He appeared at dusk speeding along the coastal highway atop the Kawasaki, heading east with the hazy pink sun setting at his back, the engine screaming like a pack of male feminists at a midnight he-she show in Bangkok promising nothing good–just chaos and a bad night’s sleep.
The engine sound progressed from a faint hum to a louder buzz like one of the small, low-flying planes towing advertisements for local businesses in the sky just off the surf. By the time the screaming Kawasaki drew near to the trendy beachside sushi bar, it had drowned out all other ambient noise much like vacationing diners were drowning California Rolls in deep bowls of soy sauce in the outdoor dining area.
Seemingly out of nowhere the Samurai jumped the Kawasaki up the curb, spun the bike three times in the sand near a legally-protected dune, and catapulted himself into the dining area. This time it was the Samurai screaming “Aiiiiiiihaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii” as the wooden katana, having the appearance of finely-sanded Koa wood, cleared the scabbard on his back as he landed securely on his feet in front of a table of four.
“Lightning!” he screamed as he swept the blade along the table, upending the impossibly large platter of California Rolls with the katana and sending it clattering onto the nearby sidewalk, the rolls skidding into the road where it was promptly flattened by oncoming traffic and finally clung to the hot asphalt along with various roadkill–small birds, mostly–and dried dog turds in the middle of the street.
Leaping onto the table with another shout, the Samurai rained blows on the backside of a young caucasian man with two-inch earlobes dangling like taffy, swinging loosely like the floppy labia of a retired Women’s Studies professor as he attempted to scurry to safety under the table.
But there would be no safety. Not in that place. Not on that day.
A tall butch woman wearing a black t-shirt reading, “I Want Your Flower” and dressed like the lead singer for Judas Priest during the Screaming for Vengeance tour ran up and addressed the Samurai, facing him in an awkward, poorly-formed Shizen-tai judo stance. The Samurai’s eyes narrowed in the eyeholes of his facial armor as he affected a moment of stillness, regarding her.
This agitated the butch woman, who lunged at him, screaming, “Flower power!”
The Samurai engaged fully, stepping into the lunge with a slight twist and bringing the koa Katana up sharply broadside into her solar plexus, causing her to double over and vomit a low-viscosity, greasy paste of fried calimari, tuna tataki, soy, and saki on the mock-cobblestone floor.
Leaping from the table, he planted one black-sneakered foot on the back of the doubled-over, vomiting lesbian and somersaulted back toward the kitchen, knocking three wait staff down. He landed near a family of seven where a young woman wearing a sorority jersey, isolated at one end of the table and oblivious to the pandemonium unfolding around her, awkwardly fumbled at scissoring her chopsticks around a California Roll which–due to entropy and mindless conformity–lay disintegrating in a bowl of soy sauce.
“Thunder!” yelled the Samurai as the tip of his Katana appeared at her mouth just as she grabbed a soup spoon and shoveled the ridiculous, broken mass of food stuff toward her face. With the deftness and almost preternatural skill of a brain surgeon, he excised the foul lump of popular nonsense from the spoon without spilling a drop on her shirt. With a nearly imperceptible flick of his wrist, the buggered roll sailed in a high arc above the heads of a dozen diners with confused, awestruck looks in addition to soy sauce on their faces, its trajectory taking it directly into the mouth of a trash can whose lid was just that moment being lifted by a bus boy.
“You there!” yelled a young, wiry lad with some faint muscle definition and a man bun as the Samurai placed a card with a phone number in the mouth of the sorority girl, yelled, “DINGALINGUS!” and executed a perfect jump kick, sailing over two tables and landing beside man bun who was already throwing a punch that caught the Samurai in the side of the helmet. “OW!” yelled man bun, withdrawing his hand as the Samurai brought around a pound of perfectly shaped and sanded koa broadside up and into his testicles.
“SASHIMI HA HAHAHA!” yelled the Samurai as he turned immediately, jumped smoothly atop the nearest mesh bistro table and, leaping from table to table, sprung over the short fence railing onto the Kawasaki, yelled, “EXPERIENCE!” and took off like cannon fire, heading eastward as the last remaining rays of the setting sun enveloped his fleeting form, causing him to almost glow slightly in the fading light of dusk.
Later, eyewitnesses would swear the katana had somehow sheathed itself, promise they heard the Samurai whistle, earnestly insist they saw the motorcycle stand upright on its own as the Samurai landed perfectly on the seat, the engine screaming to life as the bike fishtailed violently, throwing sand over the remaining diners and their food, ruining expensive platters of California Rolls and Edamame.
The restaurant closed a few weeks later as summer ended. It would reopen the following year as a trendy Tex-Mex joint called, Taco Tool. Some other sushi restaurants in the area briefly removed California Rolls from the menu despite still offering them by request. Eventually, they were reinstated.
Life returned to normal here, eventually. Long-time residents and returning vacationers would occasionally mention the incident when a particularly loud aircraft flew low over the beach or the distinctive sound of a high-performance Japanese motorcycle echoed through the popular resort town, and young boys began buying motocross armor, painting it red and black to resemble The Samurai as they spread out across town on their bicycles. Some even bought wooden katanas from Amazon and began attacking combo meals at fast food restaurants. Of course, parents were called, katanas were burned. This life we live continued and the Samurai was never seen along our stretch of beach again.