The Final Reel

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"What does it mean 'does not fit our needs at the present time'?" This did Chiun, Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju, the sun source of all the lesser martial arts, ask of his pupil one sunny spring afternoon.

Chiun was an old Asian with walnut skin. His youthful hazel eyes were crimped in concentration at their leather vellum edges. A frown creased the parchment skin of his brow, casting an unhappy shadow across his weathered countenance as he examined the sheet of paper held in his aged hand.

"Give it here," said his pupil, Remo Williams. Taking the paper from Chiun, the much younger man scanned the few lines on the crisp sheet. He chewed languidly at his bowl of cold steamed rice as he read.

"It's a form letter," Remo said finally. "You've been rejected for something called Trials of an Assassin. Have you been writing novels behind my back again?"

Chiun snatched the paper back, face angry. "None of your business," he sniffed hotly. And, turning on a sandaled heel, he skulked off to a dark corner of their home.

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