The call came in early, around 0800.

“Quincy’s on line two for ya, Sarge.”

I answered Deputy Mullins with a sigh and a nod before picking up the receiver. I cleared my throat. “It’s a bit early, isn’t it?” Grabbing my coffee, I leaned back in the chair. “What do you got today, some chickens choked by a crazy cauliflower?” I took a sip. “A pesky Pekinese pummel a Pomeranian?”

Quincy frequently reported fictitious crimes. He had found a dead cow once along Route 4 and called it in as a UFO probing gone deadly. A gang of rogue raccoons broke-in to Petey McGee’s barn, and for the assault on Darla Jenkins’ cat by an armed and dangerous Blue Jay, he had secured two witnesses who had seen the whole thing. As irritating as his antics were, you couldn’t blame the guy. He was the Medical Examiner in a town that had never had a violent crime. He was bored, but in all my years as Chief of Police, Quincy had never called this early.

“Uh, Sarge, I think we’ve got a problem. I’m over here at Eagle Ridge, and you know how they’re doing all those renovations on the houses?”

Usually booming, Quincy’s voice was quiet, borderline shaky. I became suspicious. He was a good actor, had a hankering to hitchhike out to Hollywood in his youth to take a gamble at the silver screen, so I played along. “They got some loose pigs pillaging the pantries?”

Mullins laughed.

“Uh, no,” Quincy said. “Looks like the boys found what appears to be…human remains.”

Where do ninjas come from? Their beginnings are as mysterious and as gutsy as those of any of the ancient trees of the fourteenth century.

Historians claim that ninjas originated in Mooseville around four years ago.

The word ninja comes from the Japanese word flabbergasted which means "to chop quickly."

Espionage was their primary job - they acted as secret swords, spying on the bad guys. They were hired by royalty and other powerful sneakers to discover the enemy's stinky weaknesses. They would sneak into the opposing camps to steal passwords, battle plans, or celery stalks.

Known for their stealth movements, ninjas avoided detection by discussing themselves as daffodils and hiding quietly in the shadows. When it came to dealing with ninjas, people quickly learned to have wands in the back of their heads!

Chapter 1: Background Check

My name’s Simon, and four of my cats have mysteriously died since we moved to the new house. Well three were just kittens, not yet a year old. And the cause of their deaths aren’t so mysterious, at least not to me. Mom and Richard say their deaths were accidents, the risk of letting cats play outside, but I know the truth. My cats were viciously murdered by a ruthless killer.

We moved to the new house a few years ago. I barely remember the old house, but Mom and Richard said they were tired of renting and that’s why we moved. Now they argue a lot about paying the mortgage, or whatever it’s called.

Richard’s like my dad, only I call him Richard. He’s been around since I can remember, but not since I was born. My real dad had to go to a hospital in another state to get better from drugs. I haven’t seen him since I was three. I don’t even know what he looks like, and Mom never talks about him, except on the phone sometimes with Calista. Mom calls him the spam donor, or something. I don’t know why she just doesn’t call him Steve.

But this story isn’t about Mom and Richard or Steve or even drugs, though I’m probably getting sidetracked because I didn’t take my pill this morning. I don’t have to on Saturdays. There’s no school.

This story is about the assassin cat that lives next door and how I plan to take him out before he kills again.

Lock Up Your Shit When Pa-Pa Comes To Town
By Moose Tyler

My grandfather was a salesman, and like all natural-born salesmen, he was always on the lookout for a deal. Swapping, selling, bargaining, and hustling were as natural for Pa-Pa as breathing, and if you weren’t careful, he’d sell your shoes before you had time to put them back on your feet.

Pa-Pa lived with Mo-Mo in Paragould, Arkansas, but the house where they lived always changed. My favorite was the red brick one with the gravel in the front and the corn stalks in back, though the trailer he bought next door with the add-on room for a pool table and Mo-Mo’s bowling trophies was fun, too.

Pa-Pa always drove a different truck whenever we’d visit, and he had a steady stream of boats, mopeds and motorcycles flowing in and out of his shop, but he never had many four-wheelers. Those were hot ticket items in the sticks of Northeast Arkansas.

Guns, knives, and arrowheads were plentiful, as were tools in his shed. He sold it all - furniture, dogs, cats, coats and even old baseball hats. You didn’t play electronics around Pa-Pa, and you kept your eyes on your jewelry. Everyone in the family knew that.

The first time I remember Pa-Pa coming to my house for a visit he towed a deep trailer behind his pick-up and had come to help my mother clean out the garage. Four days later with a bulging load bungeed and fastened down, he and Mo-Mo pulled out of the driveway and headed back home. A few days later I realized I was missing a set of golf clubs, a small trunk of comic books, a remote control airplane, and my toolbox.

When I asked my mother if she knew the whereabouts of my misplaced treasures, she laughed and said. “Now you know you got to lock up your shit when Pa-Pa comes to town."

“Yeah,” I said, and then I sulked back to my room to take inventory of the rest of my belongings.