🚀 go-pugleaf

A figure in a dark coat moved stealthily through the ground floor of Janet
Rice's Kung-Fu Academy.  The figure stumbled against the receptionist's
desk.  The phone fell to the floor, beeped softly.  The figure bent towards
the phone, hit its head against the desk, took a step back.  The figure's
left foot landed in a short wastepaper basket.  The figure stumbled again,
thudded heavily to the floor.

Death Coat moaned softly.  He adjusted his sunglasses.  Traps, he thought
to himself.  He would have to remember the traps laid by String Bikini
Ninja and use them in his own hideout, once he had one.  He rolled onto his
side.  The traps were certainly effective.

"If you would like to make a call," said the telephone.  "Please hang up
and try again."

Death Coat sat up.  He adjusted his sunglasses.  He decided to leave the
telephone where it was.  No sense assuming that he'd sprung all the traps.
There could be dozens more.  He wished that he had a notepad.  Taking this
down would help him to remember it.

He crawled back to the receptionist's desk, felt around on the desktop for
a notepad.

"Please dial 0 for assistance," said the phone.  "Thank you for choosing
LRS Telephone.  This has been a recording."


Halfbaked Productions
in association with
Chilly Comics
and
Sunny Sal's Swimsuit Emporium
(check out our 2-for-1 Winter Sunscreen Specials!)

Presents

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

Episode Two:

Teeny Weeny Bikinis

or

Eat Your Heart Out, Brian Hyland

by Dirk Myers

G-String Man brandished his sword at the patch of ice on the sidewalk.
"G-String Man!"  he proclaimed.  "Defend yourself!"  G-String Man's sword
crashed into the ice.  Again.  Again.  Frost coated the blade.  Shavings
clung to G-String Man's boots.

"What are you doing?"

G-String Man jumped, startled.  His boots skidded on the shavings.  He
dropped his sword.  G-String Man's arms waved in small circles as he
struggled to keep his balance.

String Bikini Ninja grabbed Paul's shoulder, steadied him.  G-String Man
got his feet back under him.  He turned to her.  "Thanks," he said.
"Scared me."  He knelt, picked up his sword.

The Ninja sighed.  "What were you doing?"

G-String Man proudly held up his sword.  With the other hand, he pointed to
the ice shavings at his feet.  "On patrol," he explained.  He nodded at the
Ninja.

"Right," said the Ninja slowly.  "We're on patrol.  We're looking for
crime, threats to the community.  That sort of thing."  She knew that there
was always a reason for the things that Paul did.  He was very logical, in
his own way.  She tried to understand what crime a patch of ice could
possibly have committed.  "So?"

G-String Man nodded emphatically.  He dipped his sword toward the ice.
"Slippery," he said.  "Dangerous."  The sword chipped at the ice.

"I see."  String Bikini Ninja listened as the tip of Paul's sword struck
the concrete beneath the ice.  Much more of that, she thought, and he'll
ruin the blade.  "Paul," she said.

G-String Man stopped chipping at the ice.  He looked at her.  "Good?"

String Bikini Ninja shook her head.  "Remember the talk we had about our job?"

G-String Man sheathed his sword.  "No."

"Last week?  When you decided that you needed to smash open up the mailbox
and make sure there were stamps on all the letters?"

G-String Man smiled.  "Ninjas are not postmen."

"Right," said the Ninja.  "We don't clear sidewalks, either.  We catch
criminals."

G-String Man's face fell.  He scuffed his boots against the sidewalk,
kicked at the shavings, trampled them back down onto the sidewalk.  "Oh,"
said G-String Man.  "Oops."

-----

Death Coat scribbled on the notepad.  It was difficult to write without
being able to see.  He pushed his sunglasses tightly against the bridge of
his nose.  So far, in addition to the trap on the phone, he had found that
the top of the receptionist's desk had been booby trapped with a heavy
paperweight and a box of push-pins.  A number of additional wastepaper
baskets were strewn about the reception area.  Eventually he had found the
wall of the room, itself rigged with the cord of a coffee maker that not
only weighed approximately fifteen pounds, but apparently kept a reservoir
of nearly boiling water inside.  Inside, at any rate, until Death Coat
pulled on the cord.  After the coffeepot, things had begun looking up.
With only a minor encounters -- a coat rack that was neither as heavy nor
as hot as the coffeepot, a file cabinet positioned far enough away from the
wall that he had found it with his forehead rather than his hand, a brief
repeat discovery of the pushpins scattered around the floor -- he had found
his way to the staircase.  At the staircase, he had decided to pause and
jot down the security he had encountered thus far.

