Fat Whack Page 3

  “We are gonna be rich!” he said.

  “No,” Chap replied, “we do not do this for the money; we do this to help people.” He flashed his brother a boyish grin that took years off of his age. “But if we get rich as well, that’s okay with me!”

  “Let’s go celebrate with some drinks,” Billy said. “I’m buying!”

  “Thank you, but no. I must go to the dojo and prepare lessons for the ninjas’ training. With this expansion we’ve had so many new hires. I must make sure that they are all up to our Fat Whacking standards.”

  Billy bowed, and Chap returned the gesture. Billy embraced his brother. “I’ll see you soon then.”

  ***

  Chap discreetly stepped into a phone booth. He inserted some change and dialed the phone number of his most trusted employee. The call was to Ninja #5. After several rings there was no answer. He left a message after the beep.

  “Ninja #5, on this Halloween night I fear I might be betrayed. I do not want to believe the rumors, but some of our ninjas may in fact serve a new master. I need you out there tonight overseeing. Make sure our guidelines are followed to the letter. If possible, obtain evidence of malicious intent, and I will share it with the authorities. If the rumors are true, I fear this new master is up to something devious. I would rather shut down all that we have built than have the good name of Fat Whack be tarnished. I’ll have Ninja #7 take your shift tonight. If you want her help, you can bring her in on this. I trust her and I know you do as well. Report back to me in the morning; we will meet at the dojo. Thank you, my friend.”

  A driver dropped Master Chap off in front of the original Fat Whack dojo. He went inside and flipped on the lights. Nothing happened. The dojo was dark and quiet—a little too quiet. The hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up. Walking to the middle of the room, he got into the fighting stance that Master Takanashi had taught him years ago.

  “Reveal yourself!” he shouted.

  From out of the shadows, a tall man emerged—a muscular black man wearing camouflage pants and a tank top shirt. He held a pistol in each of his hands and a rifle was strapped to his back. His bald head made it easy to see just how injured he was, especially his face. Boils that looked ready to pop and ooze puss populated the entirety of his face, while cuts and bumps accentuated his ears. There was no doubt about the identity of the man—this was the infamous hitman known around the globe as The Anteater. One of the hitman’s boils suddenly popped with a sound like that of a starter pistol, and the fight was on.

  The Anteater Interlude

  In the world of hitmen and assassins, there was none better or more ruthless than Isaiah Idaho. At least that’s what Isaiah thought—or what he used to think. How did he end up here? Two months ago, he was hired to do a job exactly like all the other jobs he had done before. In truth, this job should have been easier. The buyer had no desire for extreme violence. The contract contained no special requests. The paperwork simply stated that the buyer wanted his daughter’s boyfriend shot in the head. No problem—he could put a bullet through this kid’s earhole using a sniper rifle and then just walk away. Cash grab gigs like this used to be his bread and butter. It would be nice to use the old sniper rifle again after all these years of up close and personal killing.

  A few days later, he followed a young couple to a restaurant where they sat at a table on the patio. The waitress brought the lovebirds menus and house salads. Isaiah lifted his rifle, looked through the scope, and began to control his breathing. He was already spending the money in his head. Bang! The target dropped his menu and looked behind himself. A random girl seated behind the intended target fell over dead, face-first in her salad. The impact of her face sent croutons flying. Brains and romaine traveled across the tabletop. The restaurant’s occupants went ballistic. They were screaming and running.

  He had missed. He never missed. How had this happened? It was almost as if he had blacked out for a second. He felt like he had just awoken from a quick nap, during which he had dreamed of himself in the middle of a war zone. What was that? He didn’t have time to think about it.

  Forcing himself to regain some composure, Isaiah looked through the scope a second time and followed the target’s head as the boy ran away in terror. Bang! The projectile entered the back of the boy’s skull and came out of the front. The kid hit the ground face-first with what was left of his face. The girlfriend shrieked. She tugged at the lifeless body for a moment or two before giving up and running for her life.

