Last Rites td-100

by Warren Murphy

"That is now. In the past it was different. My kind defeated yours, and you turned your might against others because what else was there for you monsters to do?"

  "Hey, I don't appreciate being called a monster. Have you know I'm a god in these parts. I devoted my entire life to sumo. I don't need your crap."

  "You obviously possess sufficient crap of your own," the old man said, voice dripping with disdain.

  "More than sufficient," said Sosumi, giving the silver handle another bat. "Takes two, sometimes three flushes to do the job. Wonder if they got a Guinness world-record category for turd size?"

  "If they did," said the little man, "you would be both immortal and undefeated."

  Sosumi smacked his meaty paws together. "Okay, bring on your boy."

  "Tonight at midnight."

  "Hope he's insured."

  REMO TOSSED AND TURNED on his tatami mat in his suite at the Tokyo Bay Grande Sheraton Hotel.

  In his dream he sat facing a Korean of indeterminate age who wore the formal silk kimono and topknot of the unified Shilla Dynasty. He was very lean, as if he ate only straw.

  The Korean had kindly eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was like water rippling along the stones of a clear brook.

  "'The bee sucks,'" he said.

  "So?" said Remo.

  "No. Now it is your turn. I have said the bee sucks. What do you say?"

  Remo shrugged. "The bee sucks eggs."

  The Korean's kindly eyes grew troubled. "Bees do not suck eggs."

  "This isn't word association?"

  "No. I have provided the first line of a poem. You must provide the second line."

  "Oh. Okay. How's this? 'The turtle ducks.'"

  "Why do you introduce turtles into a poem about-"

  "Because 'ducks' rhymes with 'sucks,'" Remo said, "Rhyming is for Greeks and children. We do not rhyme. You must try again."

  "Try this. 'The flower waits.'"

  "What kind of flower awaits?"

  "Is that the third line?" Remo asked.

  "No!"

  "Don't get upset. It was just a question."

  "You must specify which flower. 'Flower' means nothing. Would you ask for fruit when you desire pear?"

  "'The tulip awaits,' then," Remo said hastily.

  "Tulips are not Korean."

  Remo sighed. "Why don't you take my turn?"

  "Very well. 'The chrysanthemum trembles like a shy maiden.'"

  "Nice image. I add, 'The bee stings.'"

  "What does this bee sting?"

  Remo shrugged carelessly. "Whatever he wants. It's my turn so it's my bee. Your turn now."

  "No, you must specify. Why can you not specify? Ung poetry is very specific. Image is all. Meaning is what is gleaned from the image."

  "Okay, 'The bee stings you.'"

  "Why me?"

  "Because you're annoying me with this dippy Ung stuff."

  "What means 'dippy?'"

  "Silly. Stupid. Take your pick."

  And the Korean drew himself to his feet. His face became a thunderhead. "But I am Master Ung. To insult the purity of my poems is to challenge me. Prepare yourself, ghost-face."

  Remo backed off fast. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. Tell you what. I'll take the next three lines. How's that?"

  "No, you will stand quietly while I recite the next three thousand lines."

  Remo's face fell. "Three thousand lines?"

  "Because I am angry," Ung said in an injured tone, "I can recite only a short Ung poem."

  And in his dream, Remo groaned while Master Ung said, "Chrysanthemum petals fall from a celadon sky" three thousand times, varying in the intonation each time but leaning toward angry nine falls out of ten.

  A STEELY VOICE BROKE the endless rain of petals. "It is time to face the wrestler."

  Remo shot up out of bed, bathed in sweat.

  The Master of Sinanju stood like a stern idol by his tatami sleeping mat. His face was in shadow and unreadable.

  "Christ, Chiun-what time is it?" Remo asked. "Midnight approaches."

  "Midnight! Feels like I just closed my eyes."

  "You may sleep again after you have faced the most fearsome foe you have ever faced."

  "I don't want to face any foe, fearsome or otherwise."

  Chiun clapped his hands peremptorily. "You have your duty to the House."

  Remo pulled the sheets over his head. "Make me." Something that felt like a red-hot needle touched Remo's elbow. It connected with his humerus. He snapped up again.

  "Ow! What did you do?" Remo demanded, rubbing his elbow.

