39 HOTYS cont.

The Frisco Ninja surveyed the Plip Plop Coffe Shop inside and out. His disguise as a quasi-graduate student was fully evolved. He’d even neglected to order, as if he was so at loose ends that he would attempt to take a table without paying. He’d willed two days growth of whiskers in less than two hours, clean-shaven at his tutorial as a visual reminder of a man’s soft cheek juxtaposed with the looming stature of Coit Tower for the carnally bereft single women of San Francisco.
There were bicyclists aplenty, and the vain Catholic priest. True to his humble origins in a clan of Japanese gardeners abiding in the foggy western avenues of San Francisco for four generations, canny Alain de Tochigi, the Frisco Ninja, identified the color of the priest’s tassel as violet, and whispered into his cell phone, “Monsignor!”
“Which one?” Ross Valley asked.
“Keep voice low!” reminded Frisco. “Remember mission secret!”
“Which one?” Ross whispered.
“Not naughty one! This one very vain!”

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