“I’m tellin’ ya, this one’s fr’real!”

I shook my head as I dumped an armload of bowls into the sink. “Sacco, think about it: how likely is it that there’s a ninja that uses only kitchen utensils as weapons?”

Sacco fixed me a glance, scrubbing down the soup kitchen’s counter. “Arty, y’gotta remember: you’re in New York again,” he called. “Anything can happen in this town, ’specially in this parta town.”

I shrugged & started to wash the bowls. "Firstly, how many times I gotta tell ya Sacco: call me Cricket. Secondarily, y’gotta point. I know, I met that Spoon Ninja chick over in China, but that’s China. This is New York, Sacco! Y’said it yourself! It’s crazy here, but that’s just loony-talk!

“Besides,” I added, slamming the wet bowl on the counter for emphasis, “what kinda ninja attacks a soup kitchen?”

Sacco gulped. “That kind,” he squeaked. His olive skin had turned sickly pale. I whipped around; a black figure flew through the grimy window and landed between us, pointing a spoon at my chest.