BRAWL ROOM

Destroyer: The Adventures of Remo & Chiun

By JOHN SIMCOE

Dr. Harold W. Smith was a man who loved statistics. By collecting the right data from any given set of facts a wealth of information was to be had.. From those numbers, patterns and trends would emerge. It often took a little bit of massaging and great deal of intuition, but eventually, a person could find those trends.

For Smith, number-crunching had become a life-long passion. As executive director of CURE, he had been doing it for more than 40 years. Luckily for him, he had access to one of the world’s most powerful computer systems.

It was in the basement of the Folcroft Institute, a mental hospital in Rye, N.Y., he operated as a cover for his true mission, to seek out and destroy all threats to America. Of course, he didn’t do this by his own direction. Many years ago, when Smith was a fresh-faced ivy-league graduate, he was approached by the President of the United States and told that he was needed by his country.

Smith took up the challenge. he began his search for a remedy to America’s ills. That remedy turned out to be CURE. When he first began his new job, Smith operated discreetly. He remembered the time when his computers and contacts brought Smith information about a Mafia boss’ plan to ship thousands of leftover automatic weapons from the Vietnam War to America. In a typical CURE response, Smith fed launch codes to a ballistic missile inside a British submarine. The missile launched and sank the weapons-laden ship. America was saved.

Of course, the British navy never figured out what happened. They blamed the launch on an accidental electrical charge. The Brits had no clue it was the doing of a gray-faced man sitting at a fancy desk thousands of miles away. Smith, as usual, had fooled them.

Similar situations played out again and again in the early years of CURE. Information trickled in about an impending doom and Smith tricked someone else into reacting to it. But occasionally, the information was so vague, so seemingly inconsequential that Smith had no one to turn too for “help.”

That’s when Smith discovered Sinanju, a tiny village in North Korea that was the home of an ancient line of assassins. The assassins were open to the highest bidder and eager for long-term contracts. Smith figured there would be nothing to lose, so he offered quadruple what the competing bids were, and brought the Reigning Master of Sinanju to America.

As part of the deal, Smith insisted that an American be trained in the ways of Sinanju, the martial art named after its birthplace, and that’s how he got Remo Williams.

With Remo and Reigning Master Chiun, Smith finally had the missing piece to CURE. He had field operatives. Agents that could explore an anomaly and expunge it from the American landscape.

The latest anomaly proved especially puzzling.

This was one of those times where he couldn’t just press a button and clear up a problem. This would require the services of Remo and Chiun.

Smith was looking at a computer-enhanced map that centered itself on Baltimore, Maryland. Beyond Baltimore, the map spread out into Delaware, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Virginia, West Virginia and Washington.

Bright red outlines that looped each of the major cities and encircled a statistical curiosity Smith had uncovered with his computers.

Each outline designated the outer commuter zone for each city. Inside those circles swam a sea of mostly yellow flags and an occasional blue flag.

The yellow flags illustrated the home addresses of 20- to 38-year-old men with incomes of $30,000 or more and who had visited a nearby hospital, complaining of massive bruises, broken bones or tears in their skin associated with blunt trauma. The blue flags were of those men who died of similar injuries.

Smith then factored in another subset. This time, he added a category that pinpointed the addresses of similarly aged men with similar incomes who committed brazen crimes, ones that were reported as “out of character” by those who knew them. For this category, he assigned the color orange.

Smith hit the enter key and watched the screen get a peppering of orange flags. More than 90 percent fell inside the red jagged outlines.

Smith toggled his computer screen to another window. This one was of a similar area, with similar markings, minus the borders showing commuting distance. With the borders eliminated gone, his criteria for placement of the yellow and blue flags had changed. Commuting distance was no longer a factor, but despite that there was decidedly less yellow, orange and blue flags. Granted there were some, but to Smith, those marks represented the norm. The flags concentrated near the city proved his theory.

