The ninjas in baruto times probs have like. emails. and me and sammi where discussing what everyones email would be. also they all use ninja gmail. ngmail for short

Boruto: MasterBoruto420@ngmail.com

Sarada: SaradaUchiha@ngmail.com

Mitsuki: Snakeson@ninjayahoo.com

Konahamaru: NaurtoFan100@ngmail.com And for buisniss Konahamarusarutobi@ngmail.com

Naruto dosent have one and uses a special hokage email when people make him

Sasuke: WonderingShinobi@ngmail.com

RockLee: Greenbeast@ngmail.com

TenTen: KnifeLesbian@ngmail.com

Mightguy: BlueBeast@ngmail.com

Sai: InkLion@ngmail.com

thats all i have for now. i may post more later

“Do you tend to just walk into unfamiliar police phone boxes? Because you’re certainly not welcomed in here. Go back to – I’m not aware where we are right now, though I don’t particularly care.”


We pulled into Goleta just after midnight, three bikes roaring through the darkness. We should have arrived two hours earlier but unfortunate circumstances entirely outside of our control (namely Henny`s understandably poor response to being almost run of the rode by some drunk in a sedan) had forced a long detour away from the police and emergency services responding to the flaming wreckage. We eventually lost the cops in the Los Padres national forest, swapping out our license plates for our last set of spares at a roadside rest stop.

L.A. had turned out to be a real bad idea. Muscling in on a small local competition was accepted enough, even for small out-of-towners like us…but well, let’s just say it had been a bloodless coup. And the big local packs hadn’t liked that one bit. So here we are.

To our left the Pacific Ocean should have been lapping placidly at the dusty beach, to our right the mountains would have sat solidely on the horizon, illuminated by the blue glow of the moon. I had wanted good omens.

We had got warm incessant rain that coated the dirt road we were on with a thin layer of mud. To our right, where our three headlamps bit a chunk out of the darkness, large shrubs or small trees sat in waist high staccato lines in some kind of orchard, painted wet and black by the clouds. To our left, the same. It was like driving down a waterslide between two rows of giant wet toilet brushes.

Hopefully not an omen of things to come. If it was, at least I wouldn’t be alive much longer to suffer through it, if the look on Henny`s face was anything to go by.

By the time we rejoined an actual road, both me and Zahmbie, the only other surviving members of what had been Henny`s gang, were wet through and wearing the same expression. I guess we still were members of the gang, at least by default. We were still here riding next to her, at least.

A way on from where the tarmac picked itself up out of the dirt and begrudgingly became a road, and a little way past the back entrance to a golf course, we saw a neon sign proclaiming “mom and pops diner – all welcome – all hours” like some prophetic oracle, clashing pink and green light shining of the raindrops in an aura around it. We drove on, eyes wide and searching like pilgrims set on finding some hidden holy site. Hey, maybe I`d live.

A brass bell going green with age jangled with the opening of the door, startling an old woman out from reading her paper from behind the varnished wooden counter, a man of about the same age smiling at her surprise as he polished tall milkshake glasses with a clean rag. The upper edges of the smile took a downturn when he saw the strangers sour faces but I guess that could be chalked up to the rain. It fell further when he saw the black leather jackets and thick leather boots, but quirked up at one corner at the sight of Zahmbies pink mittens and scarf. He soldiered through pretty well for such an outlandish group. Henny, the creature of the night with black nail polish and artful work sported claws a good inch long, not to mention the smile that did not exactly suit her current dishevelment. Zahmbees, well, Zahmbee. “Twelve year old playing dressup” would have been a rather unfortunate end look for most street punks, but she wore it well. My tie die and horn rimmed spectacles wouldn’t have looked out of place on one of the more out there college professors left over from the sixties.

We stood dripping in the narrow isle between the counter and the wide windows.

“Whatlit be?” asked old man,”We`ll be shutting up soon. Hope you aint planning on staying too long.”

“Till the rain stops , or I get tireder of the music than I am of the wet.” said Henny without much gusto, gesturing at the radio piping in the billboard country music top 40.

