My Cardboard Balcony

The Dangerous Machine by Belinda Roddie The dangerous machine did not cut or slice up appendages with tiny knives. It did not act to cause pain, blood, or gore, or threaten any of its users' lives. No flames burst from its metal mouth. It would not electrocute people. It would not hiss out insults or threats. It never could blackmail or con or cheat or mock or plot to take away one's happiness. The thing, however, was called dangerous, and those who gave it that label would always sing about why the device should be opposed, even though it never would harm the youth; the machine, instead, always told the truth.

How much stealth can a ninja have when all of the media portrays them as walking around in their neon jumpsuits, doing strange finger power moves while everyone can see them? Those ain't ninjas, those are fighters. Ninjas don't let you see them. Hell, they barely let you hear them. Their footprints are like zephyrs, their weapons the only louder noise coming from their arsenal. Slick, wet slicing sounds. But no ninja to be seen.