Warren Murphy: Waste Not, Want Not

"I suppose it could be interpreted that way," said the Master of Sinanju.

"But I'm still Reigning Master, right? Or have the last three decades just been about jerking me around?"

Chiun waved an impatient hand. "Yes, you are Reigning Master. So say the histories, so you are. Free to make mistakes and embarrass me in the eyes of my ancestors in whatever stupid or depraved ways your heart desires."

"Great. I just want to know one thing," Remo said. "Will I still be able to pick whoever I want as my pupil?"

"That is your prerogative as Master."

"And you won't get on my case if you think I've picked wrong or if I don't train him exactly like you would or if I don't toe every little line like your idealized version of the perfect little Master of Sinanju?"

The old Korean gave him a baleful look. "And where exactly, Remo, did you find it written that I must scoop out my brain and cut out my tongue so that I do not notice and cannot comment on the egregious mistakes and humiliations you will inevitably commit in your vulgarized American version of Sinanju Reigning Masterhood?"

"Wishful thinking I guess," Remo said.

On the television a reporter for one of the major networks was standing at the edge of a smoking crater that seemed to go on forever behind her.

"The death toll here stands at eight so far, with a loss of property estimated at forty-seven million dollars," the reporter said in pinched, nasal tones.

At first Remo thought a bomb had gone off. He learned that a gas main had exploded. The explosion had been caused by a sinkhole that had opened up and swallowed most of a California neighborhood. The hole had created a mudslide that had wiped out another neighborhood in a canyon below. Four dozen houses were lost, three times as many people were homeless and many fire trucks and rescue vehicles had been crushed, swallowed up or washed away.

Remo learned that all the destruction and carnage had been the result of a weeklong attempt to save three kittens caught down a storm drain. The cats had apparently been pulled up to safety using nylon fishing line and a twenty-five-cent Easter basket earlier that evening.

The story of the attempted murder in Mayana of every world leader was bumped to a fifteen-second blurb at the end of the newscast after weather, sports and entertainment news. After that, images of wet kitties being toweled off were played under the closing credits.

Remo considered the events of the past few months and days. He didn't realize his silence had drawn attention until a squeaky singsong broke his private thoughts.

"Now what are you grinning at?" the Master of Sinanju asked.

Remo looked down into the wrinkled face of his teacher. When he saw Chiun, his smile of contentment stretched wider.

He couldn't help it. The world was good, everything was right and Remo Williams was happy. "Dorothy was right, Little Father," Remo said, his smile threatening to spill off his beaming face. "There's no place like home."