  "I merely grazed what you whites call your funny bone."

  "It doesn't feel very funny to me," said Remo, willing the pain up his arm and into his central nervous system, where it diffused and left his body tingling mildly.

  Chiun turned abruptly. "Come. Your foe awaits." On the way through the darkness of the seacoast south of Tokyo, Remo tried to keep the fishy smells wafting into the cab from clogging his lungs.

  "I had another freaking dream," he volunteered. "They are the only kind you have been having of late," Chiun said with no touch of interest in his voice. "Don't you want to hear about it?"

  "No."

  "I dreamed of Ung."

  "Goody for you."

  "We had a poetry face-off."

  "I assume Ung won."

  "He buried me in chrysanthemum petals."

  Chiun flicked a speck off his silken lap. "There was no Master greater than Ung. Unless it was Wang. Or possibly myself."

  "Says you," said Remo, rubbing his still-tingling elbow.

  By the beach there were squid drying in lines strung between bamboo poles, their triangular heads flat as tapeworms. The breeze coming in from the Pacific made their tangled tentacles wriggle fitfully. They reminded Remo of the Greek octopuses drying in the sun, but for some reason their flat, dead eyes made him shiver deep inside.

  "Why do squid suddenly make me feel creepy?"

  "Because squid are creepy."

  "I hate octopi, but I've eaten squid in the past and they never bothered me before."

  "The octopus is harmless. But the squid is a fearsome creature, for they grow to great size."

  "Everywhere we go lately, I see tentacles."

  "Did I ever tell you how the sumo came to be?" Chiun asked suddenly.

  "Not that I can remember."

  "Good."

  "That's it? Good?"

  "Yes."

  "Why is it good that you never got around to telling me how the sumo came to be?"

  "Because it is."

  Remo eyed Chiun. "Well, aren't you going to tell me now?"

  Chiun's almond eyes grew heavy and hooded. "Beg me."

  "I am not going to beg you to tell me about the sumo," Remo scoffed.

  "Good."

  "Not if we both end up on a deserted isle, just the two of us, a sick monkey and a coconut palm for entertainment, will I ask you how the sumo came to be."

  "I accede to your wishes."

  Remo returned to staring out the cab window. "Fine. Good."

  Silence filled the car. Patterns of light and shadow cast by passing street lamps whipped through the cab's interior, making their stiff faces come and go by turns.

  "So why'd you bring it up?" Remo asked after a long time.

  Chiun began to hum. It was a contented hum. But as Remo listened, it grew more and more to sound like an I-know-something-you-don't-know hum. But he couldn't be sure, so he kept quiet during the rest of the cab ride.

  "Is it important that I know how the sumo came to be?"

  "I do not know," Chiun said vaguely.

  "Am I going to meet any sumo?"

  "You might. You might not."

  Remo folded his lean arms defiantly. "Well, I pity the sumo I meet in the bad mood I'm in right now. He gives me any lip, and I'll roll him around the block for exercise."

  "Sumos do not give lip," said Chiun.

  "Good for them," said Remo.

&n
bsp; "They are very polite. They give hip."

  "Hip?"

  Chiun nodded. "Hip."

  "Hip, hip, hurray for the sumo," Remo said sourly.

  THE CAB LET THEM OFF before a great Japanese-style house on a low hillock, and the Master of Sinanju led Remo through a gate into a walled courtyard where stunted bonsai trees crouched in perpetual agony. In the center of the courtyard lay a circular clay spot. A shinto-style roof protected the clay from the elements.

  Warm amber light came from the closed screen of the house that faced the roofed courtyard.

  "What's this?" Remo asked, enjoying the faint scent of cherries in the night air.

  "The ring in which you will fight your fearsome foe."

  "What foe?" asked Remo, looking around warily. And suddenly something as large as a baby elephant appeared on the other side of the screen, cutting off almost all trace of the warm amber light.

  "That looks like a sumo's shadow to me," Remo said.

  The screen slid aside and out stepped a great pink hulk, naked except for a cotton loincloth, his head shaved all around a ponytaillike topknot. He resembled nothing so much as an overweight baby who had outgrown his Pampers.

  "Quick," urged Remo, "tell me how the sumo came to be."

