25 The peace of white rice

“Missy Plant! Missy von Masters! Missy String! Missy Bean! Missy Nyuk! Missy Hop!”
From humble origins, although decent and good, the Frisco Ninja had never been taught to use the title “Ms.” until it was too late to pronounce it with certainty.
“Hear this!”
He allowed them to closely gather ’round and listen to intensified billing and cooing of Ross Valley and his publicly fabulous, privately unaffected friend.
“Him and her! Her and him! Him her her him! Her her her her her! ‘A wop bop a lu ma, a bop bam boom!'” Frisco commented.
Like Socrates, he posed a question. “What now?” However, it was delivered like two quick punches to the nose, while Socrates’ tone, one might think, had been serene as he lured fair-limbed youths of Athens to the truth. Ms. Plant et al indeed were easy upon the eyes, if somehow puzzling besides, but if the misapplied lipstick by one of them, the one unbuttoned cuff by the other, and so on, were indications of a certain fuzziness, then the Frisco Ninja’s blunt approach was apt.
Ms. Hop raised her hand.
“After-uh . . . after-something? I used to know . . .”
“Not bad!”
“Afterglow,” Ms. von Masters said.
“Yes,” their mentor said gently. At rare and poignant times, at crucial times, the Frisco Ninja’s voice could be like the susurration of chopsticks gathering modest mouthfuls in a bowl of steamed white rice.
“Remember?” he added.
The young women looked at each other questioningly. One followed the other in turning back to Coit Tower. They stared, with increasing expression, as if near a revelation.
“Getting somewhere!” Frisco barked, reverting to type. “Class over! Go home! Take shower!”
And reverting to the core of his legendary identity, Frisco swooped aloft, ninja blended into blue sky and scattered veils of fog entering the Golden Gate.
He flew over North Beach, then over the deeps, the Potato Patch, soared over the Marin Headlands, above the steep redwood slopes of Mill Valley, skirted Mount Tamalpais in descent, oaks, more redwoods, and green shrubs flashing past. He would see about the malefactors, hear more accounts of a savior and punisher, an answer to dilemmas of the Property Owners Association – in the para-spirit of Marx and Engels, one who might swat down the gates and fences that newly shackled Kent Woodlands. In any case, to share in person notions of insurrection by the vanguard of the revolutionary old-fashioned: Ross Valley, Alain de Tochigi aka The Frisco Ninja, and baby Drew.

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One Response to “25 The peace of white rice”

  1. Peter Smith Says:

    This scene is, as are all the Frisco Ninja scenes for that matter, great. And he can fly!

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