Some new deadly trend had emerged in America. One of the most productive segments of the work force had begun to beat itself to death.

Smith didn’t like that idea. It was obvious from the way the pattern poured across the map, that it was an organized campaign. It sprang up in Baltimore, then spread to its satellite cities of Towson, Glen Burnie and the others. It then jumped to Washington, Philadelphia, Richmond, Harrisburg, Atlantic City and Wilmington. It was growing all right, and Smith had to stop it.

The break in the case, the one that turned it from a statistical blip to a case worthy of the practitoners of Sinanju, was the death of Ed Pittman.

Pittman, a web designer for Parker Paper Clip Company, was an extremely average guy with a typical Peter Pan-syndrome. He was on sports teams and had season tickets. But then Ed suddenly and inexplicably went on a shooting and robbing rampage in downtown Baltimore just two days ago.

His profile — that of a 20 to 40 year old educated man with no real criminal past — almost precisely matched those of many of the other victims who dotted the Baltimore area. His death was a bit different, instead of being beaten to death or jumping out of a moving train like the other victims had, Pittman was shot to death by the police.

Smith read the newspaper accounts of the incident with interest, knowing of the bizarre statistics his computer had been churning out.

Using the very same computers, he accessed the Baltimore City Police Department records, as he had done with hundreds of law enforcement agencies over the years. Inside those police memorybanks, he found the officers’ accounts on the incidents.

Most of the reports were the standard “Subject fled southbound on Rte. 43/Liverpool Avenue, Officer 2041 pursued in Car 638” or “Subject exited overturned truck, began to fire weapon.”

But one, filed by Patrolwoman Josephine Lyons, listed in the report as Officer 3132, claimed to hear Ed Pittman’s dying words.

The report read, “3132 approached suspect. 3132 observed wounds in suspect’s chest, right arm and neck. Suspect said ‘Brawl Room’ twice and then became unresponsive.”

Ed Pittman’s dying words brought the case together.

He gave Smith something to work from. Or more accurately, he gave Remo and Chiun something to work from.

___________

Remo had arrived at Folcroft much later in the day than he had expected. His flight out of Chicago was delayed by rain. The drive from the airport to Rye was nothing short of awful.

Still though, as the leather-seated sedan rolled into the parking lot of the hospital, Remo found himself in good spirits.

The entire trip back he’d been amused with his purchase at the art gallery. He knew Chiun would hate it, as he hated most things that Americans produced. Baseball, apple pie, Davey Crockett. Chiun had not an ounce of love for any of it. Sure, he didn’t even like the things of more universal appeal that had sprouted up in America. The kind of stuff that couldn’t help but be there. He hated American air, American dirt and American trees. If it wasn’t from Korea, or at the very least made by people of Korean blood, Chiun was repulsed.

So a piece of American creativity was sure to end up on the trash heap if Chiun had anything to do with it, but not before Remo had an opportunity to make him feel bad about it.

Remo parked and reached in the back seat. He had no other baggage from his trip than the painting. He rarely packed for trips anymore. In fact, he really didn’t have much to pack.

He always wore the same kinds of clothes — all black and loose fitting. Any other wardrobe tended to restrict his movement and interfere with his perfectly regulated breathing.

His sparseness extended into personal effects, too. He had none, not even the simplest things. As a Sinanju assassin, his mind controlled his body in ways normal humans could only dream. He had learned how to regulate the growth of hair on his face, so he never needed to shave. He no longer sweated unless he wanted to, which made deodorant useless. He could even choose exactly how his feet struck the ground when he walked so that the sole of his shoes lasted longer. The ways of Sinanju were thorough and all-encompassing.

Remo glided up to a side door of the Folcroft building, opened it and seemed to float down the steps to where he shared quarters with his teacher, Chiun.

Chiun sat quietly on a mat, his legs folded and arms balanced on his knees. The gold embroidered dragon from his kimono shot vibrant reflections of sunlight around the room.

