Over the past two decades, everyday airfare had been drastically reduced. The practical result was that the sort of people who used to take buses had now taken to the sky, turning commercial planes into Greyhounds with wings. In recent years, the stories of obnoxious and dangerous behavior on airplanes had been multiplying at an alarming rate.
When Remo looked back, he expected to see someone relieving himself on a service cart. Instead, he saw a harried flight attendant standing in the aisle next to a seated passenger.
"I'm sorry, sir," the flight attendant offered with a weak smile, "but don't you think you've had a little too much to drink?" She blew a stray lock of hair from her face.
Fire raged in the man's bloodshot eyes. His mouth opened and closed in silent shock. And as his brain tried to catch up to the words that would not come, Remo found himself studying the man's face with narrowed eyes.
He looked familiar. Then it hit Remo.
On assignment in Africa three months ago, Remo had run into a group of men in an East African restaurant. He'd succeeded in removing all but one of them. In a moment of sudden realization, he knew that he was looking at the one that got away.
"I'm not drunk," Johnny "Books" Fungillo snarled at the flight attendant.
The woman shook her head. "I didn't say you were," she insisted pleasantly. "But we'll be landing soon, and I thought you might like to freshen up a little first."
"I'll freshen up your lunch cart," Johnny belched furiously. Big drunken hands began fumbling at his belt.
With a shriek, the woman tore off down the aisle. "Eek! Code 9, code 9!" she yelled to the other flight attendants as she ran.
It was the most dreaded distress signal in their entire chosen field, dubbed the midair "Poop Alarm."
The other flight attendants reacted like trained soldiers. Serving carts bounced and rattled as if encountering mad turbulence as they raced them from the danger zone. The entire crew of flight attendants disappeared into the galley.
A worried excitement filled the cabin. In the moment of chattering confusion, Remo slipped up to Johnny Books.
The gangster was still trying to work the buckle on his belt. His clumsy fingers were having a difficult time maneuvering the little silver clip.
"If monkey can't dress himself, monkey shouldn't wear people pants," Remo advised.
The words soaked into the liquor-swamped mind of Johnny Books Fungillo. He looked up with belligerence that quickly faded to confusion. "Hey, I know-"
A gasp. Johnny's confused expression flashed to abject terror. With a lunge, he grabbed underneath his jacket.
Remo could sense by the way he carried himself that there was a weapon there. Somehow, Johnny had smuggled it onto the plane undetected.
"No, no, no. No guns for monkey," Remo warned, quickly pinching Johnny's elbow between two delicate fingers. The big man's darting hand froze in place. "Not until monkey stops throwing feces at the nice lady."
Before Johnny could grab his gun with the other hand, Remo tapped him in the middle of his forehead. All movement stopped as the gangster froze in place.
Johnny Fungillo tried desperately to move. He could not. Sweat beads formed on his forehead as he struggled in vain. Helpless, his wide eyes flitted fearfully to Remo.
Remo wasn't even paying attention to Johnny.
Snaking a hand up under the man's jacket, he found both holster and gun. They came free with a gentle tug that trailed nylon tendrils.
The holster's soft material was strangely frictionless. Using his body to shield himself from other passengers, Remo snapped the gun into two fat halves, which he deposited in the in-flight magazine sleeve. The cloth bulged at the weight.
"How'd you get this on the plane?" Remo asked, genuinely interested.
But when he looked at Johnny, the gangster's unblinking eyes stared helplessly from his frozen face. "Oh, yeah."
His curiosity wasn't enough to bring Johnny out of it. He tugged the thug's eyelids down. They shut like dark window shades over Johnny's petrified eyes.
Remo stuffed the holster into the sagging seat pocket. He was back in his seat by the time the galley curtain slid open.
A group of flight attendants appeared with buckets and sponges. Each wore a pair of big yellow rubber gloves. Clippy clothespins held their nostrils tightly shut. They seemed surprised to find the unruly passenger still in his seat. Better yet, he appeared to be sound asleep.
Relieved that the passenger had not relieved himself, they decided to let sleeping dogs lie. On silent toes, the entire crew tiptoed back up the aisle.
