"Checking in, Mr. Hayabusa?" the perky reception girl smiles at you. You stand perfectly silent, allowing the wind rustling your hair to be the answer to her question. When this fails to adequately communicate how you feel, you lean forward and impart the message your hair could not.
"Yes." You say, in as stealthy ninja a manner as you can muster. Grabbing a keycard from the receptionist, you bound up the hotel stairs to your floor. Opening the door to your room, you are greeted by a small chamber equipped with a bed, television, and telephone. It disgusts you. The key to the success of a ninja is discipline, and the way the room is laid out is just so sloppy it makes you feel like spiders are crawling all over your skin.
Rolling into the room, you pounce into action. Sliding open the balcony door, you fling the bedspread into the muggy Washington, D.C. night. Noting the mattress is stained slightly yellow, you move the bed to the west side of the room to improve the fung shui. After remaking the bed several times, you feel that enough discipline has been enacted upon the room for one evening. Laying down on the mattress, you cross your arms over your chest and close your eyes.
A loud series of thumps from the room above you snaps you from your slumber. The moon still hangs high in the sky, and you can now hear muffled screams coming from above.