Remo walked in smiling, hiding the brown-paper wrapped picture behind him. “Remo, I heard your big white feet smacking at the pavement since you shut your vehicle door.” Chiun said, not opening his eyes.

“Yeah, well my big white feet do that every once and a while.”

“You are trained to walk as the wind, yet you come thundering like a cow.”

Remo rolled his eyes. “Well to you, that’s what it sounds like to you, but not to anyone else.”

The aged Korean smiled briefly at the compliment. “But perhaps others were listening. You should consider sawing off your big white feet and finding a Korean pair as replacements.”

“I offed the art dealer,” Remo said.

“And was this art dealer anything remarkable?”

“Aw no, not at all,” Remo said as he thumped the painting with his fingers. “A real piece of cake. Fruit cake, mind you, but a breeze other than that.”

“Good, it pleases me that there is one less pale-skinned moron on this planet,” Chiun sniffed.

“And while I was out there, I bought you something,” Remo said with a goofy smile.

Chiun’s eyes snapped open. “A gift?”

“For you,” Remo said, thrusting the package toward his master.

Chiun sprang up from his mat and he floated over to Remo. His eyes welled as he grasped the package.

“For me?” Chiun managed. “I know you have long felt shame for your whiteness, and it is good that you now choose to lavish me with gifts. I shall remember this day in the scrolls.”

“Hey,” Remo smiled, “I try to make it Christmas everyday.”

“Christmas?” Chiun asked and then studied the package. “This is part of that tradition?”

“Suuure,” Remo said reassuringly.

Chiun looked at the package again. His eyes thinned. “Then why isn’t this in the traditional packaging?”

“Packaging? It’s wrapped. What do you expect? It’s the middle of August!” Remo defended.

“If you celebrate your Day of the Unnatural Birth everyday, then you should be prepared to do so,” Chiun sniffed and pushed the package back into Remo’s hands. “Now go do it properly.”

“Properly? You can see it’s wrapped!” Remo exclaimed.

“I want the traditional gaudy wrapping associated with the holiday,” Chiun pouted. “But none with that reverse sneak-thief.”

“Reverse sneak-thief?” Remo asked, rubbing his head.

“The obtuse one who tortures innocent hinds.”

<> “Innocent hinds?”

“Deer, you oaf. The one who makes the deer fly! The one who’s stupid enough to break into dwellings and leave things instead of taking things!” Chiun snapped. “Santa Claus?” Remo complained. “You’re not going to start this again are you?” Remo had suffered through Chuin’s anti-Christmas diatribes more than once.

“Yes, the blubbery one,” Chiun conceded. “I have prayed for years Emperor Smith would send us upon his trail.”

“But he’s not —”

“If you wish to present me with your gift as an apology for your scores of misdeeds, then I want it wrapped as your tradition suggests.”

“Just open it!” Remo demanded.

“I refuse until it’s properly decorated,” Chiun complained.

“Fine,” Remo said storming out the door. He realized that this wasn’t as much fun as he thought it would be.

_________

Remo burst in and stampeded through the door to Smith’s office.

As usual, Remo had subconsciously avoided every electronic sensor Smith had placed around his office.

“Smitty, he’s driving me nutzo!”

“Remo, I’m glad you’re here,” Smith said, his gray eyes never wavering from his computer screen. “We have a situation.”

Remo opened up one of the closets in Smith’s office. It contained a vacuum cleaner and bottles upon bottles of cleaning supplies. “Don’t I know it! Where in world can I find some goddamn wrapping paper?”

“In Baltimore,” Smith continued.

“No that’s too far of a drive,” Remo said as he turned to a cabinet. He opened it. Inside were the blinking lights of a PC processing tower.

Smith looked up. “Remo, what are you doing?” Remo pulled an artificial plant from its pot and looked inside. Dust that had collected since the second Reagan administration wafted from the leaves.

