Brain Storm by Richard Sapir, Warren Murphy Read Free Book Online Page B

a long-nailed finger at the bag Remo had brought from New York.
    4'Dinner," Remo explained. 44It's my turn, remember?"
    With the sharpened nail of his index finger, Chiun harpooned the bag, splitting it from stem to stern with a delicate flip of his bony hand. The white foam container within the bag burst open beneath the razor-sharp fingernail. The gooey red contents poured out across the gleaming surface like the bloody in-nards of some eviscerated marsupial.
    "Aiyeee!" Chiun screeched. "What is this refuse?"
    Remo took up a haughty tone. "I'll have you know that is what passes for white rice at one of the most talked-about restaurants in New York City."
    The tip of his index finger quivered as Chiun extended it toward the mess on the table. "If this is what these talkers consume, then they are either dead or deranged."
    "Actually a little of both," Remo admitted, with a shrug. "I'll get the plates." He began rooting through the cupboards for their place settings.
    "This reeks of the pummeled-tomato concoction the Romans once brewed to make food that is already unpalatable even less so."
    "Them's good eatin's," Remo agreed. He placed their plates carefully on the taboret and scooped out a healthy portion from the large pile. He dropped the goo into the center of each stoneware dish.
    Chiun raised a curious eyebrow and sank to the floor in a kneeling position across from Remo. He didn't speak another word.
    Ordinarily Remo didn't use a fork, but he had retrieved one from a drawer near the sink. He scooped up a large forkful of the tomato-rice glop. He raised it to his lips.
    Chiun watched, his face etched in stone.
    Remo brought the fork to his lips. He opened his mouth. He paused, waiting for Chiun to speak.
    As placid as a spring leaf on an early-morning pond, the Master of Sinanju regarded his pupil.
    Inwardly Remo frowned. He moved the fork
    closer, nearly in his mouth.
    All at once, he caught a green blur of Chiun's kimono sleeve and felt the pressure of four bony fingers against his forearm. Quick as a flash, the forkful of rice was in his mouth.
    Remo gagged at the taste. His throat clenched re-flexively, and he sprang from the floor, running to the sink. He spit out every repellent morsel, then rinsed his mouth under the running faucet and picked grains of slimy rice from around his teeth with the tip of his tongue. "Dammit, Chiun, that wasn't funny."
    Chiun, looking as innocent as a newborn child, watched Remo as he continued to spit bits of food into the sink. "It was my impression that a moment ago it was the pinnacle of hilarity."
    "C'mon, Chiun, it was just a joke."
    "You would like the Borgias, Remo. lliey, too, found humor in poisons." Chiun rose. "And if we have dispensed with this evening's comedy, I believe it is your turn to make dinner."
    "Okay, I'll order out," Remo said glumly. His cheery mood had all but evaporated.
    "That is of no concern to me," Chiun declared, breezing from the room.
    "White or brown?" Remo called after him.
    Chiun's squeaky voice floated back from the hallway. "Brown rice. And carp."
    "We had carp last night," Remo countered.
    "How about duck?"
    "Carp," Chiun repeated. "And if the offensive odor from that offal on the table still clings to your garments when my meal arrives, you may eat out by the garbage pail." And to punctuate the ultimatum, a distant door slammed shut.

    An hour later, showered and fed, Remo sat back with Chiun to watch the evening news.
    Though as a rule the Master of Sinanju didn't enjoy watching the nightly news, he did so on occasion to monitor—as he put it—the "daily degeneration of so-called Western society." There was a time in his life when an evening wouldn't pass without Chiun seated squarely in front of the broadcast image of news anchor Bev Woo, for whom the Master of Sinanju had developed a particular fondness. He had cooled to her of late, and those moments when he stumbled upon the anchorwoman he became almost plaintive. Woo was off tonight,