Ok, it finally has a title: Six Degrees of Destruction
What is it? It’s my self-indulgent fan-fiction. It’s what I would have done instead of allowing #108, #109, and #110 of “The Destroyer” to ever see the light of day. What follows is my chapter 4 of my #108. Warning: May contain offensive material.
Vincienzo Deritopolis, or Vinnie Derito as he was known in the biz, was not a statuesque man–he was more of a garden gnome-esque fellow. Standing at only five foot two inches, he had always had to struggle to land leading man roles. Instead of relying on the rugged good looks he lacked in abundance, he had learned at an early age to command attention via his not-so-winning personality. From his early days playing the erascible Danny on the television sitcom “Cabbie,” Vinnie had discovered that the formula for success was playing the part of the guy everyone loved to hate.
Born the product of a tryst between an Italian bag-boy and a Greek house keeper, Vinnie had struggled with his humble beginnings all his life. His abusive mother always told him that he wouldn’t amount to anything and never ceased to remind him of his questionable heritage. Later in life, he married his mother, in the form of a spitfire actress with big hair and a bigger mouth, Diana Allison Rhea, or Di for short. She was his rock–the one tied to his ankles. Anytime Vinnie was given a chance to read for a movie, Di was there, looking over his shoulder and scanning the script for the part of the loudmouth spitfire with a heart of aluminum foil.
It was with much trepidation that Vinnie agreed to audition for the part of the master of “Shinjijuju or something like that.” He was having a hard time picturing himself being able to break a man’s skull with a swift swipe of the hand, but hey, this was the movies, and computers could fix a lot these days–not that he was used to starring in movies with a big enough budget to warrant computer touchups, but there was a part in the script about a maid who verbally abuses the master, and he figured the three minutes of celluloid would be more than enough to shut Di up and get her off his back for a few days. He also needed to build an addition to his palatial 2 bedroom mansion in Burbank and this film would mean the difference between fake Italian granite tile and imitation Italian granite tile in the new bathroom–these were the types of details that really mattered in a burgeoning housing market.
“Alright, I still can’t understand why you got to fly first class and I got bumped to coach; I was there when Smitty made the reservations.”
“You reek of shark,” explained Chiun.
“I couldn’t possibly,” reasoned Remo, “I haven’t eaten a dogfish in 2 weeks.”
“It is because your lazy white body refuses to flush itself of impurities, Remo. Have you been practicing your breathing?’
“You know I have, Chiun, it’s a natural habit. I can’t –not– breath Sinanju.”
“Then you are doing it wrong. Perhaps I was wrong to think that you could ever be a true Master of Sinanju. From now on, you will start over, you will have to work your way up from the lowly position of pack-mule, as you insist on behaving like a jackass.”
Remo grabbed the elderly master’s twelve lacquer cases from the roundabout, carefully balancing them against each other, and hefting the six-hundred plus pounds of luggage much to the astonishment of those in the baggage claim area. It was the last cabinet that surprised Remo though, it felt empty.
“Little father, why am I carrying an empty case again? Is this supposed to be some sort of lesson about my pride or something?”
“I do not bring empty cases, Remo. That one is loaded with preparation for what may come.”
“What may come of me when I finally snap and kill the old man?” thought Remo. He took one look at Chiun’s recently regrown fingernail, and kept his mouth shut, a strange chill running down his spine.