Well, here it is, the long awaited 17th chapter in my ongoing fan fiction. This chapter has some imagery that might be unsettling to some, and it deals with themes that might offend your sensibilities, so please, click on “more” with caution.
The thin man with the thick wrists stared bewildered at the wretched sight that lay before him. Fighting back his gag reflex, he tried to make sense of what had just happened. Confused, he fell against the large metal box to his left. His head spinning, he dropped to his knees, pulling himself free from the bloody body that was still wrapped tightly around his naked waist.
“What happened,” he muttered to himself, “did I black out?”
He tugged at the shredded, bloody shirt that clung loosely to his raw, claw marked chest. As he tugged his chinos back over his hips, his head began to clear.
There had been some kind of argument…
They were near the food court…
Suddenly, they both felt flush with desire…
They sneaked behind a dumpster for an amorous tryst…
She was throwing all her passion into it…
A quick flash of yellow light…
Then a shriek of “Rape!”…
She began clawing at his chest, ripping with a ferociousness he had never seen. Reaching toward his throat with bloodlust in her eyes, he had no choice but to rely on instinct.
With one swift motion, he grabbed her by the temples and twisted hard, nearly ripping her head loose from her torso.
He remembered being astonished at the precision with which he had dispatched his lover. As her body fell limp, he noticed another bright flash of yellow light, and then an erie silence.
He slumped back against the dumpster, replaying the events in his mind.
The lid of the dumpster nearly hit him, waking him from his shocked stupor. Springing upward, he threw his body forward and spun violently on his toes, turning to see who had interupted his quiet interlude. Having moved swiftly enough to avoid detection, he peeked around the trash-bin in time to see the director’s assistant gliding away, whistling to himself.
Curious, he peered over into the dumpster, only to see the terrified hispanic face of the guy who had sold him those bad burritos.
“Hmmm…” he thought to himself.
He reached over into the dumpster and shifted the body. He quickly scooped up Di’s remains, and quietly deposited them next to the now missing cook.
Flipping the lid closed, he hummed to himself as he headed back to his trailer for a shower.
“Now, how do I play this?” thought the actor.
“What do you mean a few days?” shouted Remo through the trailer door.
“More than 2, less than 20,” replied the muffled voice of the master.
“I’m sure the crew can use the rest, little father, but what am I supposed to tell them?”
“Tell them I have taken ill.”
“Are you sick?”
“Lie to them.”
“Look, what’s going on here, why can’t I come in?”
“It is imperative that you do not enter.”
His voice sounded, somehow, frightened. Remo had seldom heard that sound of threat in the master’s voice.
“Chiun,” he continued, “what’s going on?”
“Tell them the chi is not right for the filming of the final scene.”
“Chiun, I know good and well that you don’t buy into that ‘chi’ stuff.”
“You know that–I know that–Those ignorant whites in the crew couldn’t tell a Buddhist from a Taoist if it hit them with his prayer box, however.”
“Alright,” sighed Remo, “I’ll think of something.”
The crew stood around anxiously, having arrived early, rather than feel the wrath of their punctual leader.
Remo approached the group, calling them all together.
“Okay everybody, we have your numbers on file, and we’ll call you when the director is ready to film the final scene.”
“How long will it be?” braved the lead gaffer.
“A few days.”
“What’s going on?”
“He got a new video game system, and he’s breaking it in. You know how these *artist* type directors are.”
Remo smiled to himself as he strolled away from the befuddled team.