They hid out in the galley, refusing all passenger entreaties for peanuts or seat-belt instructions for the rest of the blessedly silent flight to Boston.
TWO HOURS LATER, as baffled Boston paramedics were driving the comatose Johnny Fungillo across the windswept Logan tarmac, Remo's cab was dropping him off in front of the Massachusetts condo he shared with the Master of Sinanju.
The building he called home was an old remodeled church. A decade ago, when a contract negotiation demanded a house, Remo's employer had bought the entire complex, turning it over to the exclusive use of Remo and his teacher.
The building was big, homely and located in a city that was regularly featured on the local Boston news for the daily murders that took place there. It was a far cry from the tidy little home with a picket fence and a loving wife Remo had dreamed of once upon a time.
With a wistful sigh, Remo trudged up the stairs. He was pushing open the front door when he heard the sound.
It was a cry of indescribable pain. And the voice that produced it was unmistakable.
Remo felt his heart catch. "Chiun," he breathed. The shrill cry had come from far upstairs. From the foyer, Remo took the entire main staircase in two massive strides. He was already running when he hit the second-floor landing.
More screams. They were killing him. Torturing him.
Fearing not the force that could harm the Master of Sinanju, Remo flew on, his only thought to aid his teacher.
The next flight of stairs led to a closed door. Remo picked up steam as he rounded to the staircase. He took all the steps in one leap, twisting in air and slamming against the door with the heels of both feet.
The door assembly splintered into a million wooden shards. Daggers of pine ripped across the bell-tower meditation room, impaling themselves in walls and crashing through windows.
Remo soared into the room in the wake of the door remnants. Eyes alert, every muscle tensed, hands raised to ward off whatever danger might be lurking there.
But rather than an unknown enemy, Remo found himself peering into a pair of shocked, familiar eyes. The hazel orbs were set into a delicate face of bone that had been lovingly wrapped in a thin veneer of parchment skin. As Remo swept into the room, a mummified mouth formed a startled O.
Chiun, Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju, raised his wattled neck from out of the collar of his kimono like an angry snapping turtle. Seated in a lotus position on the floor of his meditation room, Chiun appeared completely unharmed. His spine was erect in his red silk kimono, his bony hands folded delicately to his knees. In the room, there was no sign of either torturer or torturer's tools.
"Remo, what is the meaning of this?" the ancient Korean demanded, incomprehension pinching his singsong voice.
Breathless, Remo relaxed his muscles. "What the hell is going on in here?" he snapped, exhaling tension.
"I asked you first," Chiun accused. "Why have you crashed in here like a demented bovine?"
"I heard screaming," Remo insisted.
"Do not be ridiculous," Chiun huffed, waving a dismissive hand. "I warn you, Remo, if you are going mad again, I refuse to allow it. I have put up with quite enough of that already."
Face stern, the Master of Sinanju rose with silent fluidity from the floor. He clucked as he inspected the fan-shaped debris field.
"Let's get this straight," Remo stressed, coming up beside the old man. "I am not crazy,
I have never been crazy and I definitely heard you screaming."
"I will have Emperor Smith prepare a padded room at Fortress Folcroft for you," Chiun droned. "If you are having another nervous breakdown, you may discuss your childhood bed-wetting with one of his quacks rather than vent your anger on my doors."
Harold Smith was their employer. Folcroft Sanitarium was the private mental health institution he ran, which also doubled as home to the secret organization CURE.
"Hah-hah. They're my doors, too," Remo said. Chiun gave him a withering look. A hand lined with ropy veins appeared from the folds of his kimono. With a tapered fingernail, he picked at a large wooden chunk that still clung to the archway. The hinge it was connected to was torn and twisted. When the Master of Sinanju looked back at his pupil, his accusing eyes were hooded.
"I thought you were being tortured," Remo explained, scowling at the old man's silent admonishment. It sounded ridiculous to even say such a thing. Chiun obviously agreed.
"Oh, Remo," he said sadly, the harsh light flickering from his eyes. It was replaced with knowing sympathy.
