Insulted, the Master of Sinanju narrowed his hazel eyes.
His acute hearing picked up no sounds of human biology. So he stamped the simulacrum's feet into shattered piles and stepped away as it fell on its gaunt face and shattered.
He walked on.
Here was wonder at every step, Chiun thought. Here was an abode worthy of the Master of Sinanju. With a critical eye, he made a mental inventory of the ugly structures that would have to be razed. Future World would be the first to go. But the monorail might be retained. For his personal use only. Remo could drive.
Off to one side stood the Haunted Grove, where the trees had faces. Curious, he moved toward it.
A hulking shape loomed out of the plastic copse.
It was Hunny Bear, his porkpie hat askew.
"Hail, O bashful bruin," cried the Master of Sinanju in greeting.
The bear had a crockery honey jar under one arm, and he lifted it over his head with both hands. He heaved it at the Master of Sinanju.
The spot where the old Korean had been standing was cobbled in plastic. The jar broke, and splashed a hissing, spitting white liquid onto that exact spot. The white paint browned and bubbled like a witch's cauldron. But there was no one there anymore.
The bear stared at the phenomenon, long jaw agape. He was still staring when the angry form of the Master of Sinanju came out from behind a growling tree and relieved him of his heads.
Both of them.
The goofy bear head sailed up and then returned, a falling spacecraft separating into two reentry vehicles: Bear and not bear.
Both heads struck the ground at the same time. The human one went splat.
The Master of Sinanju looked about him.
Beyond the Haunted Woods, perched on a low sawgrass hill, loomed Horrible House, its jack-o'-lantern shutters hanging askew. And waving to him from one of the windows was no less than Monongahela Mouse himself, his lollipop ears alert.
"Ah," said Chiun. "The famous mouse will point the way, for he is always helpful and kind."
"Director, the tall one has entered the Tom Thumb Pavilion."
"Hah! Did you see that? I spooked the little gook. I made Lincoln say 'Fuck you' right in his face. Remind me to have a fart function installed in the Presidential Pavilion. Not just sound, but smell too. I want every Chief Executive, with his own distinctive and identifiable gas!"
"Director, shall I load the alternate program?"
"Huh? What? Oh, right. Switch over."
"Switching over."
"It's a life of wonder, "A life of gloom, "We live a life of storms, "And a life that's doomed. "It's a short, short life, don't you know?"
"That's not how the song goes," Remo muttered as he entered the Tom Thumb Pavilion.
It was dark, but there was enough light to see by. Remo ignored the cake-frosting trolley cars and walked the track.
On either side of him stood tiny scenes. Ballerinas. Fairy woods. A tiny ice pond with skaters. Eskimo. Tahitians. Bavarians. All nationalities were portrayed. It was a celebration of the diversity of life on the planet Earth.
And it didn't go with the music being piped in from hidden loudspeakers. At all.
"We have just one life "And one atmosphere, "A few brief breaths "And you're in your bier. "Because the grave is deep "And long is our sleep. "
"That is definitely not how the song goes," Remo repeated.
And then, as the maddening music swelled, the miniature scenes sprang to life.
"It's a short, short life, don't you know?"
The ballerinas exploded.
"It's a short, short life, don't you know?"
The ice skaters burst into flames.
"It's a short, short life, don't you know?"
And the Eskimo family opened their happy mouths and began to emit a poisonously yellow smoke Remo knew wasn't exactly a cure for lung cancer.
He started running, dodging, ducking, as the maddening refrain repeated itself over and over again until he was tempted to throw himself into one of the death traps just to get it out of his brain.
"It's a short, short life, don't you know?
"It's a short, short life, don't you know?
"It's a short, short life, don't you know?"
"I know! I know!" Remo yelled back, as he wove his way through the deadly missiles.
The foyer of Horrible House was dark. Electric candles cast a sickly yellow-green light.
Hands tucked into the sleeves of his night-black kimono, the Master of Sinanju studied the room. This was plainly the entrance to the manor. The front doors had been opened for him, as if by unseen fingers. Yet there were no other doors, and the front portals had locked themselves after he had passed through them.
He lifted his voice. "Mongo? Mongo Mouse? Are you home?"
And the walls began to sink into the floor.
The Master of Sinanju looked upward.
A great crystal chandelier was coming closer. The cracked and cobwebbed ceiling loomed larger and larger.
His eyes warned him that the ceiling was coming down to crush him, but his inner senses told another story.
The floor was moving upward, carrying him with it.