It was late August, I was at the tail end of my rotation. Work had and moved sideways from my normal core logging activities. I was working on sorting out old curshed rock samples.
The process involved manually emptying all the waist bags into the bucket of a front end loader. The bag dumping took more time then the sorting, this left me with time to think. No one on that crew did much talking, adding even more time to my thinking time. It was in this dead air that the first bit of Yoshi's Sushi came too. It started with one word it was so dumb it should have died there. One thing went wrong, I met Yoshida Cohen with him in my head I some how turned what was the dumbest idea of the week into the nucleus of a story. So for the all to see,
Yoshi's Kosher Sushi. A personal First, a complete self contained self contained work of fiction. Which due the size of the peace and the geologic speed of the editing will be serialized.
Enjoy
Yoshi's Kosher Sushi
Yoseph ducked, Samuel did not.
Yoseph turned as he heard two consecutive thuds, the second one louder then the first. In the dim light of the alley way Yoseph saw his companion dead against the door, his hands still clutching the lock picks. The second thud had been Samuel hitting the door. The first thud had been the projectile hitting Samuel. Yoseph froze when he recognized the means of his specialist’s execution: a six pointed blue and white shuriken. A throwing star of David, stuck out the back of Samuel's neck just below the base of the skull. That second of inattention was too long. Before he could turn around Yoseph felt a chill move across the front of his neck. A sword was pressed to his throat.
A short form stepped out from the deep shadows. What was visible of the man’s face :if you move you're dead. The man reached out and took the compact assault rifle from Yoseph's now limp hands. The man was dressed a loose black tunic, a gi from the Asian martial arts traditions, with a mat black scabbard for a sword sticking out from behind a shoulder.
Yoseph was tall enough to make out the midnight blue yarmulka, perched atop the black hood. That was all Yoseph saw.
The dark alley went black. The sword at Yoseph’s neck pulled away. As a sack was thrown over his head and drawn tight making it hot and hard for Yoseph to breath
The man spoke softly. " Yoseph, this raid is over, this place is ours."
Yoseph nodded. He was out of the game. He wondered about the rest of his team, but if they got to him and Sam then the perimeter guard would also been neutralized. It should have been a simple training drill: enter the building, retrieve the hostage and get out.
Someone nudged Yoseph in the back with something cold and pointy, directing him back to the mouth of the old cobble stone alley. He could feel zip ties closing around his wrists and ankles and was then tossed into the back of a vehicle.
The ride was rough. The van bounced and bumped with no respect for is bound passenger as it zig zagged a path through old Jerusalem. Yoseph passed out.
…
When Yoseph came to he was still bound hand and foot, but the hood was off. He was on a narrow bunk in cell. The bunk stretched from wall too wall, but was shorter then Yoseph’s six-foot height. Weak yellow light came through a tiny dusty window set at eye level in a steel door. Taped to the wall above his head was a note. Yoseph twisted around to see it. It was Hebrew, in a coarse uneven script. It read:
Escape and Find Me,
Yoshi.