  "It is too late. I must instruct you in the rules of sumo."

  "Shoot."

  "You face your foe in the clay circle. There is no hitting with the closed fist or below the belt."

  "Got it."

  "You must not inflict harm or mortal injury on your foe."

  "Does Baby Huey know this?"

  "You may ask him after the bout."

  "The winner is decided when one opponent is forced out of the circle or if any part of the body touches clay but the soles of the naked feet."

  "My feet aren't naked," Remo stated.

  "You will remove your shoes and your shirt."

  Stripping to the waist, Remo stepped out of his shoes, complaining, "I'm going through a lot of shoes lately."

  "Sandals wear better."

  "I'll stick with shoes."

  Chiun extracted a small vial of glass from one sleeve and, as the giant sumo wrestler waited patiently as a mute Buddha, he shook the vial around the ring of clay.

  "What are you doing?" Remo asked, one eye on the inscrutable face of the sumo wrestler.

  "Blessing the ring with salt."

  "I thought that looked like one of the salt shakers from the hotel restaurant."

  "They will not miss it." Finishing, Chiun said, "You may enter and face your worthy opponent."

  Remo stepped into the circle, feeling the cool, moist clay against the bare soles of his feet.

  The great sumo regarded him with a dour face. He bowed from the waist. The merest of bows. Ten degrees.

  Remo bowed equally in return, saying, "I'll try to make this quick."

  "Suit yourself, skinny," rumbled the sumo.

  "You speak English?"

  "So sue me."

  "Huh?"

  "Private joke. It's my stage name. I'm as American as you, chopstick legs. Born on Oahu. Raised on MTV. Destined to stomp your gourd."

  "Says you."

  And with a speed that surprised even Remo, the giant lunged, sweeping his great flabby arms around in a bear hug.

  Remo ducked under the scissors of flesh and aimed two stiffened fingers for a nerve cluster under one sweaty armpit.

  The fingers sunk in up to the second knuckle and came out again. Remo wove to one side so the falling sumo didn't land on him.

  Except that the sumo didn't fall. He laughed again and took Remo's shoulders in each hand. Remo felt himself lifted off his feet and, when he landed outside the ring, he rolled and snapped to his feet unharmed.

  He found himself facing the Master of Sinanju. "Does that mean I lose?" Remo asked.

  "You wish. I neglected to say two falls out of three."

  "Good," said Remo, jumping back into the ring.

  The sumo lifted one foot and slammed it down. The other came down a moment later. He assumed a crouching defensive posture.

  "Get set for a ride, skinny."

  "Any time you're ready, fat boy."

  From outside the ring, the voice of the Master of Sinanju floated out. "In the time of the early Chrysanthemum Throne, a shogun of Japan, jealous of the spreading fame of Sinanju and unable to secure the secrets of the House, sought to create an invincible army that would protect him from a rival shogun. These warriors were called sumo."

  "I never heard that," said Sosumi.

  "History is written by the victorious," Chiun countered.

  Remo circled his foe warily. The sumo held his ground as if daring Remo to strike first.

  "This shogun discovered that no weapon, no samurai or ninja, was proof against Sinanju," intoned Chiun.

  A hand as broad as a seat cushion swatted at Remo. Remo evaded it easily. Still, the speed of the sumo was greater than he imagined possible.

  "The shogun knew that there was no speed equal to Sinanju. No blow faster than Sinanju. And no skill greater than Sinanju. So he consulted his advisers for a defense against Sinanju."

  Remo feinted for the blubbery, rolling stomach and came around with an open-handed spank to the kidneys.

  "He discovered an armor that was proof against the blows and strikes of Sinanju."

  With a meaty smack, Remo's hand bounced harmlessly off-and the sumo laughed boisterously.

  "This was called fat," said Chiun.

  Remo tried for the solar plexus. He stepped in, using the hard heels of his hands, machine-gunning the rolls of fat that lay there.

  "Fat, the shogun discovered, was proof against the blows that could otherwise paralyze nerves and break bones."

  The sumo's stomach muscles rolled like pink waves. He laughed from deep within his gargantuan belly. A red mark like a rash bloomed where Remo had struck, but otherwise no harm had been done.

  "For fat gave before the hand of Sinanju, accepting and resisting like water."

