🚀 go-pugleaf

Janet Rice wiped her forehead with a hand towel.  She was a tall woman,
long brown hair spilling down to her shoulders, blue eyes blazing impishly
out of her tan skin.  She leaned against the wall of the gym, breathing
heavily.  She wore a red string bikini, a swordbelt, calf-high black
leather boots.  She threw the towel to a man standing a few feet away.  The
man was also tall, tanned, slim but muscular, clad in a black g-string.  A
bruise darkened his left shoulder.  He wrung the towel, winced, two drops
of moisture spilled onto the mat beneath his feet.

"Paul," she said.  "You'll need to work on that throw.  If  we'd really
been fighting, you'd have gotten more than a bruise."

The man nodded grimly.  "Right," he said.  He dropped the towel on the mat.
"More?"

Janet shook her head.  "No, Paul.  Training is done for today.  We're on
call tonight.  Go down and have Doc bandage that arm.  Have a cookie while
you're there."

Paul nodded.  He bowed to her, turned and left the gym.

When he was gone, Janet shook her head.  He was dim, she thought, but at
least he had taken the vows.  She walked to the towel, knelt, picked it up.
She tossed the towel in the air.

Her sword was out of the scabbard, the blade made shining arcs in the air,
once, twice, three times.  Eight shreds of towel hit the mat.  Janet
sighed.  She was getting slower, she thought.  There should have been at
least sixteen.  She poked at the scraps with her boot.


Halfbaked Productions
in association with
Chilly Comics
and
Sunny Sal's Swimsuit Emporium
Presents

Sword of String Bikini Ninja
(a mini-series in an as-yet-undetermined number of parts)

Episode One:

Bikini Ho
or
Rising Action

by Dirk Myers

The night was dark, darker than it had any right to be considering that
there was a full moon in the clear sky and a thick blanket of snow on the
ground.  Still, the night managed to seem as dark as freshly-brewed coffee
to the figure striding quickly through the alley.  The figure ducked into a
shadow, twisted its head from side to side, skittered across the alley into
a shadow further on.  The darkness might have been due to the figure's
mood.  It might have been due to the figure's clothing, a dark trenchcoat
buttoned tight over dark slacks, a widebrimmed black hat.  It might also
have been due to the figure's mission, a mission ripe with the stench of
evil.  Likely, though, the night seemed dark because the figure wore two
pairs of sunglasses, one over the other.

The figure skittered face-first into a wall, stumbled on an empty bottle.
One leg slid rapidly forward, the figure's arms waved rapidly, then the top
half of the figure disappeared into a nearby trashcan.

Muffled cursing came from the trashcan.  The legs kicked frantically.  The
dark slacks slid up the figure's legs, revealed mismatched socks.  The
trashcan wobbled, spun, settled back onto the pavement.  A sharp knocking
from inside the trashcan echoed through the alley.

From further down the alley, a light-haired man clothed in a suit made of
sparkling silver material ran towards the trashcan.  The man reached the
trashcan, gave it a savage kick.  A dull clang echoed through the alley.
The knocking stopped.

"Keep quiet," hissed the man in silver.  "You want to give us away?"

"Blondo?" came a muffled voice from inside the trashcan.  "Is that you,
Blondo?"

The man in silver rapped his knuckles against the trashcan.  "No, it's the
tooth fairy."

"Oh," said the voice from the can.  "Hey, if I knock someone else's teeth
out, will you still give me money?  'Cause, you know, I have all these
teeth at home, see."

The man in silver pounded on the trashcan again.  "It's Blondo, you idiot."
He walked to the end of the can, started pulling on the dark-clad feet.
"Now, hold still."

The dark figure popped out of the can.  Blondo stepped away, shaking his
head.  The figure stood, brushed cigarette ashes off the coat.  A scrap of
banana peel clung to the brim of the figure's hat, dangled between the
figure's eyes.

"Look, George," said Blondo.

"Death Coat.  Call me Death Coat."  The figure waggled a dark-gloved finger
at Blondo.

Blondo sighed.  "Whatever.  Look, you have a..."

