"Slanderer! Defamer of greatness!"
Remo stopped, blinked, and said in a very small voice, "Uncle Sam . . ."
"Come, Remo. We must find Monongahela Mouse. I will accept the keys to the Enchanted Village from him personally. No lesser functionary will do."
"Chiun!" Remo croaked.
The Master of Sinanju stopped, turned, his eyes narrowing.
"What is wrong with you, Remo? This is the culmination of my years of hardship in your ugly country. This is a moment about which the future children of Sinanju yet unborn will sing. For no Master of Sinanju was ever bequeathed a kingdom as wondrous as this one."
"Chiun, listen! I just said the name 'Uncle Sam.' Uncle Sam Beasley-the founder of Beasleyland and Beasley World."
"You did," Chiun allowed.
"The creator of Monongahela Mouse, Screwball Squirrel, and Dingbat Duck."
"His reknown has reached even Sinanju," Chiun said. "Although he is a mere white artist, his greatness is unsurpassed."
Remo said, "Everybody from the captured Cubans to Zorilla swore Uncle Sam was behind the operation. Remember?"
Chiun's eyes squeezed to walnut slits.
"Not the Washington Uncle Sam, but Uncle Sam Beasley! This is a Beasley Corporation operation!"
"I will believe this only from the lips of Uncle Sam himself," Chiun said firmly. "Come, the famous rodent can wait. We must speak with Uncle Sam himself."
In a swirl of black silken skirts, the Master of Sinanju flounced off toward the towers that Remo had first seen what seemed like another lifetime ago, as a wide-eyed child watching a cheap black-and-white picture tube back at Saint Theresa's Orphanage.
There was a lump rising in his throat.
Ronald Phipps had grown up on Sam Beasley.
Every Sunday night, he had watched The Marvelous Realm of Sam Beasley in his fire-engine-red Dr. Denton's. He had collected Sam Beasley Comics and Cartoons. Colored in Mongo Mouse and Screwball Squirrel coloring books, with Sam Beasley-brand crayons. If it bore the flourishing signature of Uncle Sam Beasley, Ronald Phipps had collected it.
The first time he had visited Beasley World was akin to a religious experience. He was nine. By the age of eleven he had been to Beasleyland and Beasley World what seemed a million times. He liked Beasley World better. It was bigger and-more to the point-he could go more often. Ron Phipps lived just outside of Furioso, Florida, Vacation Center of the Galaxy, site of Sam Beasley World.
When he reached high school age and other boys were discovering cars and beer and girls, Ron Phipps spent his weekends at Sam Beasley World.
After high school, he horrified his parents by announcing that he wasn't going to Yale after all. He had applied to a much more exclusive institution.
"I'm going to be a greeter at Sam Beasley World," he announced proudly.
His father glared. His mother broke down. His younger sister asked, "Does that mean you can get me in for free?"
Ultimately, his disappointed parents had not stood in his way. They thought it was just a phase. It would pass. And Yale would still be there next year.
They were wrong. The day he first donned the furry costume and oversized lop-eared head of Wacky Wolf, Ron knew he had found his true calling. But being a greeter, he discovered, was not quite as much fun as being a greetee. There were rules, and violators could be summarily fired. One could never appear in public out of costume. Or with one's character head removed. One mustn't speak. One must be unfailingly polite and kind.
Once a greeter dressed as Screwball Squirrel had come upon a little girl who had fallen into the Phantom Lagoon. As her parents watched helplessly, the little girl splashed and cried piteously for rescue.
The Screwball Squirrel greeter had doffed his bucktoothed head and plunged in. He pulled the girl to safety and after applying mouth-to-mouth, brought her around.
The crowd had applauded the man.
The CEO had hauled him onto the carpet within the hour.
As Phipps later heard it, the CEO opened up the confrontation with a curt, "You're fired!"
"But sir, I saved a little girl from drowning."
"And removed your squirrel head. That wasn't necessary."
"I had to resuscitate!"
"You could have done it through the mask, or let the parents do their own CPR. You stepped out of character, and worse, you deprived the organization of a wonderful public relations bonanza."
"Sir?"
"A ton of tourists took photos of you giving mouth-to-mouth. Had you kept your head on your shoulders, we could have had that photo run in everything from People to Isvestia, furthering the glorious Beasley legend."
"But-"
"We're selling fantasy here, and you popped the bubble! Can you imagine that little girl's trauma when you took your Screwball Squirrel head off?"
"She was unconscious!"
"Turn in your tail and pick up your last check."
When Ron Phipps heard the story from the tearful greeter that very same day, he wondered aloud, "What would Uncle Sam have said if he could have seen it?"
"The same thing the CEO did," the greeter overseer said. " 'You're fired.' Keep that in mind, Phipps. "
Ronald Phipps did. He never, never wanted not to be a part of Sam Beasley World. So when the demands on him increased, he made sure he was equal to them. If the organization said to dump that old lady out of a Beasley-owned wheelchair, he did so. If a fellow worker grumbled about working in "Mouseschwitz," he turned him in. None of it was what Ronald Phipps had thought Beasley World stood for, but orders were orders.
But this . . .
"You all know how to use these things," the security overseer was saying, in the underground dressing rooms where all the cartoon costumes were stored.
Phipps accepted the short-barreled machine pistol, with its oversized trigger guard so he could slip his padded wolf's-paw fingers inside. The weapon felt enormously heavy.
The overseer went on.
"We always knew that terrorists would one day try to penetrate Sam Beasley World, symbol of all that is America. You've trained for this day. You're prepared for this day. Now that day is here."
Ron Phipps looked around, and saw a disturbing sight. Screwball Squirrel was brandishing an Ingram. Mother Goose had a pump-action shotgun. Everyone had known about the potential Cuban threat, but it was incredible that Beasley World actually had been targeted. The overseer said Cuban terrorists had already penetrated the park.
"Rule number one is 'Aim at your target and hit what you aim at.' " reminded the overseer.
"Rule number two is 'Try not to damage the attractions,' " he added. "There are only two terrorists. This should be a walk in the Haunted Grove, so to speak."
There came nervous laughter from a dozen happy heads, as they marched single-file to the freight elevator that would take them topside to their rendezvous with destiny.
Remo followed the Master of Sinanju through Sam Beasley World, a dull, stricken look on his face.
"This isn't happening," he said under his breath.
Then Chiun's squeaky voice called out, "Look, Remo! Wacky Wolf! Let us ask the befuddled canine the way."
Remo looked up. The Master of Sinanju had veered off toward Horrible House, a Louisiana Gothic mansion whose shuttered windows held ghoulish faces.
"Hold up, Chiun. I don't think we should take anything for granted here."
"Yoo-hoo, Wolfie!" called Chiun.
And to Remo's horror, the giant form of Wacky Wolf dropped to one knee and brought up the muzzle of an Ingram submachine gun.
The weapon blatted nasty sound and a tongue of fire.
The Master of Sinanju leaped high in the air, over the scream of bullets that tore past Remo's dipping shoulder and perforated a child-size Ferris wheel. The creaking seats rocked and swayed, some dangling, damaged.
The Master of Sinanju landed atop the Wolf's funny hat. The head jammed down with a dull, mortal crack, and the rest of the creature folded to the immaculate cobblestones.