“Well can we getcha anything?” Asked the old lady, crossing her arms over her yellow apron “Were tryna runa buisniss here!”

Henny ran her hand down her face, “Money?” she asked in a tired voice. Zahmbee made a noise of agreement and waved at me.

“Food.” Said Henny “Like, uhhh….”

I rattled of the list. “Three strawberry milkshakes, four stakes extra extra rare, a pot of coffee and three cups. And a pack of bubblegum if you’ve got any” The good nature seeped back into the room a little at the large order.

“Hamsteak? Asked the old woman. We all shook our heads at which she whistled. “Richer blood than you look I guess.” Zahmbie smiled as I grimaced. “The fourth to share or has one of you not eaten in a few years? You want us to just pull the whole cow up to the table for you?”

“It would be appreciated” Full rump-stake extra fresh. Failing that just stack em up for me. Don’t season them, thanks.” Said Henny.

Without much else we slumped over to the far end of the diner, where a curved corner window gave us the best view of the wet mud. Me and Zahmbee took one side of the booth’s table, while Henny sprawled out, legs trailing into the aisle.

The rain turned from drizzle to fat drops that rattled off the roof as we quietly made plans.

“I thought you had this place picked out for a while” said Hennyas she stared at the white plastic bubble of the lamp above our table “So why does it look like so much nothing.” She ran her hand through her hair, waterfalling the bouffant undercut over the side of the bench.

“Outskirts is outskirts” Zahmbee said.

“And it’s a college town. Everything’s wrapped tight around the centre. I wanted to come in down the coast, Llooks nice. Anyway this isn’t even the right outskirts. This is Goleta. We still have a while to drive” I said, pulling of my damp jacket. I rubbed the empty back. The patch hadent been their long but I still missed it.

Zhambie sagged.

“Tells us about…here.” Henny said, and waved  a hand around above the table as if to indicated everything from the pacific to the mountains.

“Okay, so Santa Barbara county, city of Goleta and town of Isla Vista, , native people were the Chumash, till the Spansih got here in-“ I was interrupted.

“Skip itttttt.” Said Zahmbee, collapsing facedown onto the table “Pllllease.”

“Okay, so I heard about it after a newspaper report on an archeological dig, name sounded interesting so I looked it up, reasonably big, Isla Vista is a smaller town hemmed in by the city of Goleta, university town becoming known for partying. Checked sources, no real pack activity for the last thirty years, but a fair few single vamps and small gangs centred around one or two vamps. Pencilled it in as a possibility.” I said.

Henny started threading paper straws into each other out of boredom. I hurried up.

“Plenty of disused buildings and lots of open space with the lemon farms in Goleta,” I gesture to the rows and rows of small trees outside, “but it’s a pretty big place, some aerospace, plane makers. Most people work off in Santa Barbra so its pretty quiet, other than Isla Vista itself. I figure base out of Goleta, feed in Isla Vista. Don’t shit where you eat.” I said.

Zahmbie made a face. The food arrived. Bad timing. The three of us are too hungry to do anything other than eat with food right infront of us, even if it’s not what we’d prefer to make a meal of. Henny pulls out a large flask from her satchel, liberally saucing the three milkshakes. Their colour deepens, from pink to red.

We ate.  

“So.” Said Zahmbee “That it? We just flee, downsize and try to re start the same thing three hours up the coast? Aint they gonna follow us up here? They don’t seem the type to forgive and forget.”

“That was better than last Fangsgiving “said Henny patting her stomach.

“Oh come on Henny” said Zahmbee, “that was bad even for you.”

Henny took a long pull from the milkshake through her home made crazy straw. Some of the stress disappeared from around her eyes, and she visibly relaxed.

“You might even say…it sucked?” Said Henny”….” She waited expectantly, mouth wide, pulling up her hands into finger-guns “Ey? Ay? Come on that ones a classic.”

We both let out a snort, Zahmbee collapsing back onto the table, head in her hands.

