, in that they’ve heard of each other and they don’t like what they’ve heard, but they’re not really at war. They don’t have time to be at war with each other because they are both far too busy fighting with their own kind. One ninja clan is always trying to wipe out another, and this is true for pirates as well.

You see, superheroes have it easy: they have a nice, simple, clearly defined class of enemy known as supervillains. This means superheroes can have barbecues with one another and borrow each other’s utility belts without any trouble. They know who the enemy is. Pirates and ninjas don’t have that, so they form rival clans or rival schools or rival boats and do battle with their own kind.

The rousing speech in question was the result of one of these pirate battles. The Loons, named after their captain, Frederick Loon, were losing to the Bearded Tigers. The Tigers had more ships, more men, and better cannons. The Loons just had a captain who was really good at speeches. When all seemed lost he climbed the mainmast of his burning ship and bellowed what would be forever known as the Captains Speech. Frederick Loon declared that they were all in it together. That this was their ship, their fight, and that today every member of his fleet, from the deck scrubber to the first mate, was a captain! A captain of his own destiny! WE! ARE ALL! CAPTAINS! His words were met with a mighty roar of approval that made the sails billow.

It worked. The tide of battle turned spectacularly as even the lowliest of the Loons, filled to bursting with pride and self-importance, fought back with the strength of a hundred pirate captains.

Afterward, Frederick had to reestablish that although they were all captains, he was the captain captain, and that meant they still had to listen to him. But the title alone made his men feel better and elevated the Loons’ spirits to the very top spot in the pirate hierarchy.

Cornelius spent at least a portion of every single day cursing that speech. He had tried to keep it from his new officers, but the veterans passed it on to them like a disease.

Captain First Mate stood shuffling his feet, obviously waiting for something. Cornelius couldn’t even remember why the man was there . . . oh, wait! A ship!

So, arrrr? Should we turn hard to starboard and get the ship, Cap’n?

No, replied Cornelius, slapping papers off his desk as he searched for his bottle of aspirin. "We should turn to the left and get the ship!"

They took the ship in three minutes. This was a record, so the crew exchanged hearty Arrrrs and clinked their swords together in celebration. It was the only use they had for their swords, since there was not the slightest bit of resistance to be had.

Cornelius never trusted the easy captures, particularly this one, since the owner of the ship greeted him on deck with a handshake and an unexpected, I was expecting you, Captain Loon.

No one expected a pirate! That was the whole point! If they had expected pirates they would’ve gone a different way. Cornelius had sixty men covering a yacht that appeared to be empty, save for this one fellow. So why did Captain Captain feel outnumbered?

I’m afraid, sir, that I don’t know your name in return, he said, shaking the offered hand and looking around for a trap. The man had offered his left hand—something looked off about the right one. Honestly, something was off about the left one too, but the right one was worse. Pirates were no strangers to prosthetic limbs, but still . . .

Scar EyeFace, at your service, the man said, and it’s no trap, Captain. I wanted to speak with you. I have a proposition that will profit us both.

The pirate captain looked at the ship, which was clearly expensive and filled with equipment that even he couldn’t identify. You’ve got my ear, sir, but your ship still belongs to me.

Of course! said the man, with the air of someone who had just dropped a penny and couldn’t be bothered to pick it up again. Consider it payment for considering my proposal. Basically, I want you to crash a party.

While the man explained the details, Cornelius tried to study the fellow. His face was impossible to read. The long scar running through his left eye gave it a look of constant malice. Despite his rather tacky Hawaiian shirt, he was certainly no overfed tourist. He had the body language of an expert politician; every gesture looked practiced and polished. No information was being given away that wasn’t expressly intended.

And the thing he wanted. You don’t hire