Death Coat finished his notes.  He wondered if String Bikini Ninja had
hired an expert to design the office security.  Likely he would find the
records back in the file cabinet, but the thought of risking the file
cabinet again unnerved him.  Like the receptionist's desk, the file cabinet
was likely to have more than one trap.  Death Coat tucked the notepad
securely in one of the pockets of his coat.  He got on his hands and knees
and began to feel his way up the stairs toward the light of the second
floor.  Slowly.  Carefully.

-----

G-String Man and String Bikini Ninja crouched behind the dumpster at the
side of the Seven-Eleven.  G-String Man shivered violently.  His teeth
chattered, his scabbard clattered against the dumpster.

The Ninja sighed.  "Paul, step away from the dumpster.  You're making too
much noise."

"G-g-g-got it."  Paul leaned against the wall of the Seven-Eleven.  His
shivering grew worse, his teeth rattled almost as loudly as the scabbard
had.  "W-w-w-w-w," said G-String Man.  "B-b-b-b-b-b-b."

The Ninja shushed him.  "Now, this Seven-Eleven has been robbed every
Friday night for the last two weeks.  So, what do you make of that?"

"T-t-t-t-t-t."  G-String Man leaned away from the wall.  The scabbard beat
against the dumpster.  "T-t-too late?" asked Paul.

"No," snapped the Ninja.  "It's entirely possible that the robbers will be
back tonight.  So, we wait for them."

The dumpster clattered as though it was being pelted with gunfire.
G-String Man leaned back against the wall.  "B-b-b-b-b-b," shivered
G-String Man.

----

Death Coat crept over the top step.  He lay on the floor in the hallway.
There was light here, faint through the double set of sunglasses, but
enough for Death Coat to see a little.  Three doors led off each side of
the hallway.  Beyond the hall,  Death Coat could see a large room with
padded mats laid out on the floor.

Death Coat stood up.  He put his back against one of the walls, sidestepped
along the wall.  He reached the first door, turned, put his ear against the
door.  The brim of his hat flexed, straightened.  The hat popped off his
head, landed upside down on the floor.  Death Coat dropped to one knee.  He
grabbed his hat, put his ear against the door.  Nothing.  He turned the
knob, pushed the door open.

Sheets and blankets spilled off an unmade bed.  G-Strings lay abandoned in
heaps on the floor.  A poster on the wall proclaimed "Burt Ward Fan Club".
A stack of Kung Fu World magazines mingled with back issues of TV Guide on
the floor.  Death Coat blinked.  He put the hat back on his head, stepped
into the room.  He kicked at the magazines.  They scattered under his boot.
Beneath the magazines, partially concealed in a brown paper wrapper, lay a
single copy of Guns and Ammo.  Death Coat frowned.  Strange.  Not a
magazine a ninja would read.

Death Coat opened the closet.  He stepped back, stunned.  He lifted one
pair of sunglasses off his eyes, blinked into the closet.  He lowered the
sunglasses back onto his nose.  Now he was sure this was the wrong room.
He shook his head in amazement.

Behind several dozen g-strings hung two T-Shirts and a pair of Levi's jeans.

-----

A short, fat man wearing a grey jacket wandered into the Seven-Eleven.  He
walked past the clerk slowly, nodded to himself, put his right hand in his
pocket.  The man became very interested in a display of snack cakes.

"Watch closely," said the Ninja.  "He matches the description pretty
closely.  He's got something in his pocket, too."   Her legs bent slightly,
her hand went to the hilt of her sword.  "Be ready to move fast."

"M-m-m-m-move," said G-String Man.  He rubbed at his legs, blew into his
hands.  "W-w-w-w-arm inside."

The Ninja sighed.  "Just be ready to fight.  If he's the guy, I want you to
take him. I'll back you up."

G-String Man shivered in agreement.

The fat man made a decision.  He picked up a package of Raspberry
Spongy-Sweets in his left hand.  The man turned back to the clerk, put the
Spongy-Sweets on the counter.  The clerk punched at the cash register, said
something to the man.

