Here’s chapter 9 of my fanfic replacement for #108 of The Destroyer. As an added bonus for the fans over at The Destroyer Club I decided to include a little illustration. This is how I imagine it would look if they ever made a saturday morning cartoon out of The Destroyer… hint, hint, cough… er, excuse me. Anyway, the fanfic has all the standard “don’t read it if you offend easily” disclaimers.
“What news from Harold the Mad?” greeted Chiun.
Remo looked perplexed.
“Smitty really needs a vacation.”
“No missions for the house?”
“Not really, I think he was trying to be creative,” replied Remo, gliding through the trailer to the small chair near the bar.
“He started out with some cockamamy story about radioactive dinosaurs in the jungle,” continued Remo, “Then he kind of muttered something about his daughter, Vickie.”
“Whatever,” responded Remo, “Anyway, he seemed really on edge. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was making it all up.”
“Perhaps the theatrical bug has bitten our dear emperor, my talents in the narrative arts have caused many to turn their hearts toward prose, you know, Remo.”
“Well, little father, I’m not sure what was going on, but I get the distinct feeling that we’re on our own for a while. How is the great epic coming, anyway?”
“It is as you say.”
“I see, look, little father, we need to talk about something–”
Chiun interrupted, “First, please stow these trunks in that upper cabinet for me, Remo, they are interrupting the flow of this miniscule domicile that the mad one procured for us.”
Remo grabbed the trunks, aggravated at being interrupted. This had been going on since they got here. Chiun had him toting those stupid trunks around like some kind of beast of burden. Who did he think he was? He was just a stupid, old–
Remo stopped himself. He tried to shake those thoughts from his head. He breathed in deeply, centering his mind, and hoisting the trunks, one at a time into the cabinet above the bar.
“That last one felt empty,” thought Remo, “Why am I still having to tote empty boxes? He’ll probably say it is filled with his dissapointment in me. Nothing I ever do is good enough for him. I’ve been ‘in training’ for over 30 years, I’ve reached the rank of ‘Master’ and still the old fool won’t just step aside and let me handle things. Except for trunks. I’m a big freakin’ trunk monkey, that’s what I am,” broiled Remo, his mind reeling with anger and disgust. He looked over at Chiun who looked like he was smiling a little.
“I need to go for another walk,” Remo growled, slamming the door behind himself. Lately he had been restless. It seemed that he couldn’t spend more than five minutes with Chiun before losing his temper. That was something that just didn’t happen to Remo these days, and he couldn’t figure it out. He hadn’t truly lost his temper since the early days of his training. There had been a few occasions in the last thirty years when, under extreme conditions, Remo had let his emotions influence his decisions, but he was a master over himself– he was a master of Sinanju– and self-control was an understatement for what he put himself through. Maybe it was just that he hadn’t had a chance to really work since he got to Burbank. As much as Remo hated to admit it, he really did enjoy his work. It was hard not to enjoy doing something he was so good at. Sure, he had reduced the pool of pushy photographers to a respectable level, but that wasn’t really a challenge. Where were the giant transforming robots and megolomaniac geniuses these days? With all the recent activities, chasing down Uncle Sam Beasley, finding out he had a father, finding out he had a son, not to mention that business in Harlem, he had been really busy for a while. Now, just trying to track down a few hasbeens seemed, somehow, anticlimactic.
Chiun, realizing Remo had left, stopped biting the corners of his mouth. He relaxed his shoulders looking up to the closed cabinet. This was getting tougher, and he wasn’t sure how long he could keep it up.