In the ruins of the old Tetsuo Drive-In, a bunch of morons had practically elevated any movie featuring ninjas, explosions, and scripts written on three used napkins in the little space left by grease and something that hopefully wasn’t cum to the level of a religion. Once upon a time, this place had been a refuge for families who came to watch movies while eating cardboard-flavored popcorn, but mostly for teenagers who had no better place to grope and reach third, fourth, or whatever the hell base was, than to see who could understand the metaphor for those sports more boring than waiting for the next Gazette to come out. The point is, the place had miraculously survived Shitageddon mainly because nobody actually gave a shit, even when the world was normal.
The fact is that this place with screens gnawed by the years, and rusty cars with corpses of spectators who died waiting for Cyborg 3 to improve the ending of the second one, became the sanctuary of the Ninja Freaks, a band of lunatics who had found their way of life in Cannon movies and in the martial arts manuals of the 80s.
Every day, these people dressed in ridiculously colorful clothes trained. Well, training is a bit of a bold word, because in reality, they mostly did pointless jumps and somersaults, often shouting random vowels, and trying to beat each other up with strangely shaped weapons.
The Great White Sensei, the gang leader whose monosyllables of pure wisdom roused his people, oversaw the training from his throne, a car seat with tiger covers, while American Ninja 2 played on the screen.
The daily ritual was sacred:
- Watch a crappy ninja movie (especially the Cannon one).
- Shouting “Haiii!” every time someone did a bad flip.
- Go out and try to loot something in the Wasteland.
- Usually return without any loot but with fewer teeth.
However, that wasn’t just any other day. The Turboviejos, a gang of gang members who had recently moved to the area, had their eye on the drive-in and threatened to attack that afternoon. They might be some serious geriatric thugs, but they weren’t treacherous dogs, and they preferred to meet at a specific time to fight because going for nothing was a bit of a joke, and if not, they’d be better off just taking a nap.
The Great White Sensei stood up and raised his hand. Everyone stopped and stared. His robes flapped in the wind so impressively that even the torn piece that left his entire piggy bank visible was a motivating sight.
—Hai —he said.
The ninjas nodded. War was coming.
The black ninjas were the first to jump into the fray, strictly following the code of honor of attacking one at a time so that their rival could kill them in order and without being overwhelmed.
“Haiii!” one shouted as he jumped aimlessly and was intercepted in midair by the blade of one of the Turbo-Olds.
The red ninjas were more effective. They jumped between the ruins, attacked with moves worthy of a hamster on high speed, and used advanced techniques like the “Cuckoo Clock Punch” (a punch to the back of the head) and the “VHS Edge Cut” (basically a knife, but with a cool name).
A purple ninja, with the precision of a surgeon with Parkinson’s, appeared behind an old man with a lot of hair in the wrong places and a small horn on his belt, and whispered to him:
—Have you heard anything?
-Hey?
-Exact.
And he ran a katana through his body. Well, he actually tried to slash him first, but the weapon was duller than the brain of a Fifth Reich recruit. So he stabbed with all his might. And you see, with enough force you can run someone through with a brick.
Olaf, the leader of the Turbo Olds, advanced towards the Great White Sensei with the determination of a villain from an Arnie movie who you know is going to die at the end suffering the humiliation of a lapidary sentence.
“Let’s see if you have nothing more to say now!” he shouted, raising his weapon.
The Great White Sensei took a deep breath. He closed his eyes. The wind blew through the ruins. Imaginary oriental music played in the background. And then…
—Hai.
Olaf charged with the subtlety of a burning bulldozer.
But the White Sensei vanished in a puff of smoke, leaving behind only a “COMING SOON TO YOUR FRIENDLY SCREEN” pamphlet.
Olaf stared at what his cataracts allowed him, confused.
—Where the hell did he go?
Behind him, a purple ninja looked at him with a disturbing smile.
—You’ve looked in the wrong direction, brother…
He made a bunch of stupid moves with his hands, as if he were short of a potato to make a pound, and he smashed Olaf’s Adam’s apple with his palm. He fell to the ground, choking, while his henchmen decided they’d better find somewhere else to attack.
When the sand cleared, the last of the wounded Turboviejos could still be seen crawling away. The Ninja Freaks gathered around the drive-in screen, where Fanco Nero was now handing out slow-motion beatings.
The Great White Sensei reappeared out of nowhere and sat on his throne. He stood up, smiled as he nodded, looked at his band, and said his first sentence in five years:
“Play one by Dudikoff,” he ordered.
A black ninja with one eye looking at Scrapbridge and the other at Samnthia raised his hand.
—Can’t we put on Kickboxer 3?
“Your fucking mother,” they all said.
And so, in the darkness of the Tetsuo Drive-In, as the stars shone and the screen played more Cannon movies, the last warriors of trashy cinema celebrated another victory in their sacred mission.
The legend of the Ninja Freaks lived on.