  "I can see that, damn it," Remo said in frustration.

  "Big surprise, huh, skinny?" The sumo laughed. "You thought a big guy like me would be a pushover for your slick kung fu moves. Not so easy, huh?"

  "Get stuffed."

  "How do you think I got to where I am?"

  "Fat, dumb and happy?"

  "Yokozuna. That means 'grand champion.' I'm the first American to pull it off."

  The Master of Sinanju resumed his tale. "The shogun surrounded himself with giant men who shook the earth with their tread. Word was sent out to the countryside. The Master of Sinanju of those days was challenged to assassinate the shogun, if he dared."

  Remo eyed the ankles like fleshy tree stumps. "What do the rules say about tripping?"

  "Tripping is forbidden," Chiun said.

  The sumo grinned like a Mack truck. "You gotta grab me about the waist and try to muscle me out of the ring," he said. "Too bad you don't have the wingspan for it."

  "Master Yowin came to Japan to meet this challenge," Chiun continued from the shadows. "By night he stole into the sleeping chamber of the shogun, but a wall of living flesh blocked him. Blows were struck and landed forcefully. But the sumo wall stood resolute. And in the safety of his bed, the shogun laughed heartily and long."

  Stepping back, Remo coiled his muscles tightly. He drew in a deep breath and sprang.

  Both hands slammed into the sumo's great chest. He staggered back. Staggered one step, then two-but five feet from the periphery of the ring of clay, he recovered and flung his bulk forward like a cannonball with pumping legs.

  Remo backpedaled, staying one tantalizing step ahead of the sumo. When he felt the bite of gravel under his right heel, he leaped high over the Sumo's head, pivoted and gave the sweaty pink back a hard push.

  Sosumi leaned like a sequoia in a hurricane-his upper body tipped out of the ring, but his feet stood firm, like immobile roots. Body nearly perpendicular to his legs, he grunted explosively as he fought the
natural tendency of his great bulk to topple.

  Remo watched in helpless frustration as he slowly righted himself and turned to face him again.

  "I'm going to kick your ass for that," Sosumi warned.

  "Can I kick him?" Remo asked Chiun.

  "You cannot kick him below the waist or above the neck, nor may you land an injurious blow."

  "That means my feet are tied," Remo growled.

  "It means only what I have said," Chiun intoned. "Nothing more, and not a breath less."

  "It means your ass is sassafras." Sosumi grinned, lifting his meaty paws before Remo's face.

  Watching those giant hands, Remo stepped back and planted his bare feet in the moist clay, digging his toes in.

  "Rules say whoever touches clay with anything but his feet, loses, right?" said Remo.

  "Yes," said Chiun.

  "Then get ready to lose, tubby," Remo told the looming sumo.

  Sosumi lunged without warning. Remo was ready, exploding off his feet and launching a double kick so sudden and violent Sosumi felt Remo's left foot bouncing off his right hand and the right foot rebounding from his left hand as one jarring impact.

  The sumo staggered back a half step-no more. His eyes held a stunned light. But he quickly blinked it away. "Hah!" he laughed. "If that's your best shot-"

  "You lose," announced Chiun.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You have touched clay. You have lost this round."

  Frantically Sosumi looked around. He was still in the ring. His knees were clean. He looked behind him, and his nearly naked cheeks were clean. "Where? Where did I touch clay? Show me."

  "Look upon your unwitting palms, sumo," said Chiun.

  Sosumi unclenched his fists. And the angry lines of his face collapsed in shock. They were brownish gray. "No fair. You wiped your feet off on my hands!"

  Remo grinned. "And now I'm going to wipe the ground with your stupid face."

  The sumo stamped his feet like a toddler throwing a tantrum and, shaking the house walls with his roaring, he crashed around the ring as if trying to get up a head of steam.

  "We're even, blubber butt," Remo said as they circled one another like belligerent binary stars.

  "The shogun slept peacefully for many weeks," Chiun said, resuming his tale.

  The sumo grunted like a mad bull, eyes turning fierce. "Not so cocky now?" taunted Remo.

  The sumo said nothing. He was all business now. He dropped into his grunting crouch and wriggled his pudgy fingers at Remo in a come-on gesture.