"Death Coat," interrupted the figure.  "You've got to call me Death Coat.
It's my code name."

Blondo shook his head.  "What kind of a name is Death Coat?"

The figure spread its legs, put its hands on its hips.  The banana peel
swung wildly from the brim.  "It's a dramatic name.  A name that will
strike terror into the hearts of the populace."  The figure nodded
emphatically.  More of the peel slid off the brim, swung wildly across the
figure's nose.  "Damn!"  The figure swing his arms wildly in front of his
face.  "I hate it when flies tickle your nose."

Blondo sighed.  "Look, Death Coat, it's not..."

"I'll get you," cried Death Coat.  Arms waved frantically in front of its
face.  "I've got a fly swatter in one of these pockets, I'm sure!"  The
banana peel brushed across Death Coat's nose again.  "Aha!"  The figure
slapped itself in the nose, hard, narrowly missing the banana peel.

"Ouch," muttered Death Coat.  "Missed it."  He waved his arms in front of
his face.

Blondo put his hand on Death Coat's shoulder.  "Wait a minute."  Blondo
patted the coat.  "If you hold still for just a minute, the flies will go
away."

The banana peel brushed Death Coat's nose again.  Death Coat flinched.
Blondo clasped at Death Coat's shoulder.  "Steady," said Blondo soothingly.
"Just relax, now.  They're going to be gone in just a minute."  The peel
slowed, swung toward Death Coat's nose, settled on it.

Death Coat tensed.  "It's right there," hissed the figure.  "I can feel it."

"I'll get it," said Blondo.  "It won't suspect."  Blondo reached for the
banana peel.  His fingers brushed Death Coat's nose.

"Got you!" bellowed Death Coat.  Death Coat's fist slammed into Blondo's
hand.  Blondo's hand was knocked forcefully into Death Coat's nose.
"Yowch!" exclaimed Death Coat.

Blondo pulled his hand away from Death Coat's face.  He shook his hand to
try to make the pain go away.  "Look, Death Coat," said Blondo.  "You're
working for me.  That means that when I give you an order, for instance,
'hold still', you're supposed to hold still."

Death Coat held his nose.  "You bin't say hobs dill.  You saib you'll ged id."

Blondo sighed.  "Well, try to ignore the flies.  They'll go away eventually."

"Gobba ged 'em," said Death Coat.

"Ignore them," snapped Blondo.  "That's an order."

"Yezzir," muttered Death Coat.  "Gob id."

"Now," said Blondo.  "You know why I hired you?"

"Gob an idea."

"Right.  An idea." Blondo sighed.  "Whatever the idea is, forget it."

"Gob id.  Er, bon' gob id.  Forgob id.  Sir."

Blondo shook his head.  "Here's the story.  I need your help to steal
something.  Something very important to a superguy."

"Yezzzir."

"Think you're up to that?"

"Yezzir.  I'b a diger, zir."

"A what?"

"A diger.  Diger.  Big cab. Wid sdribes."

"You don't have to be a tiger.  Just be a competent burglar, all right?"

"Yezzir."

Blondo shook his head.  "Are you sure you're the best man for this job?"

"Yezzir.  Bez id da ciby, zir."

"Authors help us both," said Blondo.

-----

Janet Rice grimaced at herself in the mirror.  She pulled her hair back
into a ponytail, tied it off with a red ribbon.  She took a small black
mask off the table in front of her, slipped the elastic over her head,
settled the mask over her eyes.  The clock above the mirror read 9:45.  She
nodded at herself in the mirror.  No longer Janet Rice; she was the String
Bikini Ninja.

Five minutes later, she stood outside Paul's door.  "Paul?" she called.
There was no answer.  She knocked on the door.  "Paul?"  Someone behind the
door mumbled something about the middle of the night.  String Bikini Ninja
sighed.  One more try, she thought.  She drew her sword and knocked on the
door with the hilt.  "Paul?"  She heard someone in the room stumble,
stagger against the wall, mutter.

