(gender) pirate/ninja

"Your silence will not protect you, unless you are a ninja."

Anais repeated the words in his head like a chant as he marched around the 16th and Mission BART station. Like the rest of the protesters he was a ninja, and like the rest of them he was carrying a blank sign. As traditional wisdom states, the strength of a ninja is inversely proportional to numbers. A single ninja was an unstoppable, invisible wind of destruction. A dozen ninjas, no matter how well-trained, would get their asses handed to them by a single down-on-his-luck detective with a judo class under his belt.

This did not lend itself to collective action, and yet here they were, all dressed in masked black body suits, marching, demanding invisibility.

A skinny Caucasian in thick-framed glasses and a Decepticons T-shirt approached Anais. "Hey, this is great! I love how ironic you are! Are you guys on Tribe?"

From nowhere, a poisoned dart flew through the air, into the young man's neck. He crumpled to the ground, muttering, "I... Just wanted... to blog you."

Ninjas are masters of disguise. They could be anyone. Your boss. The nice old lady at the library. The person sitting next to you at a literary event. Your cat. Anyone.

Anais found that being a master of disguise was his favorite part of being a ninja. He really liked dressing up. Frilly lace skirts and power suits, McDonald's uniforms and nun's wimples. He'd toss down an eggshell grenade, and before the smoke cleared, he could change from a blonde bombshell wearing enough red to remove all free will from hapless onlookers, to a Tom of Finland sailor boy bulging in all right places. He was a gender ninja.

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