Shinobi’s path demands the eagle’s eye, the mongoose’s stealth, the leopard’s speed, and the self-control of a Shaolin monk. Even so, however, the shadow warrior did not feel tranquil as he watched his wife socialize at the annual Halloween bash.

His spouse had adopted the guise of the Catwoman for the evening. It was the brick shithouse version played by Halle Berry, not Julie Newmar’s more sedate TV attire and she still had the body to totally rock her get-up.

The ninja had accompanied his wife when she selected that night’s attire. He’d pushed for an outfit along the lines of Red Riding Hood or possibly something involving chain mail. But she had insisted on a costume that was more fitting to the spirit of the event. Shinobi wasn’t sure what “spirit” meant. But tonight’s skin-tight ensemble left little to the imagination.

His spouse’s choice of costume was a distinct departure from her earlier body image issues. the ninja’s wife had been self-conscious about her big tits back then, and she would dress accordingly. Now, she talked, danced, and utilized those spectacular assets to draw an impressive array of male admirers.

The shadow warrior’s wife was currently laughing and talking with four people. There were a couple of pirates, Mighty Thor and whatever Han Solo would look like if he was 40ish with a flabby dad bod. The pirates were Jim and his wife Sue. They were the people who had arranged the party. Thor was anything but MIGHTY. He was their next-door neighbor Sam. And Faux Han was a local cockhound named Bill.

The shadow warrior didn’t think his wife fully understood the effect that her body, encased in that get-up, had on men ... or then again - maybe she did. Nonetheless, watching Faux Han devour her with his eyes made the ninja wish that the nunchaku on his belt were real.

I wasn’t even supposed to be at that party. I do a lot of public speaking. It’s the price you pay to sell books. And I was supposed to be at an event in Vegas. I couldn’t get out of the commitment because I was one of the contracted speakers.

Millie offered to go with me, since we are seldom apart. But this costume party was a once-a-year event. Plus, the club itself was a mere 300 yards up the street from our house. So, we both agreed that Millie should go to the party without me.

And no ... I’m not a bestselling author. I write for the professional practitioner market. Explaining boring technical shit to a bunch of nerds is like taking a refreshing crawl across the Jornada del Muerto. Nonetheless ... you either publish or perish in academia. So, crawl I must.

I mean ... you gotta hustle If you want to get your ideas out there. Hence, I have a symbiotic relationship with my publishers. They truck me into a conference in East Buttfuck Nebraska and I do my thing. It’s like leveraging your prostitution career by being a stripper. You show the audience enough to get their interest. But they gotta buy the whole package if they want to unwrap the goods.

I was painfully shy when I was a kid. The idea of talking to a room full of strangers filled me with horror. But I grew up to be an academic. And you get over it after years of standing in front of students. Of course, lecturing to kids is a special situation. They HAVE to listen. I hold the whip. It’s called a “grade.”

The group in Vegas was another matter entirely. Each and every one of them was a gimlet-eyed C-Level. You have to be on your game with those guys. Otherwise, they will communicate their displeasure in creative and ego-shattering ways. I know my stuff. You don’t publish eleven top selling books in the field, without knowing your stuff. But when you are up there on stage you are entertaining, not informing.

I learned that the first time I spoke to that kind of group. I did an hour of serious and informative discussion. The reviews were less than kind. The best they said was that I was boring. That hurt. So, like the burlesque queen in Gypsy, “I got myself a gimmick.”

Rational discourse can’t compete with a man in a mirrored suit standing up there warning everyone that they’re going to hell. So, the next time I faced a crowd, I unleashed a steaming heap of demagoguery that made Chicken Little sound like a starry-eyed optimist—and the audience loved it!

So, from that day on, I do a fire and brimstone shtick. It was full of allusions to digital Pearl Harbors and post-apocalyptic societies. I honestly felt like I was way over-the-top simplistic. Even if most of what I was telling them would probably happen. Of course, they ate it up. Apparently, you CAN fool some of the people ALL of the time.

I got into Vegas at midafternoon that Friday. I was met at McCarran by the conference rep. And he had a favor to ask. The guy who was supposed to keynote the entire shebang was held up in LA and couldn’t make it until the next day. So, would I be willing to switch to Friday night?

He knew that asking me to step out in front of 500 people with no preparation whatsoever was a huge ask. But he swore that they would make it up to me with a penthouse at the Bellagio for the two nights of the conference. And they were all confident that I could pull it off.

I was delighted; since it meant that I could exchange my ticket for a return the following morning and still join Millie at the party. And spending one night living like a plutocrat was just icing on the cake. I told him to forget about the second night, and I would see him at 7:00.

There was still plenty of time left before the show. So, I stopped at Star Costumes and picked up a snazzy ninja outfit ... black keikogi, ninja hood, and mempo. I have always seen myself as the stealthy assassin type, rather than the big man on campus Samurai dude.

I was going to call Millie as soon as I got checked in and tell her that I would make it back for the party. But I got caught up prepping for the presentation and time got away from me.

The presentation itself went off exactly the way I wanted it to. I am a closet stand-up comic. So, I don’t think I’ve done a good job unless the audience is rolling in the aisles. I pegged the laugh-o-meter several times that night and I was feeling very full of myself when I finished up.

There are two kinds of players in the public speaking game. One is an attention junkie. They are on stage when they do their talk. And they are even more “ON STAGE” afterwards. They hang around the event and grip and grin with all their adoring fans. They can’t get enough public adulation.

The other kind are like me. I am not the guy up there on stage. I’ve NEVER been. It’s an act. The guy up there radiates jaunty confidence and communal fellow-feeling. He connects with people from the front row to 50 rows back. Everybody knows he’s their pal. He’s a good old boy. The fellow you want to have a beer with.

The private me is no fan of the human race. So, THAT guy reasserts his rights as soon as the applause dies down and lurks around the requisite publisher’s party for as long as it takes to tactfully exit. Hence, I was leaning on a wall doing what I do best, which is watching the numerous long-term affairs and one-night stands get off the ground, when a sultry voice said, “You should have been in comedy.”

I turned to see who this extremely perceptive individual was and locked on the most smoking hot pair of emerald eyes that I’d ever beheld. And the face and figure attached to those eyes would have made Jessica Rabbit seem dowdy. I choked on my drink but managed a “thank you” as I was wiping $95 a shot scotch off of my lapels.

The stranger looked amused. She was one of those women whose figure can best be described as two watermelons attached to a broomstick. And she knew what her assets were, since the expensive turquoise dress that matched the red hair was cut in a way that made me suspect she was using super-glue to preserve her modesty.

I said just to make conversation, “I assume you were at the talk”. She said that she was indeed and then proceeded to point out 10 fallacies in my logic, which rather than pissing me off intrigued me. I am a sucker for smart women.

I said, “Perhaps you would like to argue about this in a place where the noise is a little less distracting.” She gave me a look like it was about time I asked and said, “Lead the way.” I strolled over to the Lilly bar with her sashaying along next to me, chattering about gambling mentalities.

Once we got ourselves situated in a nice little corner booth I said, “You know who I am. So, who are you?” It turned out that she was a 28-year-old grad student at UNLV getting a PhD in English. I didn’t editorialize about the cost-benefit of that choice, since I didn’t want to discourage her.

I also didn’t ask the obvious question, which was, “How did you manage to get into the event?” because it was obvious that she was wearing her credentials. I marveled at the male mind and the women who take advantage of it.

We talked for quite a while, and she proceeded to get shitfaced. I could see where that was heading, which was up to my suite. Then, she said the quiet part out loud, “Why don’t you fuck me now.”