The fat man pulled a short, black pistol from his pocket, pointed it at the
clerk.  The clerk took a step away from the counter.

"Go!" barked the Ninja.

"G-g-g-g-g-g-g-String Man!"  G-String Man rushed across the parking lot.
He drew his sword, waved it in the air.  "J-j-j-j-j-j-ustice!"

The fat man jabbed the gun toward the clerk.  The clerk punched at the cash
register.

"D-d-d-d-rop it," called G-String Man as he reached the door.  His boots
skidded on the ice in front of the door.  "Oops," said G-String Man.  His
sword swung wide as he flailed  to catch his balance.

The plate glass window splintered as the tip of the sword went through it.
Wedges of glass sheared away from the window, turned against the sword,
broke against the floor of the Seven-Eleven.  The man with gun jumped,
fired twice at the clerk.  The box of Spongy-Sweets burst open, raspberry
cream sprayed the racks of cigarette cartons above the counter.  The clerk
dove to the floor behind the counter.

"I resign!" yelled the clerk.  "I don't work here any more!  Leave me alone!"

G-String Man fell onto his back.  His feet pushed open the door as he slid
into the Seven-Eleven.  G-String Man's sword clattered to the ground amidst
the glass.  The door closed behind G-String Man.  The fat man looked from
the clerk to G-String Man.  G-String Man tried to catch his breath.  He
waved his arms at the fat man.

"Shit," said the fat man.  The fat man trained the gun on G-String Man.
"Stay back, you damn pervert."  The fat man backed away from the door.

String Bikini Ninja sighed.  She drew her sword, picked her way carefully
through the glass.  "Don't move," she called to the fat man.  "You're
cornered."

The fat man trained the gun on the Ninja.  His jaw dropped.  "Holy shit,"
he said.  The gun sagged toward the floor.  "Holy shit.  What a..."

G-String Man lurched to his feet, let out a hoarse cry and staggered into
the fat man.  The gun went off, clear plastic splintered out of counter.  A
glop of raspberry cream fell onto G-String Man's head.  The fat man
bellowed in fear, yelled incoherent words starting with the letter P.
G-String Man swung for the fat man's jaw, missed, pounded his fist into the
tile floor.  G-String Man's cries of pain mingled with the fat man's
bellowing.  The fat man's hands  fount G-String Man's throat.  G-String Man
squirmed free, fell over on his back.  G-String Man began to gnaw at the
fat man's ankle.

String Bikini Ninja sighed as the two men grappled.  She looked over the
counter.  The clerk lay with his arms crossed over his head.  He seemed to
be unharmed.  The Ninja leaned over the counter, felt underneath for the
panic button.  The clerk rolled over, and opened his eyes.  He stared up at
the Ninja.  He swallowed.

"Holy shit," exclaimed the clerk.  "What a..."

The alarm drowned out the clerk's voice.

-----

Death Coat moved carefully down the hall to the next door.  He listened to
the door for a moment, then opened it.

The room was a masterpiece of order.  White cushions lay in neat rows on a
black futon.  Next to the futon, two pairs of leather boots stood against
the wall.  Across from the closet, a small bronze buddha sat on a low shelf
made of unvarnished wood.  Incense burners sat on either side of the
buddha.  A wooden mandala hung on the wall opposite the door.

Death Coat moved quietly into the room.  His fingers wiggled in
anticipation.  This was the room, he was sure of it.  He crept across the
room.  He listened to the closet door.  This is it, he thought to himself.
The beginning of a brilliant career as a supervillain.  He wondered if he
would ever meet Professor Destruction.  It seemed unlikely, but it was
something to aspire to.  Death Coat opened the closet door.

A row of string bikinis tied to hangars.  On the shelf at the top of the
closet lay a long object wrapped in a white cloth.  Even through the cloth
and his sunglasses, Death Coat could see a pale blue light from inside the
bundle.  Death Coat reached for the bundle.  It felt heavy in his arms.  He
laid the bundle on the futon and shut the closet door.

Death Coat knelt in front of the futon.  Carefully, he opened the cloth.  A
short rod lay on the futon, glowing from inside with a brilliant blue
light.  Death Coat touched the rod.  His fingers tingled, the glow crept up
into his fingertips.  He pulled his hand away from the rod.  So this is
what Blondo's after, he thought.  It's pretty.  He wrapped the rod, put it
in his coat.  It felt warm against his heart.  He buttoned up his coat.

