No place in the afterlife. No place by God's side. We are the holy saviors of the stomach. We wander the earth as the undead, slaves to our God, punishers of all transgressors.
The leader remembered the deaths.
The cutting off of all lifeblood. The slitting of the throat.
The release of the life force. The slicing down to the stomach.
The destruction of the Holy House. The stripping of the carcass.
The homage to our God. The skeleton in the tree, symbolizing our strength and power.
The Final Death. The burial of the innards.
Thus it had been for thousands of years. Before the cult moved out of China and up into Eumania, Russia, Lithuania, Transylvania, their legend had grown enormously. Tales of their ability to change into trees and nebulous forms ran amok through the villages.
But the power had shifted outside mother China. The deaths continued, the creed grew, but the legend was lost. The white men saw them as farcical bloodsuckers. Men of swarthy complexion and burning eyes. They were remembered as hissing, caped servants of the Devil, flapping into bedrooms and sinking their teeth into the breasts of fleshy women.
The deaths continued but the true purpose was lost. Their ranks dwindled as, one by one, the leader's companions were released. They had done their work well and so, they entered the afterlife.
Until there was no one left but him. He had moved and planned and killed but it was not enough. His God wanted more. So he moved to America, the center of meat-eating, stomach-destroying madness. He had taken the age old secrets of the cult and planned the final, massive destruction of transgressors.
But times had changed. He had grown old and weak and the blindness was sent down as punishment. So now he used the rooms of gold for pay. And now he gave the age old secrets to outsiders for implementation.
The gold was beginning to run low, but the plan was near completion. Soon his God would be satisfied. Soon he would be released to join his companions.
But first they had to deal with Sinanju. First they had to send the white man and the Korean to their Final Deaths. There had been a truce centuries ago but it was ended.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Why are you wearing that ridiculous costume?"
Viki Angus looked down at her blue mini-length dress with the gold braid on the sleeve, then back at Remo. "What's ridiculous? This is an official Star Trek lieutenant's uniform. I always wear it when I'm flying."
"You're not one of them, are you?" Remo asked.
"One of who?"
"One of those Starkies," Remo said.
"Trekkies," Viki corrected. "And I'd rather not be called that. Now, quiet while I get this ship into a holding orbit."
She pressed her lunch tray several times, making bleeping noises.
Across the aisle, a manufacturer of toilet seats looked up at the noise.
"Landing coordinates locked in," Viki said.
The overhead loudspeaker beeped, and the stewardess' voice insinuated out: "Please fasten your seat belts. We will be landing momentarily in Houston."
Viki uncrossed her legs and fastened her safety belt, pulling up her dress another inch. The toilet-seat manufacturer lowered his magazine to watch more carefully.
A few minutes later, the plane slapped onto the runway and moved toward the unloading docks. The loudspeaker hoped they had all enjoyed their flight.
Viki bounced up in her seat and commended loudly the spaceship's navigational officer. The toilet-seat manufacturer rose slowly, mopping his brow.
"How come the gorgeous ones are always nuts?" he muttered to no one in particular.
Viki, oblivious, reached up over her seat to get her bag, the one with the United Federation of Planets stenciled in silver under a blue-and-silver insignia comprised of two silhouettes surrounding a star system.
The male population of first class moved their heads in unison to chart the rise of Viki's hemline with the rise of her arm. A small disappointed sip of breath came when an Oriental in a flowing green kimono moved behind her, blocking the view.
Remo, Chiun, and Viki moved toward the door of the plane where a stewardess invited them to come again.
"Thank you," said Viki. "I'll beam down to the planet now."
The thin, small-chested stewardess watched Viki's exit as she hopped down the stairs, making a bubbling sound. Chiun followed her.
"Are those two together?" the stewardess asked the next man.
"Yes," said Remo, the next man. "That's Captain Jerk and Mister Shmuck."
"It figures," said the stewardess.
Remo, Chiun, and Viki rode the commuter bus to town. They sat across from a fat white woman holding a child to her bosom, a Delaware Torrington Junior, known to his contemporaries as D.T. 2.
D.T. 2 held a radio tape deck close to his ear. It was playing a new rock number at a decibel level that would have succeeded in banning the Concorde jet from the entire civilized world.
Delaware Torrington Junior slumped down in his seat so he could look up Viki's dress. "Oooooh, mama," he groaned aloud.
Viki caught his stare, pushed her knees tightly together, and sat closer to Remo. Remo was thinking about his seat. His feet were pressed against the bottom of his shoes. He moved his body off the bus seat as the driver came onto the bus and started the engine.
Remo slowed his breathing, then lifted his feet off the floor. He pressed back hard against the seat, hard enough to cause a friction that held him in place, three inches over the seat.
Chiun nodded as the bus started. Then Remo slowly released his breath and settled his body weight back onto the seat. No one but Chiun had noticed Remo do his exercise for the day.
Viki pressed his arm. "That person is staring at me," she said.
"Zap him with your phaser," Remo said.
Delaware Torrington Junior rubbed his cap on his lap and leered at Viki while the screeching trumpets on the tape player woke the fat woman's sleeping child. The baby began to cry.
D.T. 2 motioned to Viki and smiled. Remo rose off his seat and leaned forward.
"What do you want?" he said.
"I don't want you," said D.T. 2, loudly over the crashing bongos throbbing against his head. "I want her."
"I'm sorry, sir," said Remo. "Her heart belongs to Star Fleet Command."
"I never heard of that group," said D.T. 2. "Whadda they play?"
"Nothing that would interest you," said Remo. "Music mostly."
"Don't give me no jive, Clive," said Delaware Torrington Junior. He smacked his sneakers on the floor and hissed hysterically at his own wit.
The baby next to him howled even louder as the saxophones on the tape reached a climax. The fat woman asked D.T. 2 if he could turn down the music a bit.
"I can't hear it if I turns it down, fatty," said Torrington.
"Then let's turn it up," said Remo. "So you can hear it really well."
Remo's arm moved out and pressed against the machine at the black man's head. Suddenly the woofer made way for an ear and the tweeter was displaced by a pimpled jaw line. Tubes and transistors were cracked, pushed aside and smashed out the other side of the tape player to make room for an Afro passing through. The back of the bus was suddenly silent except for the tinkling of glass in the aisle.
Remo pulled the bus cord and the driver stopped at the next corner to let off a man with a radio between his ears. Delaware Torrington Junior later would marvel with all his friends about how the tape player retained a perfect outline of his head, even after it was pried loose. The whole experience really shook him. It was a week before he stole another tape player.
The thankful fat woman soothed her child, looked apologetically at Remo and said, "Houston isn't what it used to be."