"So we will have fish and you will cook it."
"What's in the fridge?"
"Nothing. Thus, you have the double pleasure of shopping at the local fishmongers and preparing the meal that will fortify our bellies for the delightful task to come."
"Carp okay with you?"
"I would prefer sea bass. If sea bass is unavailable, carp will suffice. But take careful note of the fish's eyes. Do not purchase a fish with bad eyes. Bad eyes mean a fish with an evil mind. And evil-minded fish taste bitter."
"I'll be back as soon as I can," said Remo.
"And do not dare bring into this house dogfish or mackerel. Dogfish is suitable only for a dog, and mackerel have too many bones."
"Count on it," said Remo, who thought dogfish tasted mealy and mackerel oily.
At the local Stop & Shop, Remo had to settle for salmon.
"It's fresh," the clerk told him, laying the largest salmon on the counter for inspection. "Caught just this morning."
Remo frowned. "The eyes look a little strange."
"What do you want? It's deader than a mackerel. If you'll excuse the expression."
"How about this one?" asked Remo, pointing to another salmon in the glass case.
"That one's not as fresh."
"The eyes are clearer, so it won't matter."
"You're the customer. But we don't recommend you eat the eyeballs."
Remo decided to walk back home even though it was more than a mile. The thought of reading and sorting all those stacks of mail—never mind answering them—made him shrink inside.
Night had fallen. It felt funny to be back in a city after so many months in the desert. Even the hard pavement was strange under his feet. Remo was more aware of the pollutants in the air, the rush and hum of traffic than ever before. Overhead, a descending jet screamed out its presence. Desert living had spoiled him. Not a helicopter had flown over the Sun On Jo Reservation in all his months in Arizona.
On the rooflines grackles were visible in silhouette, perched on the chimneys, enjoying heat from furnaces that were only now kicking in after a long dormancy.
Just before Remo turned onto East Squantum Street, he noticed the black sedan roll around the corner. He especially noticed the hunkered shadowy figures bringing up their weapons.
Ditching the fish in the bushes, Remo broke into a run.
"Don't tell me this is what I think it is," he muttered.
It was. As the sedan drew near his house, it slowed. A battery of gun muzzles poked out on one side and began vomiting flame and noise. Windows broke with harsh jangling sounds. Dust puffed up from the field-stone facade. Wood squealed and splintered like rats having their bones broken.
The car spun at the next intersection and came back around, trailing acrid rubber smoke. This time the gun muzzles protruded from the opposite side. They stuttered, breaking more windows and chewing up a doghouse dormer along the roofline.
"Damn it," Remo said, stepping off the curb. The car was tearing toward him, the driver's eyes wide as saucers. Remo crouched, released his coiled leg muscles and spun up into the air.
The car slithered under him. Remo reached out, snagged the chrome windshield trim with one hand and let his body become one with the machine's hurtling speed.
Like a human suction cup, Remo lay flat against the roof when the sedan took the corner onto Hancock, tires complaining, straightening out for the dead run toward nearby Boston. And he wasn't unnoticed.
Gun muzzles started angling up from the open windows to nail him. Remo stayed flat. Two wild shots passed over his dark hair. Through an ear pressed to the roof, he could hear the snap and snarl of excited voices. He didn't recognize the language, but it sure wasn't English.
With casual kicks he thwarted the aiming guns. He didn't need to understand their language to know they were cursing him in their frustration.
As the car whipped around the approach to the Neponset River Bridge, Remo decided everyone needed a bath except him.
Pulling forward, he slapped the windshield with one palm. It starred, spiderwebbed and became as opaque as frost. The car began weaving. The passengers tried to nail him again. One opened the door and pulled himself half out of the interior. Someone held on to his waist to keep him from falling.
Remo knocked him out with a snap-kick to the temple.
The gunman's limp form was hauled in, but not before the impact of his wobbly-necked skull on the moving road painted a new dividing line with the greater portion of his brains.
At that point the gunmen had had enough. They braked the car and all four doors opened. Remo batted back every head that popped out, dropped to the ground and cold-welded every door shut by a hard, sudden application of his bare hands to the locks.
Then he went to work on the roof. It was hard metal, but under Remo's jackhammer hands it began to cave in and flatten. At that point the gunmen started feeling the roof bang the tops of their skulls and realized that getting the doors open was more important than they had thought.
But it was too late. Remo had the roofline down to the level of their shoulders, and exiting the vehicle became a lost opportunity.
There was a brief burst of gunfire. A few ugly holes appeared here and there, but mostly the bullets ricocheted, producing interior screams.
Someone yelled what sounded like "Fang Tung!" And a distinct slap of reproach came.
By then, Remo was feeling around the battered roof to home in on any sensation of warmth. When he sensed a head, he brought his fist down until the coconut-cracking sound told him he hadn't missed. He did this four times.
When all was still inside, Remo bent and took hold of the chassis with both hands. He heaved upward.
The sedan rolled onto its side and landed on the walkway of the bridge. A simple push set it to leaning against the concrete buttress.
It was a simple matter after that to work it up on the buttress until it was poised precariously, and the exertion of Remo's pinky finger tipped it into the water, where everyone could enjoy a final bath. Except Remo.
The police were pulling up as Remo walked away, trying to look casual and hoping no one had grabbed his fish.
Chiun met Remo at the door, whose glass now lay broken on the walk. But Chiun was dancing.
"This is terrible," Remo said, surveying the damage.
"It is wonderful," Chiun squeaked, clapping joyous hands together.
"What's so wonderful about a drive-by shooting?"
"It means we are feared."
Remo blinked. "You think those guys were out to nail us?"