Dream Thing

“They’re having a go at it twenty years from now,” exclaimed the disk jockey over a fading Toyah Wilcox track. “Bodies are piling up in London. There are reports that more than a thousand Scots have converged in Piccadilly to do battle with riot police. Scotland Yard spokesmen earlier said they’re pleased that the gangs are coming together of their own accord as it will make it easier to take them under police control. But the latest reports say the riot squads are being driven back and British army commandos are going in to do the job. Proof positive that the twenty-first century is completely blinking mad! We recommend you stay right here with us, in good old 1985!”

A synthesizer began repeating a soulless two-chord progression.

“I believe the announcer is delusional,” Chiun observed.

“Sounds like the Mad Scots aren’t lying down easy.”

“I do not believe it. The Scottish could never threaten Britain’s stability.”

“We’ll see in a minute,” Remo said. He balanced on the seat with half a back and considered Smitty’s dire warnings. The growing agitation all over the world had resulted in city-wide riots. The problem was that the agitation was general. Sure, a bunch of Scottish thugs were causing all the trouble now, but there had been reports of Londoners turning aggressive. And not just the lowlifes. Regular, middle-class English citizens were starting to join the fight against the Scottish invaders. If those numbers grew, the battle could consume the city and shut down the British government for days—or indefinitely. Even Remo was having a hard time buying into it.

Chiun interrupted his thoughts. “We are instructed to bypass the peccadillo in Piccadilly.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with that bird,” Remo said. “Did you just say something dirty?”

“No. Emperor Smith requests us to not engage the street thugs in London. Instead, we are to go directly to the Scottish castle.”

“Why?” Remo demanded.

“The Emperor will explain it all when we are on the helicopter.”

“What helicopter?”

Chiun’s breath control was perfect. He didn’t need to sigh, but he did sigh, the sound of a man who has endured unfathomable irritation for an eternity. “The helicopter that will take us to the castle in Scotland.”

“Where are we supposed to catch the helicopter?” Remo asked. “Wouldn’t the airport have been a likely place?”

Chiun explained as if he were teaching a child to keep his hand away from the open flame. “The Emperor did not see much chance that I would intercept you at the airport. Therefore he bade me to travel to the Piccadilly battle zone and locate you there. The helicopter is standing by.”

“Got it,” Remo said. “So Smitty’s not expecting us to phone in right away. We’ve got some extra breathing room.”

“I do not require extra breathing room. I breathe perfectly.”

“I’m pretty good at it, too. Here we are.”

The streets were deserted and they soon began showing the telltale signs of battle. Destruction. Bodies. Remo stopped the cab when they reached the outskirts of the violence.

Troublemakers in bloodstained kilts had a scraggly band of riot police trapped against a brick wall. The cops’ riot gear was now in the hands of the Mad Scots, who were using the clear acrylic shields to bash the London police in the head and face. There were only a couple of survivors left; bodies were everywhere.

“Watch this!” barked a happy killer as he brought the shield down on the face of a riot cop who was begging for his life. The cop’s face flattened against the shield. The bloody, crushed expression was vivid for a moment, then the face slid off and the man collapsed in a pile. “Lookit that! Haw!”

“Let me try.” Another Mad Scot raised his shield over his head, but his would-be victim wasn’t cooperating. He protected his head with both arms.

“Put your face up, bobby.”

The riot cop was mewling wordlessly.

“I said, show me your fucking face!” The Scot kicked the cop in the back. The cop went rigid, grabbing for his back, and the Mad Scot brought the shield down on his momentarily exposed face.

The cop whined and his assailant barked happily, and then everything went into a wild reversal. The shield changed direction and flattened against the face of the Scot who was holding it.

But this time the face really flattened, like a soft clay face under a rolling pin.

“Hey, wank, he was one of us,” complained another Mad Scot.

“But I’m not one of you,” Remo explained.

“He’s a Yank, not a wank! Get ready for sleepy time, piece of American shit.”

“I’m ready, but first I just have to ask. What’s this all about?”

“What do you care?”

“Yes, what do you care?” Chiun stood on the sidelines looking peeved.

Remo opened his mouth, closed it. “Even if one of them did give me an answer, it wouldn’t mean anything, really.”