“My kingdom for some wrapping paper!” Remo yelled, shaking his fists at the air. Smith’s face crinkled. “Remo, we have a situation in Baltimore. I need to activate Chiun and yourself.”

“It can wait,” Remo ordered. “Do you think they might have some in the lobby?” “Remo, we need to act immediately.”

“Ten minutes,” Remo said through a closing door. “Gimme ten minutes!”

________

A blue phone in Remo and Chiun’s quarters came alive. It tootled quietly twice before its annoying tone pulled Chiun from his meditation.

The Master of Sinanju did not like phones. The device was an invention of the white race and meant to enslave the slack-minded. Even worse, one could never know who was on the other end.

However, in this case, Chiun knew it was one of two people. Remo, the shame of Sinanju, or Emperor Smith, absolute Monarch of the United States of America.

Chiun always referred to Smith this way because for centuries, the Masters of Sinanju had worked directly for the rulers of the countries of the world. Following that logic, Smith must be the ruler of this land, as a Master of Sinanju would never work for a man of a lesser position.

Chiun decided it was Emperor Smith and rose from his meditation. He walked out the door of the basement. As he navigated the stairs, not a single creak or groan came from the floorboards of the aged building. The whisp-haired Korean was as silent as a winter night.

Two minutes later, Smith was still on the other end of the blue phone, waiting for Remo to pick up when the Master of Sinanju entered. Smith settled the receiver back into its cradle.

“Master Chiun, I was just trying to reach Remo,” Smith said.

“Yes, I know. I came to tell you that he was not there,” Chiun said and turned to leave, pleased his message had been delivered.

“Master Chiun, wait. I’m going to send Remo and yourself out to investigate something.”

Chiun wheeled back around. “The Masters of Sinanju are not to be used as a substitute for that dullard, Sherman Holmes.”

“Yes,” Smith said, not bothering to correct the old man. “But I’ll be doing most of the investigation here. I just need you to collect data and be ready to strike.”

Remo came back into the office.

<> “There you are, Little Father. Here’s your gift,” Remo gleamed. He held out the newly wrapped painting. The artwork had a thick layer of gauze medical tape strung around it.

“Thank you,” Chiun smiled. “I accept this as your apology for your sun-deprived skin and round, fat eyes.”

Remo smiled back and then turned to Smith. “It’s a gift,” he said, pointing at the package. “I bought it with the CURE credit card. Six-thousand buckaroos plus tax.”

Smith grimaced.

Chiun sliced at the the gauze with his razor-sharp fingernails, sending white fluff floating in the air-conditioned office. They skated around in the air until they settled on to the icy gray carpet.

Under the gauze, was the brown wrapping. Chiun shot Remo a suspect glance and then tore off the paper.

The Korean flipped the painting right side up, studied it for a second as horror crossed his face. He wasn’t happy. Instead he let out a scream that fell just a decibels short of shattering every piece of glass in Smith’s office.

The painting fell to the floor. Chiun’s knees weakened as he stumbled backward. Remo caught him as he collapsed.

“Chiun! Little Father!” Remo exclaimed.

Chiun’s eyes flitted open, he saw Remo’s face above him and let out another shriek.

“Get your clumsy hamburger-holders off me!” Chiun screeched as he pulled himself from Remo’s grasp.

“Master Chiun, are you hurt?” Smith asked.

“Yeah, whatsamatter?”

“Do not play the fool with me you pale-skinned Judas!” Chiun screamed. “You know your crime!”

“First off, Judas WAS pale skinned. And second, I have no clue what you’re talkin’ about!”

“That!” Chiun said, pointing a gnarled finger at the painting, “It is an ancient rune meant to bring death upon the viewer! You, fiend, mean to expunge me from this world!”

Remo looked at the painting. “It’s just a —”

“LIES!” Chiun howled. “You’re foul scheme is uncovered! This is exactly how Master Jun was removed by his apprentice, the vile Junju! He killed Jun with a sorcerous spell and ascended to Reigning Master!”

