But Chiun held the video away from Remo. Curious eyes darted to the cover.
The rectangle of cardboard under a sheet of laminate was a shrunken version of the poster Remo had torn from the Bombshell store window. When Chiun read the title, his eyes grew wide with rage.
"What is this?" he demanded.
"I warned you," Remo replied. "Give it here." He made another fruitless grab at the box.
"How long have you known of this?" Chiun accused.
"I just found out tonight. It only came out this week."
Angry, Chiun flipped the plastic case around in his hand. Remo knew what he was looking for. He also knew that the Master of Sinanju wouldn't find it.
"Where is my name?" Chiun demanded hotly, glancing up at his pupil. His eyes were furious.
"I think that's it." Remo pointed at a name three lines up from the movie's director.
Chiun's eyes squeezed to walnut slits. "That is not my name," he said levelly. Every word dripped menace.
"It must be some kind of mistake," Remo offered with a shrug. "No one contacted you to make sure it was right?"
"Of course not," the old man spit viciously. "Do you think for one minute I would have allowed this-this slur to pass without my notice?" He brandished the video like a dagger beneath Remo's nose, so that his pupil could read the name on the box.
" 'Mr. Chin,'" Remo read obediently.
Chiun clapped palms to ears. "Do not speak it aloud!" he shrieked.
"It sounds Chinese."
"A worse insult there has never been," Chiun lamented, hands still pressed to the sides of his head. The video box stuck out like an angry black dorsal fin. "Why did they not make me Thai, or the lowest of the low-French?"
"I think I've got an explanation," Remo said. "Did you tell them you were Master Chiun?"
The Korean's shoulders straightened. "It was a term of respect. Something you would not understand."
"Oh, I understand," Remo nodded. "They thought Master was Mister."
"And this offense?" Chiun demanded, dropping his hands. His long, tapered index fingernail quivered as he indicated the name Chin.
"A simple typo," Remo suggested.
"Rest assured, simple type O will flood the streets of Hollywood when I lay hands on he who is responsible for this egregious insult," the Master of Sinanju warned.
"Before it gets that far, maybe we should check the movie itself."
"Why?" Chiun snapped. "What use is it to burrow inside a garbage heap?" He flung the box away in disgust.
"Because," Remo said reasonably, snatching up the video before it hit the floor, "it might not be wrong on the tape. I was going to check after you went to bed."
He popped open the box, removing the videotape. Chiun dogged him into the living room. Remo stopped in front of the VCR. After more than twenty years and a succession of replacements, he still wasn't sure how to use the device.
"You are saying that the mistake might only be on the case?" Chiun pressed from his elbow.
"I don't know," Remo said, frowning as he studied the VCR. "Does that top-hat-looking symbol mean on?"
Clucking, Chiun tugged the cassette from Remo's hand. With a slap, he fed the tape into the VCR. Whirring, the machine loaded the tape and began to play automatically.
As it ran through the first of several commercials, Remo picked up the universal remote and switched on the big-screen TV. In the meantime, Chiun settled to a lotus position on the floor before the television.
"Can't we fast-forward this?" Remo complained as the tape ran through an ad for the second Die Down film.
"Shh!"
Remo sank to the floor, as well, careful to stay out of hand or foot range. He braced his chin on one hand. In addition to commercials for the first three Die Down movies, there were ads for a soft drink, a candy bar, a minivan, two competing software companies and an upcoming animated feature from the Walt Disney company.
"I thought people rented movies to get away from ads," Remo griped as the commercials passed the twenty-minute mark.
"Leave the room if you cannot be quiet," Chiun ordered.
He had barely spoken before the movie finally started.
The opening credits were superimposed over a scene depicting some sort of terrorist training camp. Apparently, it was supposed to be in Ireland if the pathetic accents the actors were attempting were any indication. To Remo, they all sounded like bad versions of the leprechaun from the Lucky Charms ads.
When the screen terrorists began to slaughter a group of drug-dealing Catholic church officials, Remo sat straighter. The scene appeared to be coming to an end, which meant the credits had to be almost over.
As a blood-smeared bishop carrying an Uzi he'd had hidden in his miter dropped in slow motion into an open grave, the thing they had both been waiting for finally appeared: "Story by Quintly Tortilli "
"Aiiee!"
The scream rose up from the wounded depths of Chiun's very soul. So quickly did the old man spring from the floor, not even Remo's highly trained eyes could follow. The Master of Sinanju materialized next to the VCR in an instant. He slammed his hand to the machine's face.
As Chiun ejected the tape, Remo jumped to his feet.
"Chiun, wait-!" Too late.
The tape popped out into Chiun's bony hand. The other hand swung around, kimono sleeve billowing like an angry black cloud. When the hands met, the tape between them was pulverized to tiny black shards. Spools of black tape exploded out either side.
Chiun dusted the plastic fragments to the floor. "Heads will roll!" he exploded.
Remo ignored the tirade. He knelt beside the smashed remains of the videotape.
"Dammit, Chiun, I rented that with my card," he complained. "Now I'm gonna have to pay for it."
"Oh, someone will pay," Chiun intoned seriously, his face a menacing mask. "But it will not be you."
With that, the old Korean spun on his heel and stormed from the room. When he slammed his bedroom door a moment later, the entire house shook with the vibrations. Remo felt the rattling dissipate beneath the soles of his loafers.