Contrary to popular opinion, I was completely sober while writing this.
No More Coincidences
(or, Product of a Writer Who Woke Up At 4:30 AM and Foolishly Decided to Turn On the Computer)
It was a dark and stormy night. As dark as a room with all the lights turned off, and as stormy as a turbulent weather pattern with thunder and lightning. As dark and stormy as on the night Edward George Bulwer-Lytton first wrote the phrase 'it was a dark and stormy night' in the early 1800s.
Trudging through this particular night was a ninja, dressed all in black. Because he was so black, nobody could see him. Even the brief flashes of lightning that accompanied the storm (as they so frequently do) could not illuminate his shadowy figure. He was little more than a shadow; a shadow that was soaking wet and catching pneumonia. He trudged out towards a dirt road that wound through the surrounding countryside like a flat muddy snake crawling across a sparsely populated rural reigon.
When he reached the edge of the road, he failed to see the set of headlights approaching him from the left. The driver of the car was as drunk as a man who had consumed too much alcohol before getting into his vehicle, and given the ninja's practically invisible form, he failed to stop in time. This resulted in a large thump and a ringing silence. It rang and rang until the driver stumbled out of his car shouting "Make it stop!"
The man bent cautiously over the ninja's still body. He was very careful, as if inspecting a wired block of C4 plastique. This scenario was likely enough because the ninja happened to have an impact-sensitive bomb attached to him under his clothes, just in case some drunkard accidentally ran him over with his car.
It was set to go off in ten seconds. It had been seven seconds since the driver had stumbled out of his car shouting "Make it stop!" The said drunkard had no idea he only had three seconds left to live. In fact, he didn't even know where his house was. This made the task of escape even more difficult; he had only three seconds in which to formulate, engage and perform his escape plan, not to mention all the practice routes he'd have to go through. He wished he'd remembered what his mother had told him. Unfortunately he'd forgotten what she'd said.
Two seconds left! The man's inebriated brain struggled for action. The booze was putting up a colossal fight and the brain wasn't sure how much longer it could hold out. One second left... Fight! Fight! The life of a man who just ended someone else's depends on it! He didn't consciously know that he wasn't about to survive this ordeal, but if he'd listened to everything his conscious mind told him, he'd have been dead a long time ago.
Half a second! The man's left leg started to move. His brain cells all screamed individually with the effort. 'I didn't know brain cells could do that,' was the man's last thought before he was lifted into the air by a second ninja in a black hanglider, just before the countryside exploded like a sparsely populated rural reigon being ripped apart by an exothermic reaction.
After the explosion, it was said that a thousand beef patties rained down upon the shattered remains of the once-green hills, along with roast turkeys and bacon bits (strangely enough, the cattle and poultry that had used to inhabit the ruined barnyards were nowhere to be found afterwards). The resulting crater became known as "The Crater of Plenty", and fat rich people came down from the hills to feast on the remains of the farmyard animals.
The drunkard looked at the ninja who was flying through the air with him in tow. "Hey," he said, now more coherent as the shock of the explosion had driven away his alcohol-induced daze. "Didn't one of your number just perish in a giant ball of fire?"
"It was his destiny. We knew you were going to hit him with your car, and we purposefully strapped that bomb on him for that eventuality," said the ninja (whose name was Sam). "Now I'm here to save you from a certain death by exothermic reaction. It's actually kind of ironic. You see, after I put you down, you're going to start a business that uses explosions to cure hangovers and inebriation. You may notice you're feeling more sober."
"Wow," said the former drunkard. "It all adds up, doesn't it. The storm, the ninja, me being drunk, the explosion, the fat rich people- no, they didn't really fit in anywhere... I guess most of that stuff went towards building a better, less inebriated mankind, even if it did have to start with a thousand people and animals being blown to smithereens."
Sam laughed as they flew through the air. "Of course the fat rich people fit in. They're the ones who're going to be paying you for your services, after all."
The two reflected on this for a moment. Then the man spoke up. "I guess there really are no coincidences."
"Nope," said the ninja, at which point they were both killed by lightning.
DVD EXTRA: The second ninja in this story was actually Peter Pan in the original version. Unfortunately, the writer was cornered by several Hungarian lemon farmers and threatened with pitchforks, and was therefore forced to alter the story. Of course, that didn't stop me from telling you anyway. I'll bet you were better off not knowing. Oh well.
Please review, for I thrive on ego boosts! Bwa ha ha!