I guess you’d say I was a lonely kid. But I always knew I had five friends I could count on.

The Clan of the Left Hand, I called them. There was Index, with his deadly sword, the Pointer of Doom. Next to him stood Middle, the acrobat, who could flip like a bird with his bo staff. Then came Fourth, spinning his nunchaku into the Ring of Death. Don’t be fooled by Pinky’s small stature: he’s just as deadly as the others when he’s wielding the Sai of Relief. And guiding them all was Thumb-San, wizened master of martial arts and elaborate facial hair alike.

They were a deadly team, as the Clan of the Right Hand found out one fateful day. I know it wasn’t exactly a good idea to cut off my own hand, but the Clan of the Left Hand bows to no man, not even me.

Mommy, Daddy, why didn’t you spend more time with me?

Wear this shirt: if you can’t tell the difference between karate and kung fu. What are you, racist?

Don’t wear this shirt: while waxing your aged sensei’s car. He’s not really a martial arts master, just some cheapskate looking for free labor.

This shirt tells the world: “Your tiger style is no match for my cuticle style.”

We call this color: Red Belt.

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