The Crips froze. They were not carrying their weapons in their hands.
And a moment later, neither were the Blood.
They went, "Ouch! Ow! Yeow! Yikes!" as a flurry of campaign posters zipped by their gun hands, inflicting wicked and painful paper cuts and forcing them to drop their weapons to the dirty pavement.
The blizzard of posters fell at their feet. Some fell faceup. Some facedown. The upward-facing posters caught the attention of the Blood, now well named because of the conditions off their gun hands. Looking up at them were the liquid eyes of Enrique Espiritu Esperanza.
"He the guy you want us to vote for?" Dexter gulped.
"He is," intoned the wise old Korean-the wisest, kindest Korean ever to roll through the South Central District.
"He got my vote," Dexter promised.
"Mine, too."
"First, he must know that you are loyal," Chiun suggested.
"What we gotta do?"
"These posters must be placed in appropriate places in this neighborhood," said the wise old Korean.
"You got it!"
"And we get the old guy," said the approaching Crips.
"Who you calling 'old'?" protested Jambo Jambone X. "This here's my man. Yo, Master. Tell these cheeseeaters."
"Begone, eaters of cheese," intoned the Master of Sinanju sternly. "I will have nothing to do with you."
"White guy wants you," said the spokesman for the Crips, pulling out a .357 Magnum. "So you come."
Other Crip armaments came into view then. The Blood, their weapons on the ground and their hands dripping red, gave a collective, "Oh, shit."
The Blood dived for their guns. The Crips picked their targets. Jambo Jambone X threw himself in front of the old Korean. A bloodbath impended.
Remo Williams picked that moment to saunter around the corner.
"Nobody do anything stupider than being born," he said.
Nobody did. The sound of his easy, no-nonsense voice caused faces on both sides of the imminent bloodbath to freeze. Eyes went round. A few crotches darkened from the contents of fear-struck bladders.
"In fact, everybody better lay down their guns," he added.
This instruction was obeyed with military precision. Pistols of all types clicked as they were carefully laid on the sidewalk.
"Look what I found for you," Jambo Jambone X said, pointing to the Master of Sinanju.
"He lie," said the Crip spokesman. "We found him. You owe us quarters."
"No. I get the quarter."
"I'll give you all a quarter, if you shut up," said Remo.
"I want the quarter," Jambo insisted. "It gonna be my lucky piece."
"Or I can juggle a few heads for the entertainment of the survivors," Remo added.
"You the man," Jambo said instantly. "Whatever you say."
Remo strode up to Chiun, whose hands found themselves in the sleeves of his kimono.
"I have nothing to say to you, white."
"Yeee!" said Jambo. "Don't call him no names!"
The old Korean sniffed disdainfully. "He is white. He will always be white. I will call him what I choose."
The eyes of the assembled Crips and Bloods went from the face of the old Oriental to that of the white dude, their pupils reflecting various degrees of fear, horror, and consternation.
"What you sayin'?" Jambo hissed. "You can't talk to the dude that way. He take your head off."
"He is a pale piece of pig's ear," intoned the old Oriental.
"Yiii!" hissed the assembled Crips and Bloods. They backed away. They had no desire to see their jackets soiled when the old Oriental's neck stump began to pump blood all over the place, because his head wasn't there to receive it.
"You gonna take that?" asked a Crip.
"Little Father," the white dude said simply. "I have just one thing to tell you."
"I am not interested, stealer of sweethearts."
The Crips and Bloods shrank further. They were fighting over a chick. Somebody was bound to die.
"Cheeta Ching is going to cover Esperanza's speech."
"Quick!" Chiun shrieked, pointing to the paper snowfall of campaign posters at their feet. "The posters! They must be in their proper places! The streets must be cleaned! I do not want to see a speck of dust when the beauteous Cheeta comes!"
The Crips and Bloods frowned, like a bas-relief of basalt idols.
"He crazy?" Dexter demanded of the white dude.
"Better do what he says," Remo put in. "When he gets excited like that, even I get nervous."
The faces of the assembled Crips and Bloods went from the cold mask of the white dude they all feared to the frowning face of the wispy Oriental, with stupefaction growing in their eyes.
"You, afraid? Of him?" asked one.