Remo raised a warning finger. "Don't start," he threatened. "I'm as sane as you are. I'm saner than you are. I'm the freaking poster child for mental stability."
Chiun's face was a placid pool. "All those present who did not attempt to blow up a foreign nation's capital with nuclear booms, please raise your hand." The Master of Sinanju's hand alone appeared, fluttering high in the air.
"Oh, can the crap," Remo snarled. "There were extenuating circumstances there. Besides, they weren't even my bombs."
With a smile of flickering satisfaction, the old man lowered his arm. "I only consider myself fortunate that, in your madness, you were not more concerned. Had you been, you might have brought a wrecking ball to bear against the walls of Castle Sinanju. Clean up this mess."
With that, the old man turned on a sandated heel.
He marched back to the center of the room, settling back to the rug. For the first time, Remo noticed the small stack of sleek black equipment piled there. "What's all that stuff?"
"None of your business," Chiun sniffed.
"It looks like stereo equipment."
Chiun rolled his eyes. "I will tell you, O Nosy One, after you remove this mess."
Remo could see there would be no arguing. With a sigh, he began collecting the largest chunks of door. He propped them against the wall. As he worked, Chiun fussed with the equipment on the floor. A long extension cord ran over to a wall outlet. Remo saw a number of plastic boxes stacked in neat piles at the Master of Sinanju's scissored knees.
"You can't blame me for being worried," Remo commented as he hefted the last of the big door slabs. "It sounded like you were raping roosters in here."
"All was joy until you charged in here like a boob in a China shop," Chiun replied, uninterested.
"That's bull," Remo corrected dryly.
"No, it is truth," Chiun maintained. He fixed his pupil with an acid eye. "Less talk, more work."
It took Remo ten minutes to tug all the wooden darts from the wall. With a dustpan and brush, he picked up the shattered glass and smaller wood fragments.
"Finished," he said as he dumped the last dustpan of splinters into a paper shopping bag. "I'll have to pick up a new door at the hardware store tomorrow. Guess I'll have to hire someone for these windows." A thin, cold wind snaked through the shattered panes. Neither man felt the cold. "So what's with the stereo stuff?"
For the past few minutes, the Master of Sinanju's mood had been lightening. With Remo's work finished for the moment, he stood, proudly extending a shiny plastic CD case to his pupil. His wrinkled face beamed.
"Behold!" Chiun announced grandly.
Remo inspected the album. His face fell at once. On the compact disc, an overweight woman in a cowboy hat sat on a split-rail fence. It was a testament to the skill of the fence's engineers that it didn't splinter beneath her wide derriere. She looked like a hippo on a park bench. At the top of the CD was the name Wylander Jugg.
"Oh, God, no," Remo moaned, his stomach caving in. It was all clear to him now. "That caterwauling I heard was you singing, wasn't it?" he accused weakly.
"I do not know what your demented ears think they heard, but it is possible that I did burst into song. Her voice is infectious."
"So's syphilis. And at least that's fun while you're getting it. Where'd you ever hear of Wylander?"
A brief thundercloud passed over the old Asian's face. "You left on the radio in your car when you went into the video store last week."
Remo remembered. For reasons he hoped would never be brought up again, Chiun avoided video stores like the plague.
The old man's dark moment passed.
"I chanced to hear her lilting voice as I switched channels. With but one strain, I knew I had found true love." Chiun drew the case to his narrow chest.
"Chiun," Remo said, forcing a reasonable tone, "everybody hates country music. The only thing entertaining about it is George Strait's driving record and the guy who does the Kenny Rogers impersonation on 'Mad TV.'"
Chiun raised a thin eyebrow. "As usual, I have no idea what you are talking about. I will have to remember to thank the gods for this continued blessing before I retire this evening." He turned the CD in his hand, examining Wylander Jugg carefully. "She is lovely." He sighed.
"If 'lovely' is redneck slang for 'fat as a house,' sure."
"She is not fat," Chiun dismissed. "She is simply well proportioned."
"If I was one-tenth that well proportioned, you'd have me doing squat thrusts till my colon dropped out."