“See things aren so bad. It will be different here. No big packs breathing down our neck. No smaller ones scrabbling at our heels. Till about five years ago this place was pretty clean right?”

I nod.

“Right. So no ones really moved in yet. No real crack or E to speak of so no one major to push out. Plenty of weed but its mainly small grow-ops or dealers buying from Santa Barbara to peddle it here. Like I said. All small stuff. So we can grow something and play it safe. The odd disappearance will bled right in with the background noise of drunk students drowning themselves by accident at beach parties.” Said Henny. “Students go missing all the time, and there’s always plenty of good music going on round universities, right into the night. A good place for us. Not so bad right?” Henny looked at Zahmbee, questioning.

“Fine. Not so bad I guess. You did good, Ingle.” Said Zahmbee, patting my arm.

“Right. Good.” Said Henny as a car pulled up outside “So here is what we do. First task, find somewhere safe before it gets too bright out. Ingle, you picked this place out. Got any plans?”

“Abandond barn, between Isla and Goleta. Its just at the edge of the student neighbourhood. Damaged in a quake, but the basements meant to be good enough as a hide for those passing though. Its in the book anyway. Failing that, its next to a school,  fair sized , and it’s a long weekend. No one will be home.” I said.

“Suckers guides been wrong before. But it sounds good if its up to scratch. Right, second. We haven’t eaten properly in too long, what with it going south in L.A. We hole up tonight, tomorrow we eat. Then we go put down any possible local resistance. Call em out.” Henny sucked up the last of her “strawberry” shake and sat back. “We’ll live. Its just down to fate now.”

There was a jangle at the door

Three guys piled in, all wearing cheap Halloween masks and carrying something heavy. One pulled a gun from the back of his pants in the hand that wasn’t holding an aluminium baseball bat. Small and black it looked like a MP-25, a real Saturday night special, but it was hard to make out with him waving it excitedly at the mom and pop behind the counter. Hopefully it was, as it would mean that none of them probably had any idea what they were doing. Professional criminals did not rob a roadside diner with a pistol known for going off whenever the safety was turned off.

“Stick em up! Give me the money from the till!” Said the one with the gun. Probably the leader. The other two just stood around trying to look menacing, raising a fire axe and tire iron.

Henny shook her head, smile growing wider, as we continued to talk over possible day time bolt holew.

The old man started shouting “You’re the punks that turned over Hendersons gas station last week! Well we got nothing ya hear! You get outta here! Go get real jobs! Thirty long years ive-“

The gun went off, bullet nicking the old man across the shoulder, shattering the mirror behind him. He went pale, grimacing in pain and anger. Shards tinkled down, bouncing of the back counter, covering the old womans magazine. The shooter, if anything, went even paler beneath his mask, and took his finger of the trigger. But he didn’t stop waving the damn thing around.

“Yeah… yeah old man! You better do what I say man!”

“Dude, your so fucking gnarly! Yeah you better do what he says! Give! Us ! The! Money!” Said the criminal genius with the axe, slamming it flat first on the counter, cracking the wood.

“You aint getting nothing!” said the old woman, fists clenched.

Henny eased herself into a standing position.

“That was good stake, pops. How much’d it all come to?” She said, wandering over to lean on the now cracked counter.

“Don’t you fuckin ignore me!” Said the gun man, waving the pistol towards Henny “How bout you fukin, fukin bimbos! I am a bad fuckin dude!”

“Yeah don’t cross him! He’s killed before! You better do what he says!” Said the unimaginative one with the axe.

The leader walked up to Henny till their noses were almost touching “Now how bout you an me and your friend over there with the long hair go get horizontal huh? Ill show you a real good time, yeah?” Henny wrinkled her nose at the alcohol on his breath. “Bet you’d love to get freaky with some real cool bad dudes like us. “ He stepped back and waved at Zahmbee with the gun “Don’t worry though we aint no freaks. The twelve year old can stay here. Do what we say and maybe we don’t kill the old man.”

Henny smiled.

“Errr…Whats wrong with your teeth?” he said.

