Ninja.Pirate.

*Disclaimer*

The author has no actual prejudice or hatred towards redheads whatsoever. In reality, the author finds redheads extremely attractive.

Man, last night was ridiculous. A no-holds-barred, commit-it-to-memory, shenanigan-filled journey of epic proportions. And it all started with a single text. A single bit of data that only exists in waves and electronics. “What’s happenin’?” That was it, that was all. My best buddy, David, had started an avalanche of awesomeness with only eight letters and two apostrophes. Beat that MacGuyver.

“Nothin.’” I texted back.

“Let’s do something.”

“Ok.”

“When works for you?” He texted.

“Now works for me.”

“Ok.”

“See you in thirty.” I texted.

“See you in thirty.” He texted.

Thirty minutes is the average time it takes the both of us to slip out the back door at work on a sunny Friday afternoon without being noticed. We call it “fading” and we’re damned good at it. One moment we’re sitting at our desks, the next we’re gone like ninjas, like smoke-bomb-throwing, ninja star-flinging, living-shadow, nunchucking motherfuckers. And yes, Ninjas are better than Pirates, at least when it comes to not getting a lecture on why drinking heavily on one’s lunch break is “offensive” and “illicit” behavior. Apparently, whoever wrote paragraph 6 on page 234 of the company rulebook didn’t truly know what our forefathers meant by “Casual Friday” and/or (most likely and) was a prudish tool of epic proportions and if he/she had gotten laid before the ages of 40 and Ever would have just hit the backspace button and moved on. But no.

In any case, the drunken swaggering, grog and wenches are for the evening. Being a Ninja by day and a Pirate by night is my true calling, is where my heart really is. Now that I think about it, there should be a fucking comic book about me or someone who looks suspiciously like me but has an
8-pack. I’m just saying.

So I faded from work without a hindrance and met David back at our place. Time? 4:47. Fun level? Barely above average sprinkled with a mild dose anticipation. We’re passed that point in our relationship where we say “hi” or “hey.” We still talk about how our days went but neither of us is always listening. You know that period of time way beyond the honeymoon phase of the bromance, years into the “broege?” (pronounced bro-ege). Well, we’ve been there for the better part of our lives. We’re wunbro (pronounced one-bro and refers to a person that typically hangs with a single bro of choice as. This is in opposition to twubroers, or polybroers, who have two or more bros of equal preference at a time) type people.

As I walk through the front door I see him standing there, looking hungrily out at the world. He asks me a question, to which the answer is written on the boards of my memories, woven forever with tales of white mice. “Gee, Lee, what’re we going to do tonight?”

I smile. “Same thing we do every night David. Try to take over the world!” Normal people might be joking. We’re not normal people. When we get together, when we go out, we’re on a mission. And when on missions, there’s always battle. Always.

David turns towards me, points to the counter behind me, smiles. I turn around. On the table are six six-packs of Mike’s, each a different type. “I’ve taken the liberty to enhance our afternoon and evening. Each six-pack contains six unique flavors, hand-picked by yours truly. I call them MREs or Mike’s Righteous Enhancements. They’re so strong that you only need one to two per night. They can be taken with or without food. They do not need to be refrigerated though it is highly suggested. They are both delicious and cost-effective. The side-effects include beergoggles/beerview, fun, dancing, thinking that you’re dancing better than you really are, douchebaggery, emotional overtures, and good times. It should be stated that if too many are consumed in one night, then bodily damage and/or regrettable walks of manshame have a 99.9542% chance of happening, most always together. Also, it should be noted that David LLC claims no responsibility for anything other than fun and good times.”

I swear, six months in the Marine core and nothing was ever the same. I put my fingers together so they looked like a pyramid and said. “Yes, David, these are perfect.”