  Later that night, Isaiah was lying on linen sheets in a fancy hotel. Once and once only, he wondered who it was that he had accidentally killed with that first shot. It didn’t really matter. The job was done, and the money was in his account. He snorted some cocaine and fell asleep next to the woman he had purchased an hour ago. He didn’t give the dead girl another thought—until two months later when the dead girl’s vengeance-seeking father found him. It turned out that the deceased was the daughter of the leader of one of the largest drug cartels south of the border. She was his only daughter.

  After a long, hot ride inside the trunk of a car, Isaiah found himself buried up to his neck in sand. The sun’s heat beat down on his bald head. A large group of Latino men held guns pointed at his sun-blistered face. Using his peripheral vision, he could see something rather concerning—an ant mound. This ant mound happened to be the Empire State Building of ant mounds. The cartel boss walked up to Isaiah and chuckled.

  “That is home to millions of what some people refer to as killer ants,” the man said. “But I just call them my tiniest employees. You see, they have worked for me before, and they never let me down.”

  While the man talked, he made a show of setting up a tripod and a video camera.

  “Most people don’t know that killer ants don’t actually kill people. However, they do eat dead people.”

  Having finished setting up his video recorder, he walked over to the trunk of his car and pulled out a large glass jar. The jar looked like a honey pot from a Winnie the Pooh cartoon. He began pouring the contents of the jar directly onto the top of Isaiah’s head. Thick golden honey oozed down his head and around his ears. A drop of the honey dripped off of his nose and gently landed on his bottom lip. He couldn’t resist; he touched it with his tongue. It was delicious, like the honeysuckles he used to pick off of his grandmother’s backyard fence. The cartel boss poured a straight line on the ground, starting at Isaiah’s chin and stopping right at the edge of the giant ant abode.

  “If even one of these ants bites you, and I assure you that one will, it will send out a pheromone that will attract all of the others. A normal human could simply run away, only suffering some minor pain and discomfort. But you—you will be up to your neck in ants in no time.”

  “Haha,” Isaiah said, “up to my neck. Very funny. Now get on with it. You’re boring me.”

  “You will be bitten a few million times for sure. It will be painful—agonizing, in fact. At some point you will go into shock, probably have an allergic reaction, and die. That’s when they will eat you. They will pick your bones clean, and I will put your skull on my mantel.”

  “Next to your daughter’s ashes I hope,” Isaiah joked.

  The man kicked dirt in Isaiah’s face. “I would love to stay and watch, but I have somewhere to be. I will be back for my video camera soon. The popcorn is already popped and waiting for me; I think I’ll watch a movie tonight.”

  With that said, he walked over to the enormous ant mound and gave it a swift kick. A large section of compact dirt broke away. Isaiah could see the color black pouring out of the gaping hole as if oil had been struck. The man and his crew climbed back into their vehicles and left Isaiah to die. A multitude of ants followed the yellow brick road of honey that had been paved for them. Isaiah watched as the last vehicle drove out of his field of vision. That’s when he felt the first pinch of a mandible, followed by a sti
nger.

  The ants come marching one by one, he said to himself. Then he felt another sting.

  “I like to spray Raid Ant & Roach Killer on the bottom of my shoes and then step on ants. It kills them twice.” — The Anteater

  Commercial Break My Heart . . . Continued

  The Anteater’s twin guns threw bullets through the air. Chap moved quickly, closing the distance between them in an instant. He ripped the gun out of the assassin’s left hand and then kicked the pistol out of his right. The kick broke the Anteater’s trigger finger. He screamed in pain. Full of rage, he grabbed Chap by his forearms and pulled him close. He then head-butted him, forehead to forehead. Puss and blood spewed into Chap’s eyes, blinding him. Chap jerked away and rolled backwards, creating some distance. The Anteater charged at him like an angry rhino.

