Cancel that: the second greatest assassin on earth. He was the latest in the unbroken line of Masters of Sinanju. A small, thin, wizened Korean was the keeper of the sun source of all martial artistry. It was this man, the Reigning Master of Sinanju, who had taken the fresh-from-the-grave Remo Williams and taught him proper breathing, correct diet, and more importantly, how to fully utilize the incredible powers locked in his sleeping mind and body so that he could become the enforcement arm for CURE, a government organization so secret only the President knew it existed.
Remo watched. The terrapin-Remo thought he was Porthos-was systematically being pummeled to the ground by ninja nunchuks. But before they could deliver the killing blow, Aramis, Athos, and d'Artagnan popped up from a manhole cover and sent the ninjas flying in all directions.
To Remo's eyes, it looked painfully slow and staged.
The audience went crazy; laughing and hooting and throwing things. A butterfly knife sailed up at the screen and impaled the blonde neatly in her cleavage.
Remo sighed. It hadn't been this much of a zoo when he was young.
His gaze settled on a man in the front row, over on the right aisle, and his face froze. It was Tarantula, reputed head of the Spanish Spiders, and he was taking advantage of the din to tell someone across the aisle what he thought of him.
The object of his abuse was watching the screen intently, but his body was twisted in the seat toward Tarantula, and there were at least a dozen teens on either side of the aisle who were intently interested in his response to the verbal abuse.
Remo exhaled slowly through his nose.
So much for an evening lost in popcorn aroma and nostalgia. Taking the tub of popped corn with him, Remo started to move sideways down the row. He slid easily across the sticky cement, as if the soles of his Italian loafers had been impregnated with anti-stick.
". . . you marachita," Tarantula finished, snapping his head sideways as if in punctuation. Then he leaned back, having vented his rage, and waited for Faroom, Supreme Sheik of Allah's Swarm, to respond. His posse lounged around him on the Spanish Spiders' side of the cinema, their leers mocking, and their attitudes saying that Faroom couldn't possibly match their leader's invective.
But their smiles disappeared as Dum-Dum Dudley, the teen beside Faroom, started spitting a bass beat, and Faroom himself began spewing an obviously prepared rap.
Obvious, because it was so tight. There was no way anyone could do that off the top of his head. The words were coarse, and the rhymes vicious. They told Tarantula what he could do, where he could do it, and with whom.
Tarantula's face became an onyx sculpture, and his baseball jacket billowed open. His fingers reached quickly inside, and his hand yawned open to grip the shining, nickel-plated handle of the weapon within the tan leather shoulder holster.
Remo flicked a kernel of popcorn in the tough's direction.
"Snack?" he asked, simultaneously shoving the cardboard tub under Tarantula's nose.
Tarantula's hand came out of his jacket as if his namesake had bitten it, and stared dumbstruck at the crushed popcorn petal imbedded like shrapnel in his hand. He looked to his right just as his main man seemed to vault up in midair back first, then land in the lap of another thug in the row behind him.
Suddenly Remo was sitting beside him, rooting around in the popcorn, intent on the screen. "The movie's pretty lousy," he remarked. "But the floor show's good."
Tarantula looked at Remo, who added, "I see you've finished your popcorn. Care to try some of mine?"
The Spanish Spiders started to rise from their seats, but Tarantula held up his bleeding hand. "You better haul butt out of here, you anglo fruit," he spat.
Remo just kept taking fistfuls of popcorn, looking at them sadly, and dropping them on the floor. "It's a pity," he said. "You can't even go out to the movies anymore."
"Whatchu talkin' about, man?"
"Oh, you know what I'm talking about, Tyrant. May I call you Tyrant?"
"The name's Tarantula, jack-off," the teenager spat at him.
"The name's Remo, Tyrant. I don't suppose you've ever heard of me? I used to be a big name in these parts."
"You're nuts, you know that, man?"
"No, but I am ticked off," Remo said casually, dropping more popcorn. "You want to know why? I'll tell you why. Because I love this place. This is the place where I learned what heroes are all about. They gave me hope, and made me want to make the world better."
Remo took a fistful of popcorn. "Then you and your buddies come along and turn the place into a shooting gallery. Bad enough you do it on the streets-my streets-but at least you know where each other live. Here, you outnumber the innocent bystanders ten-to-one."
He squeezed his fist, and the popcorn turned to glittering powder. He let it stream out of his hand. "Now nobody comes to the movies anymore. They stay home, cowering in their living rooms, watching videos. You're killing movies. You know what that means?"
The gang made a move toward him, but Tarantula stopped them again. "No, anglo. What's it mean?"
Remo looked at him and smiled like a skull, rolling a popcorn kernel on his thumbnail with his forefinger. "It means that when this generation grows up, there'll be less people like me, and more people like you. And that pisses the hell out of me."
Tarantula gave him his biggest death's-head smile-the kind that doesn't involve the eyes. "Well, don't you worry about it, baby." He quickly reached into his jacket. "Because you're a dead man!"
Remo let him pull out the gun. He let the others reach for theirs. Then he flicked the single popcorn kernel on this thumb into Tarantula's right eye.
The piece of popcorn shot across the small distance like a barbed-wire BB pellet, and had the same effect.
The popped edges of the kernel tore open Tarantula's pupil, and the corn heart wedged deep in his cornea. He screamed, as Remo lightly gripped the thick rectangular barrel of the huge automatic weapon.
"That a custom job?" he said lightly. "Looks it. I don't know much about guns. They dilute the art."
Tarantula was in no mood to answer. He continued to scream and turn, one hand over his eye, trying to keep the blood and ocular fluid in. To the others, it looked as if he and Remo were dancing around an invisible maypole.
"Fifteen rounds," Remo judged, examining the weapon. "Nickel-plated. Must've set you back a ton of crack."
Tarantula fixed him with his good eye, brought the gun down until it was against Remo's nose, and pulled the trigger.
Tarantula's right-hand man went down, a smoking crater in his chest. Which was weird, since he stood off to the left.
"Smart move," said Remo, as the rest of the audience started to scream and bolt. "Can't shoot people in the head around here. Skull shrapnel really flies."
Tarantula screamed again. His arm had somehow been moved so it was pointing off to his left. He brought it around until it was against Remo's right breast, and pulled the trigger again.
Something propelled it away. Something too fast to be seen.
Dum-Dum Dudley, coincidentally named for the kind of bullet that killed him, went down next to Faroom.
Ignoring the stampeding audience, the Spanish Spiders and Allah's Swarm all took out their guns-with Remo and Tarantula in the middle.
Tarantula hit the carpet and rolled for his life.
The two street gangs started firing at each other. Normally they'd all miss, hitting a variety of innocent bystanders, but this time they had Remo to contend with. What their bullets didn't accomplish, his hands did.
He weaved among them, pushing and pulling gang members so that ripping lead smashed between ribs and into hearts. He spun, knocking them into the line of fire, jerking their wrists and guns so that their own shots found their marks.
It was like a macabre ballet. Remo was a blur, always one step ahead of death, and although the seats and floor became spattered with blood drops he remained unsprinkled by gore.
Finally the crackle of gunfire abated, and there was no one left but Faroom and Tarantula, who stood on the opposite sides of the wide aisle staring at each other in stunned silence. Remo leaned against the stage. He watched the two gang leaders impassively as the film continued to roll.