True Story 4: The Plan

(Be sure to check out part 1, part 2, and part 3 of the True Story saga.)

How had this day come unraveled so quickly? It seemed as if only a moment ago I had been home in bed. Now I was smack-dab in the middle of a raging fire-fight. For the moment, at least, it seemed like Tom Brady and Kojak were on my side. The two dead ninjas on the floor were proof enough of that.

“Hey, asshole,” shouted Tom. “We're not gonna do all the work. Wake up and stay alert.”

Right. I took a quick look around. The waitress and the trucker were both cowering behind the lunch counter, and the college kid was nowhere to be seen. Good, one less civilian to worry about. A shadow moved to my left...

...and Kojak impaled it with what looked to be a bat'leth. (Where the hell did he get that?) Tom was on his feet and seemed to be moving pretty good for a guy with one knee, so I helped myself to the only readily available weapon I could find—his crutch.

“EEEEEYAHHHEEEE,” came a screech from the kitchen. At least six more ninjas had appeared in that corner of the room, and I felt as if there were more lurking in every shadow.

“We can't stay here,” I shouted.

“Calm down”, said Tom. “This ain't no Doogie Howser cameo. You got the best in the business on your side today.”

“Don't worry kid,” answered Kojak. “Staying here was never part of the plan. Move towards the door...NOW!”

I broke towards the front door just as Tom unleashed a barrage of fire from his pistols. There were bullets and ninja stars flying everywhere, and when I crashed through the door and out into the parking lot with Tom and Kojak both still behind me (and both still alive) I knew we were lucky.

That is, until I looked around.

The parking lot was full of ninjas. Male ninjas, female ninjas, old ninjas, young ninjas, ninjas in red, ninjas in blue, ninjas in white, ninjas in black...Christ, it looked like all the different factions of the Hand Clan had come together for this assault on the Fillin' Station!

“Well, well, well...the gang all looks to be here,” said Kojak.

Brady had dropped down onto his one good knee and we did the same. He unbuttoned his coat and revealed three things: Two semi-automatic M16 rifles (one of he which he tossed to Kojak, the other to myself) and a chest that was covered by a larger-than-life image of Ronald Reagan.

“This is my lucky Gipper t-shirt. Fucking love him!” Not for the first time I found myself questioning his sanity.

Tom had moved on to yanking clips and grenades and knives and who-knows-what-else from the seemingly endless number of pockets on his jacket. Kojak was making sure his rifle was in good working order and I followed suit. We took aim at the closest crop of ninjas and fired away.

Now, you might expect that ninjas are good at dodging bullets and such. This is a popular misconception. Their great strength is stealth. If they can sneak up on you then you are most likely about to die. But, if you can engage them in open combat—as we were—then they are quickly reduced to being funny little people in funny little costumes. Kojak and I mowed them down and went to reload.

Only a few of our targets escaped the shots, and those who did went scurrying back behind a now-abandoned pickup truck. The truck was probably thirty yards away, in the far corner of the parking lot. Brady grabbed a grenade, measured the distance, pulled the plug, and fired a perfect throw that sent the grenade right through the pickup's open window.

BOOM! The truck exploded and sent debris and dead ninjas in every direction.

“Did you see that,” shouted Tom. “Peyton Manning would never have made that throw! On the football field, sure, maybe. But under fire from a hostile enemy? No way, no how. I am the best!” I had to admit it—he was probably right.

Tom's throw had opened up a portion of the parking lot, with those ninjas who hadn't been caught in the blast left scurrying for better cover. I started to suggest we head that way but Kojak cut me off.

“They're gonna gather their strength and come at us again right quick.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth before our situation deteriorated. Three black vans came tear-assing into the parking lot...and from them emerged an even deadlier foe.

The Crazy 88's. They were world-class assassins conjured up by the twisted mind of Quentin Tarantino—and they had come for me.

“Shit,” I said. “I thought Uma Thurman took care of these guys.”

“She did,” replied Tom. “She just didn’t get all 88 of them.

“Wait, I thought there really weren’t 88 of them…”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Kojak. “These guys are punks. Where were they in Kill Bill 2? What a disappointment that film was.”

He was right. He was always right.

“We gotta move, now.” Kojak pointed towards the eighteen-wheeler we had passed on the way in. “You see that big red rig? That is where we are going. Ready, Tommy?”

Tom had reloaded both pistols and slammed them into the firing position. “On three,” he said

“One...”

I loaded a fresh magazine into my M16.

“Two...”

Deep breaths...

“THREE! Go, go, GO!”

We broke as one and sprinted towards the truck, firing back at the ninjas as we ran. They were sending stars and knives and strange Asian explosives back at us, and whatever serenity there had been at the beginning of this beautiful morning in New England was long gone. The local sheriff had to be awake by now. Hopefully he would be smart enough to know when events were unfolding beyond his control. This was a day to just go fishing.

Even with only one good knee Tom was able to match me step for step. I really did have to reassess my opinion of him. We reached the big truck first, with Kojak only a step behind. Once we were there, however, our next problem readily presented itself.

“We don't have a lot of cover here,” I said. “Maybe we should keep moving.”

“No,” said Brady. “Let them see how little cover we have. They'll come in and then we'll pounce. Are we ready?”

“We will be,” replied Kojak. “My guy is in place.”

I wondered who he was talking about, but only for the briefest of moments because right then a series of fireworks went off over our heads. Lots of color and lots of smoke, but lucky for us all there wasn't too much fire. Whatever they were throwing at us, it looked worse than it actually was.

“What, do these guys run a firework stand up in Nashua in their spare time? I'm beginning to think this ain't their A-Team, Tommy.”

Whoever they were, it was clear they were about to make their move. There would be three groups coming at us at once: a frontal assault from both the right and the left with the Crazy 88's circling around to come at us from behind. We could run, but there was almost no chance we would make it to what little cover there was across the street before they were on top of us.

“Here they come!” I didn't recognize the voice at first; it was so full of fear. Then I realized it was my own. Fortunately, there was a plan in place.

“Steady.” The confidence in Brady's voice was reassuring, but I wondered if he was seeing the same thing I was. There were at least forty, maybe fifty ninjas, and perhaps as many as 88 of the Crazy 88’s. And there were still only three of us.

Until...

I remember hearing Tom yell, “Now!” Then there was another sound, a very distinct sound, a sound anyone who ever watched cartoons in the 80's could identify. It came from behind me, and as it did I realized the cover of the truck was gone. I understood why, and I knew who would suddenly be standing in its place.

It was Optimus Prime.

The odds had just evened up.

To be continued...