"You are jealous of her comeliness." As he glanced rapturously at the photo once more, a contented smile kissed Chiun's dry lips. "Her beauty is on the inside," he insisted.
"So's Jonah, Pinocchio and about a million soggy Big Macs," Remo countered.
With a thin scowl, Chiun shook his head. "Really, Remo, your lack of depth amazes me. At last your nation has produced an art to rival the daytime dramas of old, and you, soulless as you are, deride it."
"Chiun, let's face facts here. Your tastes and mine have never been quite the same."
"Another small favor for which I will thank the gods."
Chiun sank to the floor amid his CD collection. "Snipe all you want," Remo said. "I like what I like. And I don't like country music."
"That is because you refuse to evolve," Chiun replied. "You are content to leave things exactly as they are, little realizing that despite your protestations, things change."
At that, Remo fell silent. He had managed for a time to banish the weighty thoughts that had plagued him of late.
Chiun noticed the heavy silence. As he pretended to fuss with his plastic cases, he turned a half-interested eye on his pupil.
"Have you given any thought to the words of my son, Song?" he questioned absently.
Remo's head snapped up. "What? Oh. No, not really." His troubled look made clear what was truly on his mind.
Chiun nodded. "It is a difficult time, this long goodbye between Master and student," he said, his voice soft.
The words brought another, greater pause.
The truth was, Chiun was as eager as Remo to forget that aspect of their shared future. The Master of Sinanju's eventual retirement and Remo's inevitable ascension to Reigning Masterhood. But the old Korean had seen many winters, and so understood better than his pupil what an impossible task it was to hold back the future. It would come whether they wanted it to or not.
"Can we just leave that one alone for a while, Little Father?" Remo asked quietly.
The old man nodded. The wisps of hair that clung to scalp above each of his shell-like eats were cobwebs stirred by cold eddies of air.
"There is always your future pupil," Chiun offered, his tone lightening. "That was the purpose of Song's visit. What thought have you given to that?"
"I haven't run an ad in the Help Wanteds yet," Remo said. A moment's hesitation. "But, yeah, I'm givin
g it some thought." He felt guilty even admitting it.
Chiun nodded in satisfaction. "Good. We will have to visit Sinanju in the autumn. Most of the winter babies will have been born by then."
Remo frowned. "Can't they just send us their fall-baby catalog?" he said sarcastically. "I told you, Chiun, no wacky breeding rituals and no pulling some Sinanju infant from his crib while mamasan's in the kitchen getting the rice-flavored Similac. We do this, we do it my way. In my own time."
He expected an argument. He expected yelling. He expected every trusted standby for ingrate all the way back to the now never used pale piece of a pig's ear. Instead, he was greeted with calm acceptance. Chiun's face showed no hint of emotion. "As you wish," the old man said. He returned to his CDs. Popping one open, he removed a silver disc.
"That's it?" Remo asked. "As you wish? Aren't you gonna kvetch?"
At this, Chiun shook his head. "I do not kvetch, I instruct. And it is not my place to instruct in this matter. You have admitted that you are thinking of your protege. You have accepted fate. The rest will happen as it is meant to." Head bowed, he turned to his stereo.
Remo recognized the truth in his teacher's words. He locked them away in a quiet part of his heart. For another time. Crouching, Remo braced hands on knees.
He scanned the CD titles. In addition to the Wylander CDs, there were a dozen more.
"You have any Nitty Gritty Dirt Band?" Remo asked hopefully. He remembered the group from the 1970s.
"No," Chiun replied as he fed a CD into the player at his elbow. "But in addition to the enchanting Wylander, I have something called a Garth Brooks. I am about to play his music now."
When the old man looked up, he found that he was alone. His hazel eyes caught but a glimpse of his pupil's fleeing back as the younger man flew from the meditation room.
A proud smile crossed the Master of Sinanju's face. Even departing in haste, his pupil had not upset any of the natural air currents in the room. His loafers made not a sound on their way to the ground floor. Chiun only knew he had fled the building when the front door slammed shut four seconds later.
There was no doubt about it. Remo was a worthy pupil. Who would one day soon make a worthy teacher.
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