Henny cold clocked him through the window. He went flying in a shower of glass, landing heavily on his back on the tarmac the tarmac.

His two erstwhile gang mates stood in shock as Henny pulled one of their leaders teeth out of her knuckles.

“Jethuth fuck…” he said, trying to raise himself up on his elbows in the pelting rain.

“I’m eighteen, dickhead!” yelled Zahmbee out of the window as she walked past the men with the axe and tire iron, now frozen in shock. She took a running start and dropkicked the man climbing to his feet. He went flying back again, crashing into the hood of their car, shattering headlights.

“JESUS! MIKE!” Yelled the tire-iron carrier, raising the weapon. I lobbed a milkshake glass at his head and he went down in a heap.

The last swung the axe at Henny, who caught it under the head and twisted it out of his grip. He tried to grab it back but she rammed the pommel into his stomach, doubling him over. She walked past him, opened the door and then, holding it open with her foot grabbed the former axeman by the back of his jacket and hurled him at their motionless leader.

“Wallet!” she called to Zhambee, who pulled the leaders wallet from his pants and through it to her. She shut the door, leaving Zhambee to watch the collapsed men outside. Looking through it, she pulled out about three hundred dollars, holding it out to the old woman, whose mouth was hanging open in shock. “Here. For the meal. Keep the change. It’s a pity about those obvious junkies who smashed the window and counter, trashed their own car and then shot at you and ran off, isn’t it?”

“I…uh, I don’t” Croaked the old lady.

“Isn’t it?” Henny repeated, giving the poor dear a fang filled smile on full beam.

“Uh…yes. Terrible.” She whispered.

“Right. Come on Ingle, lets blow this popsicle stand!” Henny walked out the door. I followed, through the hole in the window, the last robber unconscious over my shoulder, tire iron in my hand.

We threw one over the back of each of our bikes, tying them securely in place. The leader, unfortunately was already dead. Bummer.


“So what are we gonna call ourselves this time?” asked Zahmbee, about an hour later and a good couple of miles into the lemon fields. It was silent but for the quite moans of the thieves, rain having stopped a good while ago.

“Oh god, not another Henny name. I don’t think I could stand being the jingjanglers or the slamfires again. That was awful.” I replied, wiping my mouth. We sat on our bikes, watching Henny play.

“Okay god. Don’t remind me. …slamfires was good though, come on.” Said Zhambee.

Our bikes were arranged in rough triangle, headlamps on. In the center of the glare the former axe man was hogtied, the pale corpse of the gunman draped on top of him. There was a tearing noise and a high pitched whine from the bloody lump at Henny’s feet. Henny stood up, looking satisfied, a dripping lump in her hands.

“Come one! It was a pun!” said Henny, taking a bite out of the end of the arm in her hand. She held the fingers out towards the axeman. “Want a bite? No? Fingers are good!”

He vomited in terror. It pooled around his face. Henny turned him over with one foot so he wouldn’t drown in it, slapping him with the hand of the dismembered arm as the corpse fell off him to one side. Blood and gore covered the lower half of her face. “Spoilsport.” She said.

“How about the I.V’s. then. Like, its meant to be Isla Vista but our symbol is an IV with a skull and crossbones in it or something.” Said Zhambee, flicking ash off her cigarette.

“Sounds good to me” I said.

“I reckon we can make that work. Can I get one of those?” Asked Henny, gesturing at her mouth.

“Sure.”Zhambee walked into the light, passing over the packet and a lighter. Henny lit one up, blowing a trail of smoke straight up. It hang above her head as she stared up threw it at the gleaming stars of the now cloudless sky.

“Yeah, that’s pretty good.” She said. “Nice one Zhambee.” She passed back the lighter, keeping the cigarettes, giving a wink and a thumbs up. Zhambee rolled her eyes.

“Now,” said Henny, rolling the cigarette from one side of her mouth to the other “,give me your teeth, I wanna try something.” She reached down to the hyperventilating man at her feet. He screamed.

An hour later several trees were very well fertilized, and item two had been ticked of off our to do list.