Grant slowly awoke to the sound on his roof.
“Strange,” he thought. “If I didn’t know better, that rain sounds like little tiny swords cutting through the roof.”
Sometimes, you already know better, but you don’t know enough to know that you don’t need to know any better to know what you already know better than you think you know.
For the rain was indeed many tiny samurai on his roof, led by Miyamoto Musashi, most famous of the Samurai. They had been spirited out of their own time and dimension by Kenzo Kanoto, the Dark Oracle, who sought to remove them from public service so he might gain favour from the Emporer.
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Within moments, they had found a tiny hole in Grant’s roof, and one by one had trickled out into his living room, and slowly by surely climbed their way up Grant’s sheets and circled his body.
Why, you may ask? Perhaps Grant shouldn’t have been so quick to scoff at the fortune cookie delivered earlier with his meal. “You will be ridden backwards in time, but forwards into battle, by many miniscule samurai to avenge a great wrong.”