  Master Chap stayed low to the ground. Still blind for the moment, he listened for his foe’s heavy footfalls in order to avoid future attacks. This infuriated his enemy. The Anteater gave up on close combat and pulled the assault rifle off of his back.

  With his vision now returning, Chap rolled and flipped up onto his feet next to the weapons rack. He grabbed a long wooden staff off the wall and used it just in time to redirect the business end of the Anteater’s rifle as it fired. Bullets decimated the weapons rack behind Chap’s head. He twirled the staff around and used its opposite end to sweep his would-be killer’s legs out from under him. The Anteater landed hard on his side. Chap pounced on top of him, using the staff to pin him to the mat. They were face to disgusting face.

  “I know your story, Anteater,” Chap said as he struggled to hold the dominant position on top. “If I am to die today, grant me the privilege of knowing the whole tale—how did you get out of that ordeal with the killer ants?”

  The men switched positions. The Anteater was now on top. He smiled, revealing swollen gums and missing teeth. “I started biting back,” he answered.

  They switched positions yet again. Chap had his opponent pinned and wanted to bring this fight to an end. He forcefully slammed the staff into the Anteater’s face, causing the back of his head to bounce off the ground. “Give up!” Chap yelled.

  The Anteater groaned. It seemed that the fight was over. Chap stood up, and then felt something like an ant bite on the back of his neck. He placed a hand where it hurt, and found a small dart. The dojo started to spin. He fell to the floor and flopped over onto his back. Convulsions began as white foam and bubbles emerged through his gritted teeth. The Anteater slowly got to his feet and stood over his prey, gloating. He was then joined by a second figure—a large man clutching a blow gun in his hand. With the room still spinning and his eyes still watering, Master Chap looked into the face of the second assassin. It was a familiar face, and the sight of it broke his heart.

  “Why? How is . . .” Chap tried to speak, but he couldn’t. He reached for the man, but his arms fell. He took his last breath and died on the floor in the middle of his own dojo. The Anteater walked away, but the second assassin stood over Chap’s dead body for a moment with a tear in his eye.

  The killer left the dojo, but not before ordering his hitman to douse it in gasoline. Flames engulfed the building as it burned to the ground. Chap’s body burned with it.

  Fish sticks are amazing all by themselves. Even so, dipping sauces are an absolute must. Tartar sauce, relish, ranch, mayonnaise, or ketchup—these are all suitable options. However, if you are feeling frisky, try letting your fish finger take a dip in a pool of pudding or custard. You won’t regret it!

  Ninja Note: November 6, 1989

  Eulogy

  Rain at a funeral is so cliché. Four black umbrellas attend Master Chap’s funeral, with six living bodies sitting underneath them. The turnout infuriates me. A week ago, the cemetery would have been standing room only. Now it seems only the cemetery headstones stand to honor the dearly departed. I guess that’s what happens when you are made out to be a madman.

  Halloween night saw multiple murders committed by multiple rogue ninjas. All of whom had been affiliated with the Fat Whack brand. The victims had all been overweight or food industry employees. A note was left at each crime scene—the same type of note with the same drawing on it that had been left at the house of Ryan Lopez. The drawing depicted a phoenix made of steam rising up from a bowl of noodle soup. There were chopsticks in the background placed in an “X” formation, like crossbones. This was practically a signed confession as far as the cops and community were concerned. It was common knowledge that Master Chap had this very image tattooed on his chest. He often wore dress shirts with the top few buttons unbuttoned, making it easy to spot the unique tattoo. Billboards promoting the Fat Whack business sat on all of the main highways, and every one of those billboards had a picture of Chap and his tattoo.

  It didn’t take long for the media to start jumping to conclusions. The main theory was that Master Chap had lost control of his ninjas, as well as his mind. Some analysts who were interviewed believed that he had been in control all along and that this had been his long-term goal. Chap had said many times that his Fat Whacking facility was fully stocked and his ninjas were specially trained to fight the war on fat for years to come. What he had said in metaphor, the public now believed to be gospel truth. They claimed that Chap was at war and would actually kill anyone who was obese or threatened healthy living habits. The newspaper headlines read: “Fat Whack Literally Declares War on Fat!”