“I don’t give a flying pig whether I’m a Reigning Master!"

“Master Chiun, I’m sure —” Smith started.

Remo picked up the painting and shoved it into Smith’s view. “Look, Smitty, it’s just a piece of shit slop of paint.”

“No, Emperor! It will bring the gim rapist upon your soul!” Chiun exclaimed and reached a shaking hand toward the painting.

Smith eyed the canvas. The blue wedge reminded him of a stealth bomber and the yellow blobs a series of flares exploding around it.

“Master Chiun, I think it’s just a sample of modern art,” Smith offered.

“It is a sample of how Remo can take even his most sacred holiday, the Day of the Unnatural Birth, and twist it for his own conspiracy against me!” Chiun explained.

“Little Father, we shouldn’t be fighting in front of —” Remo bobbed his head toward Smith and continued in a low tone, “— the Emperor.”

Chiun’s eyes thinned. He darted them to Smith and then back to Remo. “Yes, I concur, but Emperor, please forgive me if I keep close watch on this would-be usurper!”

“Whatever,” Remo said, throwing his hands up. “Smitty, what have you got for us?”

“Yes, uh, we have a situation in Baltimore,” Smith began. “It seems that a particular subsection of the population is beating itself to death, how I’m not completely sure.”

“Yeah, so what?” Remo replied.

“This group is comprised entirely of young college-educated males who work for some of the region’s most prominent employers.” Smith studied a screen full of names. “They’re accountants, lawyers, salesmen, junior executives. In the last six months, more than 1,000 have wound up in the hospital and 62 have been killed. More reports are coming in every day too.”

Remo folded his arms. “I say the less yuppies on this Earth, the better. Anyway, it’s probably just a serial killer or something.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Smith said still studying the list. “Despite the basic similarities, the victims are too diverse and of those that weren’t killed, they all offer explanations other than being attacked. Still, there’s something going on. Something very strange.”

Chiun had yet to blink. His eyes watched Remo’s movement. His ears tuned to the minute sounds of Remo’s breathing and the grind of his bones as he shifted in place.

“I want you and Master Chiun to infiltrate Parker Paper Clip Corporation. There seems to be an inordinate amount of casualties in that company. Despite the rather pedestrian name, the company has dozens of subdivisions including office supplies, real estate, munitions and foodstuffs. You need to find clues,” Smith said, as he took a drink from a lukewarm cup of water.

“In particular, you need to try to find out about what seems to be the key clue to this, something called ‘Brawl Room,’” he added.

“Brawl Room?” Remo asked. “What’s a Brawl Room?”

“I’m not sure,” Smith admitted. “But it’s all we have to go on so far.

Additionally, you can obtain the police report from an Officer Josephine Lyons. She apparently heard the dying words of Edward Michael Pittman, one of these people I’ve been studying.”

“But really, Smitty, why do we care if a buncha college jerkoffs are beating the pus out of one another?”

“Because, Remo, this phenomenon is spreading. Spreading just like a —” Smith stopped, his eyes grew wide as he thought. In a frantic, sudden scramble, he jumped on to a Web site devoted to economics. He zipped through a few screens and then came to a page offering automated computer models. He started a model called “Product Dispersement Based on Word-of-Mouth Sales.”

Remo walked around to see Smith’s computer screen.

The model showed a map of a sample city as its streets began to be lined with dots. The dots, the screen said, represented the sale of any hot new product that was purchased by one person who then liked it enough to recommend it to a friend, who then recommended it to another and so on.

Remo and Smith watched as the dots filled the city and then jumped to a suburb, and then another and another. Then the dots shot down a highway and struck another city, where the whole process started over again and then leaped to another city.

Smith realized the pattern was nearly identical to the one he had been charting for the last few weeks.

Smith rolled back in his chair, stunned at the find. “It’s spreading — just like a fad!”