Her boot landed just outside the doorknob.  The door flew open.  Paul stood
behind it, bent over, leaning with his head against the wall, tugging a
boot onto his right foot.  He looked up, blinked dully.  "Boot," he
muttered.  "Almost ready."  String Bikini Ninja blinked at him.  His right
boot lay on the floor beside his bed.  Paul bent back to the boot, pulled
against it.  His muscular arms rippled with effort.  Sweat sprang out on
his forehead.

String Bikini Ninja sheathed her sword.  "Paul?  Maybe you should try the
other foot?"

Paul  took the boot off his foot.  He turned the boot upside down, compared
the sole to his own foot.  "Looks OK," he said.  He looked at his foot
again.  "Matches," said Paul.

The Ninja shook her head.  "Try the other foot, Paul.  Humor me."

Paul shrugged.   He tried the boot on his left foot.  It slid on easily.
Paul shook his head in amazement, zipped the boot.  He straightened.
"Worked," said Paul.  He shook his head again.  "Worked."

String Bikini Ninja sighed.  "Just put the other one on, Paul."

Paul picked up the other boot.  He bent toward his left foot, stopped,
straightened.  He looked at String Bikini Ninja, lifted one finger.  "Aha,"
said Paul.  He bent again, slid the boot onto his right foot.

Paul turned to face String Bikini Ninja.  He put his hands on his hips.
His smooth, muscular chest swelled with pride.  "Ready," beamed Paul
proudly.  "G-String Man!"

The Ninja shook her head wearily.  "Mask?"

Paul put a hand to his face.  He felt carefully around first one eye, then
the other eye.  The smile faded.  "Oops," said Paul.

-----

Ten minutes later, String Bikini Ninja and G-String Man were on patrol.
Their boots crunched softly on the blanket of snow.  Their swords jingled
quietly as they walked.  G-String Man's teeth chattered loudly.

"Shhh," said String Bikini Ninja. "Use your ninja training."

G-String Man nodded morosely.  "C-c-c-cold."

"Try, at least."  They moved more-or-less quietly through the streets of
the city.  The Ninja looked wistfully at the tops of the buildings.  She
preferred to patrol there, above the city, but had learned from experience
that G-String Man had a tendency to fall from the tops of buildings.  She
hoped that the balance exercises she had started him on would pay off.  The
sooner the better.

They came to a larger street, turned onto it.  G-String Man jogged beside
her, using exaggerated leg and arm motions.  His sword clattered noisily.
A group of men and women in elegant coats spilled from a doorway in front
of them, laughing and chattering.

G-String Man struck a dramatic pose and drew his sword.  He pointed the
sword at the group.  "G-g-g-String Man!"

The eyes of the men in the front of the group widened.  They spread their
arms, stepped back, slowly.  "Just move away," whispered one of the men.
"Don't provoke him."  They backed away more quickly, turned and ran.

String Bikini Ninja brought her boot down on G-String Man's foot.  "Ouch!"
cried G-String Man.  G-String Man dropped his sword.  He held his foot in
his hands and hopped up and down.

"Sorry," called String Bikini Ninja at the fleeing backs.  "He gets like this."

G-String Man hopped in small circles, muttering "Ouch.  Ouch.  Ouch.  Ouch."

"Paul," sighed String Bikini Ninja.  "Pick up your sword."

G-String Man lost his footing and disappeared into a snow bank.

-----

Death Coat adjusted the outer pair of his sunglasses, squinted up at the
building in front of him.  He could make out a row of lighted windows
somewhere above him.  He thought they were one floor up, but it was
difficult to be sure.  He squeezed his nose gingerly.  Nothing broken, as
far as he could tell.  The flies would pay, he told himself.  Death Coat
would deal with them.  He wondered which window he was after.  "So, this is
it?"

"Can't you read?" asked Blondo.  "The sign says, 'Janet Rice's Kung-Fu
Academy'."  Blondo sighed.  "Are you sure you're up to this?  You hit
yourself pretty hard."

"Right, the sign."  Death Coat thought he could make out some letters below
the row of windows, now that Blondo mentioned it.  The letters could easily
say "Janet Rice's Kung-Fu Academy".  Now that he thought about it, they
looked much more like "Janet Rice's Kung-Fu Academy" than the row of pigeon
houses he had assumed they were.  "Got it.  I'll meet you back at the
hideout."