He made his way slowly down the hall.  He figured he might open his coat a
little when he got to the stairs.  There was no way of telling whether he'd
found all the traps on the way up.

-----

String Bikini Ninja set a cup of cocoa in front of Paul.  Paul sat up
straighter.  He tore the Tastee-Slurp instant win sticker off the side of
the cup.  He squinted at the sticker.

"Paul," said the Ninja.  "Tell me what you did wrong."

Paul held the sticker in his left hand.  He traced the word on the sticker
with the index finger of his right hand.  "Fffff..." he said.  Paul's
finger moved across the word again.  "Ffff..."

The Ninja rapped the table sharply.  Paul jumped.  Cocoa sloshed over the
edge of the cup, pooled against the base of the cup.  Paul made a faint
moaning sound.  He leaned over and slurped at the cocoa on the table.  The
Ninja sighed.

"Look, Paul.  First of all, you want the element of surprise.  You don't
run in yelling.  If you run in yelling, your opponents will be ready for
you.  Did you have the element of surprise, Paul?"

G-String Man finished the cocoa on the table.  He slurped noisily at the
cocoa in the cup.  Droplets of brown fluid splattered across the table.
Happy sounds came from deep inside Paul's throat.

"Paul?"  The Ninja's voice was loud, annoyed.  Paul looked up at her.  "Did
you have the element of surprise?"

Paul nodded happily.  "Ice.  Slippery.  Surprising."

The Ninja sighed.  "Finish your cocoa, Paul, then we'll go home."

Paul held out the instant win sticker.  "Won?"

"Yes, Paul," sighed the Ninja.  "You won some fries."

Paul wiggled with delight.  He leaned into his cup, blew little bubbles in
his cocoa.

-----

Death Coat hurried away from Janet Rice's Kung Fu Academy.  The warmth of
the rod wicked into his body as though it were a fluid, and his body was
made of terrycloth.  He felt himself fill with light.  It was a strange
feeling.  The hair on the back of his neck tingled.  His sunglasses seemed
less opaque.  Death Coat frowned to himself.  He might need to buy another
pair with the money Blondo would give him.  He adjusted the outer pair of
sunglasses, sighed.  He didn't like the idea of replacing a pair, even if
they were wearing out.  It had taken effort to locate just the right
combination of sunglasses.  If he couldn't find a match for the pair he was
replacing, he might have to replace both pairs.  More time, more effort.
Death Coat sighed.  Shopping for sunglasses instead of building his
criminal empire.  It was almost enough to make him consider earning an
honest living.

Death Coat passed the Little Colombia Coffee Shop.  The delicate aroma of
roasted coffee tickled his nose.  The light inside him rushed into his
lungs, mingled with the essence of the bean.  He sighed in contentment.
Faint swirls of blue light billowed out of his nostrils, licked at the
corners of his sunglasses before fading away.  Contentment welled up from
somewhere deep inside him.  Life was good, he told himself.  The rod would
pay for his base.  Maybe he could hire a henchman or two.  With luck, he
might even be able to have some sort of microelectronics woven into his
coat.  Energy bolts, he thought to himself.  Magnetic fields.  Strength
enhancement.  The possibilites were endless.  He imagined himself ten years
from now, controlling an immense criminal empire from the comfort of his
orbiting Death Palace.  His coat would be converted into an
exoskeleton/space suit/mystical artifact.  Legions of minions would bow to
him, call him Lord Death Coat, obey his orders without question.

"Hold it," said a voice behind him.  Something jabbed against Death Coat's
back.  "Turn around, real slow."  The voice was low, even, the pauses
between the words seemed precisely measured.  "Whatever that is you've got
there, I'll be taking it now.  Whether you're still alive or not afterward
is up to you."


IS IT REALLY UP TO DEATH COAT?

WHAT DID DEATH COAT STEAL?

WHY DOES BLONDO WANT IT?

WHO'S ROBBING DEATH COAT?

IS G-STRING MAN A DANGER TO HIMSELF AND OTHERS?

IS HE BRAIN DEAD OR SOMETHING?

Superguy:  Larger Than A Post-It Note, Smaller Than A Meal, and More
Penguins Than You Have Any Right To Expect

(c) 1997 Dirk Myers