  Every kind and optimistic word my master had ever spoken over the course of his life was now being twisted and misinterpreted. He only ever wanted to help people be healthy and enjoy life. I know this for a fact because that is what he did for me. I’m fifty-one and in the best shape of my life. If it wasn’t for Master Chap I would be dead. I was there when he got his tattoo. It was not meant to be an omen of death, but a symbol of rebirth. I have that same image inked onto my skin as well. It reminded us that fat could burn away, and that something beautiful could rise out of the ashes of obesity. He would turn in his grave if he could hear the lies people were saying about him now.

  I am one of the few who knows the truth of what actually happened on Halloween night, and even then, I only know it in part. I know the murderous ninjas no longer followed Master Chap’s teachings. They now serve a new master, but I do not know who that master is. I assume that this new master must have an ultimate goal of some sort, but what that goal is, I do not know. I do know that Master Chap would never have taken his own life. Law enforcement is saying that in a state of madness, he set his own dojo on fire and burned it down while he was still inside. Psychologists being interviewed on television keep repeating that Master Chap must have snapped, no longer being able to swallow living in a world weighed down with such obesity. If you knew the man, you would know that this was simply not true.

  Chap’s brother, Billy, is now in charge of the business. He immediately shut down every obstacle course and remaining Fat Whack-affiliated dojo. He is good at his job, and he says all of the right words. In the wake of these tragic events, he announced that all efforts to expand the business were ceasing. He explained that there were no plans to reopen any of the Fat Whack facilities or obstacle courses at this time.

  He told the families of the deceased that he grieved with them, that his prayers were with them, and that he was sorry for their losses. Last but not least, he somewhat defiantly tacked on that contrary to the evidence presented, he did not believe that his brother committed suicide, or that he was part of a literal “war on fatness” in any way, shape, or form.

  Innocent or guilty, Master Chap’s legacy would now be one of murder and lunacy. I watch as Billy grabs a handful of dirt and tosses it onto the lid of his dead brother’s coffin. The somber service ends. The few people in attendance disperse, heading for their cars. I can hear them. They are all whispering to each other about where to go for lunch. I remain unmoving within the branches of a weeping willow
tree. I should have attended the funeral in civilian clothes; that would have been the human thing to do. Instead, I wear my ninja garb, and the pursuit of justice has already begun.

  Later that night, when I am positive that I am alone, I return to the cemetery and walk up to my master’s tomb stone. I place my hand on it and speak to him, wanting to believe that he hears me.

  “Master, I am and will always be your disciple. Years ago I swore to serve you. I joked that I would serve you one year for each pound I had lost under your tutelage. It was just a funny way of saying that I owe you the rest of my life. Your death does not release me from my debt. I failed you. I could have stopped this—I should have stopped this. My failure and your murder have caused me to question my own Fat Whacking abilities. I swear to all that is healthy that I will find your killer. I will put a stop to whatever insidious plan he has set in motion. I will restore the good name of Fat Whack across this nation, and with it, your honor.”

  I Hit The Gym And I Liked It

  A small, dark-haired, brown-eyed Hispanic girl was shooting ducks in her living room with a grey zapper. Clicking sounds rhythmically repeated as she pulled the bright red trigger over and over again. Her dad owned only a few games for his new Nintendo, but the ones he had were sure fun to play. He claimed he bought the system for her, but she knew the truth. They played a lot of Donkey Kong, which was her father’s favorite. Kong was usually followed by the Mario brothers of course. Tonight, they had been having a great time playing her favorite video game, Duck Hunt. The dog on the screen had just finished laughing at her for letting a duck fly away when the doorbell rang for what seemed like the hundredth time.

  “I’ll get it!” she yelled to her father.

  “No sweetheart, I’ll get this one. It’s probably the pizza I ordered for us. You just keep missing those birds!”