Virgin Ninja (4)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (4)"
  
   It was merely a dream.  A night of escape into something unexplained, really.  We aren't at the STAR TREK stage just yet, still cutting on people, damaging tissue and sending the vibration of SHOCK into the entire corporeal being save we enter through the sacred spots with surgical sublimity.
   Joanna Blanc was hardcore steel.  She was hurt in life, very badly, and sought the boom of justice thirsted for by Batman himself; as a result, she was the wacky ninja lady.
   But this summer-soothing night, the jasmine painting hues of covers, gently and lightly, over her box shorts' aspects, a Wonder Woman T oddly decorating her middle-aged body, and she fell into the laser of burgundy, knowing every honorable war is a just war; however, control your power, and don't go all soup nazi, yet sometimes the adversary is nasty and barbaric, giving you no way out save to go all Joan of Arc on their ass, but she got no Sacrament of Reconciliation at the end of blood on the battlefield--no insult, she is an axiomatic Saint, her candle lit before time itself; still, even a Saint is second unto Christ, for He is the vine, and we are the branches; nevertheless, we are gods too, as Scripture proclaims.  

Virgin Ninja (3)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (3)"
   
   Joanna had spoken to Sister Nelson about a great many things; specifically, was told not to mention her lineage or ichor merged with the Jungian onion peel of her ancestral Basque, yet focus on the positive, like Tom Brady, yet she had no true mentor--no fatherly patriarch to whip and forge her into a State of Grace; indeed, as it is written:  God tests the just man.  Like a reality show.  Oh, how the progressives with their fancy fixations will melt when God is ultimately acknowledged, and the prophets are honored in their own time.
   Yet Joanna knew she was no prophet.  A confessor.  A simple serf.  A mere character in a play rooted in melancholy, due to their lack of appreciating Freedom of Speech, Religion, and especially comedy.  Nobody likes Trump's jocularity, resisting it, though Christ instructed to resist not.  We are all headed to Civil War, and the allegorical Southern Man, still too lazy to pick his own cotton, an easy industry, when the Yankees have been lifting steel for centuries, more or less.
   Joanna Blanc invoked Joan of Arc, the most distracting figure ever to be on the battlefield.  An inviolate, blood-thirsty breeder of the Phoenix, wending her way from ash to life by way of Mark Twain, friends with Tesla, and subscribing to dandyism like Joyce, having a sophisticated mustache, even before his candle was lit as a river boat Captain, dismissing education, as autodidacticism made him a genuine erudite, soaring beyond the surge of the swamp, and while his books are burned, the Koran uses the same ethnic slur, though from, possibly, Saint Gabriel; thus, it is welcome.
   All Joanna knew was that her existence determined her fate.  Predestination, of course, for there is an Author of Life, yet Free Will manipulated against those unable to conform.  Never conform--this was the mantra of Joanna.  She would be an island unto herself, neglecting the Pop-Culture of Beavers building dams, and dancing with dexterity towards God's true rainbow determination.
   Nunchucks and all.  

Big Trouble in Little China 1986 - Airport Scene (HD)

Virgin Ninja (2)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (2)"
   
   Joanna was at the Carmelite Monastery, saying the Holy Rosary; moreover, Friday was always a difficult day of meditation due to the Sorrowful Mysteries the Sacred Beads made you reflect upon, especially the Crowning with the Thorns, and how you mediated upon LOVE OF HUMILIATIONS; indeed, none was braver than Jesus Christ, His Heart--Source of ALL Consolation.  His Father, pure Spirit, the Source ITSELF, Christ having said:  "When you pray to My Father, pray in Spirit, for My Father is pure Spirit."  So, who's to question the pneumatic aspects of Christ?  Anyway, after the Rosary was finished, Sister Nelson and Joanna Blanc went outside into the heat of summer, enjoying the natural animism of it all.  

SISTER NELSON
Are you still fighting crime like Batman?

JOANNA
Yes.  But I'm not a millionaire.

SISTER NELSON
Fortunate.  Now, you actually have a chance of inheriting Heaven.

JOANNA
It's not easy being poor.

SISTER NELSON
Christ told Saint Peter it wasn't going to be easy.  God only gave Ten Commandments; next, you get to keep your geography, but Christ was harsher from a point of view, giving us more Commandments; then, His Mother gave the greatest Commandment:  "Do as My Son says."

JOANNA
Will sleaze ever fade into the vacuous black?

SISTER NELSON
There will come a time.  But for now, keep fighting the good fight, and persevere to the end.  For where your heart is, Christ said, so will your treasure be also.  

I'm Falling Even More In Love With You

Virgin Ninja (1)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (1)"
   
   Joanna Blanc was a forty-something blonde with short cropped curls of flaxen; moreover, a set of gray eyes, very hooded, a celestial nose, full kiss-me lips, and an athletic body that didn't brag buxom-ways, but merely cupcake cleavage--and she didn't give a damn.
   Miss Blanc worked at SUBWAY, doing the morning shift, lived in a shanty deep in the Arkansas brag of bucolic beauty, and drove an enduro Kawasaki, lime-green, so that she could always lose the cops by cutting through someone's yard or hitting a wooded trail.  She was a virgin.  Too, she was a Ninja.
   She starting out rolling with Rosary Beads in one pocket and a switchblade in the other; however, that wasn't enough to bring the jam of justice she desired to smear on the dastardly deeds of delinquents delivering diatribe against chaos yet practicing it themselves--basically, she was a slayer of hypocrites.  Like rich men with teen porn.
   It started in Little Rock during the 1970's, when her preacher step-father used to greet her at night in her bedroom, unzip his pants and expose an aroused member that he demanded she kiss.  After numerous macabre encounters, she bit it off, spit it out like a sour pickle, and got thrown in juvenile detention, her mother disowning her, and the rest was poverty, therapy, and tears, until she met a Carmelite Nun, getting faith and support; next, learned the ways of the Shinobi, better known as the Ninja--a covert warrior in feudal Japan, him standing up to the imperialistic Samurai, those guys armed with false honor--in her angst-fueled mind, though balanced with the totality of focus itself.
   So, she made sandwiches during the week, dismembered douchebags on Friday night, skulking with stealth; next, went to Mass on Sundays.
   She even carried the Rosary in her tabi boots, and nunchucks, many a shuriken; plus, a wooden wakizashi to crack craniums.  Hey, every girl has to get her groove on.  And she was no lesbian, but as white as snow.  

Robin Hood Cream Ale

   
   "Robin Hood Cream Ale"
   
   "Ye men of adventure, I am calling your name."  Those were the words tattooed on my first can of Pittsburgh steel beer, drank in the Dirty South of Arkansas.  And only enlisted Navy men and dockworkers should have tattoos, kids--in my dumb ass opinion.
   It was Holland, Gibbs, and myself.  I was fifteen.  Collected beer cans back in the 70's.  Found plenty of full ones in the Pittsburgh jungle.  Years later, Holland said we should refrigerate it and drink it.  We did.  
   Holland and myself split the pint.  Gibbs just drank the froth; thus, his name from that moment on was always:  Froth Man.