Now, its time for the pwning. I picked up two of my allotted three MREs, sat in my Lazy Boy and medicated. Before the hour was out, the MREs were starting to work. I wasn’t teabagging the other toons as quick as I should have been. Before long, I wasn’t able to boomheadshot anybody. It was horrible. David wasn’t doing any better. Then, after a full nine drinks, my non-beer drinking-Marine buddy and I hit our stride. God bless the troops, but really man, drink a Guinness

After our ridiculously awesome comeback against what sounded like a chorus of PMSing eleven year old girls, we knew we were done. So we flipped the channel and watched Jeff Dunham and his freaky ass puppets. At first, I was not okay with them. Then Achmed the Terrorist came out and all was well. Nothing makes a man feel more comfortable then seeing a dead terrorist, one who is also coincidentally funny and says “I KEEEEEEL YOU.” I have no idea, but that shit is hilarious. On a related note, I think one of our PMSing rivals had his balls drop during the match. I swear to god. He headshot David and for a second there, just a mere second, his self-congratulatory “fuck you nub” sounded like a man. An awkward Jewish man, but a man nonetheless.
Moving on, it was at this point in time we decided to go “out.” I use quotes around “out” because that’s literally what we do. We never really have a destination. We just go on impulse, instinct, with one thing in mind: good times. It’s kind of like the 21st century’s version of hunting, funting if you will. As day becomes night so we become “young adults.” Dressed in ripped jeans*, a nice black button up, a shiny silver watch, a black cadet hat and black leather boots, I am ready to venture off into the night. I wear boots because they say “Fuck yeah, I’m ready for anything. Bring it on.” And I wear a watch because it says “Yes, in fact, I do know how to read Roman Numerals bitch, I went to grade school.”

So we were on our way. We drank a pitcher of water and a bit of rum and suddenly we were pirates. We pillaged bar after bar after bar. By pillage I mean we ordered Pabst and bottom shelf liquor and tried to hit on girls who were totally out of our league. I got one number, he got two. No matter though, the second girl was a Ginger. Not my thing.

Then he did something he shouldn’t have. He took the only number I got that night, he stole my booty. It would cost me my manhood to let this depravity stand. I asked a nearby woman if I could borrow her scintillating glove, which was not unlike Michael Jackson’s, and backhanded him with it. A dou’duel had been issued. He looked shocked, stunned. To be challenged to a dou’duel is to have offended a man to his very core and must be accepted on penalty of two kicks to the ass and three nights paid at the bar. David took that glove and slapped me back. Then I backhanded him twice and ran out the door. My motto is “More is always better.”

Off we went, into the halogen lit darkness in search of the closest Dunkin Doughnuts. We found one three blocks away. It was quarter after midnight. Perfect. We went to the dumpster and looked through the bags. You may raise your eyes brows at this, but do not be so judgmental. At midnight, each night, Dunkin Doughnuts throws away perfectly good product. Bear claws! Poppy seed bagels! Boston Crèmes! Muffins! They pitch it all because everything is baked fresh daily. God bless America. So when that hour hand rolls over they through it all away, often in sterile trash bags. Every once in a while some jerk mindlessly throws in coffee or milk and ruins the whole thing. Good bags are referred to as “loot” and soiled bags are called “greys” and met with disappointment.

What follows the looting is the search for a desolate or abandoned parking lot or roof, or other public space that people would not frequent in the late hours of the night and would take the cops a few minutes to get to. Once found the dou’duel can commence. Such an event goes as follows:

The loot is opened and scoured. The participants eat as many doughnuts/éclairs/holes/etc as they want. Some may also be put aside for later (it is highly recommended that this be done with apple fritters as they are quite awesome). After the Feeding concludes, the remaining items are poured into one giant pile. Each duelist stands on opposite sides of the pile, facing opposite directions. On the count of three, each takes up to fifteen steps from the loot, turns around and runs as quick as he can to the pile. Whoever gets to the pile first picks up his weapons and opens fire. The next minutes are filled with utter chaos. Jellies and crèmes stain the ground red, blue, brown, and yellow. Frosting mauls faces. Bagels leave welts but muffins bruise

David and my duel was one for the ages. Four bags of doughnuts and doughnut related products. A bagel actually split my eyebrow. I may have cracked one of his ribs with lemon poppy seed muffin. I don’t remember who won or who lost.

All I know is that when we were done we knew the horrors of war.

The rest of the night is lost to me. My phone buzzes, a text message. It’s from David.


(843): When I came home you were watching infomercials, eating croutons out of the box and salsa from a funnel. Well done.


*Meaning jeans that are not bought ripped and/or acid washed in light of fashion. Instead, the * refers to a pair of jeans that have been ripped because they’ve been worn forever, or on one drunken night you fell and ripped them and it’s a badge of honor. See also, wornjeans.


-This story is dedicated to Grant Turner III, 8th Comm BN 2nd MHG Camp Lejeune NC-

Congrats man!