Blondo sighed.  "What hideout?"

Death Coat adjusted his sunglasses.  "The hideout.  You know.  Where you
met me tonight."

"The alley, you mean."

Death Coat put his hands in the pockets of his dark trenchcoat.  "Well, you
can't go advertising that it's a hideout, can you?  Besides, I'll get a
better hideout later on.  You're just lucky you hired me while I'm starting
out and my rates are still good."

"Sure, Death Coat," said Blondo.  "I'll meet you back at the hideout."

-----

G-String Man cradled the paper cup in both hands.  He blew across the cocoa
in the cup, watched the steam rise from the creamy liquid.  "Hot," he
explained.

String Bikini Nina leaned against the side of the City Library.  She
sighed.  Paul's environmental training was going badly.  It should take
more than falling into a snow drift to chill a ninja, even a
ninja-in-training like Paul.  On the other hand, a ninja-in-training
shouldn't be falling into snow drifts in the first place.  "Hurry up, Paul.
We still have a lot of ground to patrol tonight."

G-String Man took a sip of his cocoa.  He let out a small squealing noise,
spat the cocoa onto the sidewalk.  "Hot," complained G-String Man.  "Hot
cocoa."  A smile flitted across G-String Man's face.  "Idea."

Paul's ideas seldom worked out, she knew, but she also knew better than to
argue with him.  It was almost always easier to clean up after him than to
try to talk him out of something once his mind was made up.  "Sure," she
said.  "What's the idea?"

G-String Man carefully poured half the cocoa onto the sidewalk.  He
squatted, scooped up a large handful of snow, crammed the snow into the
cup.  G-String Man stood.  He watched as the snow melted into the cup.
"Cooler," he said.  He took a sip of the cocoa, made a high-pitched squeak.
"C-c-c-c-cold," shivered G-String Man.

String Bikini Ninja took the cup away from him.  She poured out the rest of
the cocoa.  "Let's get moving," she said.  "Patrolling will warm you up."

G-String Man whined pitifully as they walked toward the center of the city.

-----

Death Coat felt along the brick wall of the Kung-Fu Academy.  He knew that
there must be a door along the wall somewhere.  Logic dictated that an
Academy without a door would soon go out of business.  He grumbled under
his breath at people who did not leave lights on on the ground floor.  His
practiced fingers brushed the brick, felt the minute cracks where the
bricks had weathered.  Fragments of mortar came off against his fingers.
He brushed off the mortar against his coat.  He put out his fingers again,
felt cold glass.  A door or a window, for sure.  His fingers reached the
right edge of the glass, traced it upwards, found a metal door handle.

The handle was cold against his hand.  Death Coat muttered softly at the
lack of consideration.  Some people never stopped to consider that their
customers might have forgotten their gloves.  Death Coat swore to himself
that, when he had an actual hideout, the door handles would be comfortable
in any weather, at any time of the year.  The Kung Fu Academy might not
care about its customers, but Death Coat knew that consideration was key to
a successful business.  He pulled against the handle.

The door was locked.

Death Coat swore.  He dug through his pockets, looking for his lockpick.


WILL DEATH COAT FIND HIS LOCKPICK?

WHAT IS BLONDO AFTER?

WILL G-STRING MAN LEARN TO BE A NINJA?

WILL STRING BIKINI NINJA WISE UP AND MOVE TO A WARMER CLIMATE?

WAS THIS SERIES REALLY NECESSARY?

... you can sing, you can dance, you can bribe the guards, but there's just
no escape from the terror that is SUPERGUY...

(c) 1997 Dirk Myers

[Author's Note:   Thanks to Ben Brown and Evan Pongress for encouragement,
though neither of them should be blamed in any way for anything that
appears here.  Also, thanks to whoever drew the cover of Mythic Heroes #2
for providing the image upon which String Bikini Ninja is based.  I mean,
let's face it, there's no way to take that cover seriously.]