Heather Anne

If Consumer Reports ran an article on the Worst Purchases in the History of The Whole Entire World, the second thing on the list (after the Emperor’s New Clothes) would be the Sea-Monkey aquarium Abigail M. Schilling forced me to buy in January. She spotted it in Target and begged and prodded and cajoled and pleaded until I gave in and stuck it in the cart. Not only did the monkeys never grow, I am still not over the emotional anguish of thinking that I destroyed an entire colony of invisible mammal-amphibian sea hybrids when I finally dumped the container into the kitchen sink.

It took me a long time to trust Abigail’s decision-making abilities after that.

Yesterday she said we should write a story together. I’d write some then she’d write some. I’d write some then she’d write some. I almost declined on account of the poor monkey-judgment, but decided to give Abigail’s idea the benefit of the doubt. The results are below. I don’t remember who wrote what, but the awesome parts are all her.

Untitled MoFo Story
by Abigail and Heather (because everyone has to do their part for the Writers’ Strike)

PART ONE

When I was a lass I thought every g’night to my parents would be the last time I ever spoke to them. I grew up in the highlands – Scotland, and I was pretty sure the Loch Ness Monster was going to crash through my window and eat me in my sleep. My dad, he didn’t believe in the monster because he’d never seen it. Of course he’d also never seen America, but that didn’t stop him bitching about President Reagan. I used to lay awake at night and repeat my dad’s mantra over and over: “If ya can’t see it, it doesn’t exist. If ya can’t see it, it doesn’t exist. If ya can’t see it, it doesn’t exist.” And I believed it. Every word of it. Until I became a ninja.

There’s a lot of stuff you don’t know about ninjas until you become a ninja. (Obviously.) Like you probably think ninjas and pirates would make good bedfellows, what with the being outlaws and wearing really cool costumes. But you’d be wrong.

We used to meet in a coffee shop in Soho on the same night as this group of pirates, and we very nearly burnt the place to the ground more than once. To tell the truth, I had a crush on one of the pirates called Matthew. He’d been sailing with his group for three years, but he still hadn’t earned his eye patch. I think part of it was because while his mates sat around and drank grog, he always ordered a peppermint mocha.

Pirates don’t shower much, but I could tell Matthew did. Plus he wore cologne. Plus he ordered his mocha non-fat. Extra-whipped cream. He’s probably been made to walk the plank by now.

There are four levels to being a ninja: first, there’s Scouting; then Espionage; followed by Sabotage; and finally Assassination.

I’m Scouting right now – the only girl in my level. I’d probably be up to Espionage if I hadn’t gotten in a fight with a tourist on my last mission. He was American, of course, draped in a Union Jack t-shirt. I was sitting at a bar, observing (stealthily) when this prat comes up and starts trying to get a shag. I told him to bugger off, and that’s when he started talking like a leprechaun or something. “Always after me Lucky Charms!” he said. Whatever the hell that means.

I told him I wasn’t Irish. He said of course I was, look at my hair. (It’s red. So red.) I told him I was Scottish. He said same difference.

And that’s when I had to wallop him.

Of course, that got me a right good talking to from a fully-cloaked Assassination-level ninja. If you've ever found yourself in a broom closet with a fully-cloaked Assassination-level ninja with nothing but a mop to guard you (just in case) you learn to keep your wallops to a minimum. Unless you're in disguise.

And also, you can't get the disguise until you're Sabotage. You've got to prove yourself first.

I exited that broom closet with my proudest stance ever--you can't let anyone, not even other ninjas, know when something gets to you--but I knew that I had slid back. I had lost serious points.

PART TWO tomorrow on Abigail's blog.