Daphne Bloom assured Remo and Chiun that she knew Kathy Bowen personally. She had met her three times and had gotten her autographed picture twice. She had never missed a show of
Kathy Bowen personally interviewed all the people who wanted to be on the show. Anyone could get on if they could do something no one else could do, said Daphne.
It took a half-hour to get out of the airport traffic of Los Angeles airport and ten minutes to get to the Poweressence temple-studio of Kathy Bowen. Her ice-blond looks and clear blue eyes with delicate features stared out of every window of the temple-studio.
To the left of the entranceway, like a gospel reading of the day in front of a church, was a large billboard. It had a message from Kathy Bowen herself. It read:
“Love, Light, Compassion, and death to the President of the United States.”
Inside was a line of people waiting to be interviewed at a desk. At the head of the line someone was saying that Ms. Bowen would see everyone in their turn. Ms. Bowen loved humanity. Ms. Bowen felt truly in touch with humanity. But the humanity had to stay in line. And the humanity should not make noise or eat anything in the temple-studio itself.
“Her presence is truly positive,” said Daphne Bloom, glowing.
Ahead of Remo and Chiun and Daphne Bloom was a boy who talked to frogs, a quadriplegic who could spit his name in ink against a bedpan, and a grandmother who liked to sit on ice with no clothes on.
Only the grandmother was rejected from
When Remo, Chiun, and Daphne Bloom reached the producer's desk, they were asked what they did.
“I don't know what she does,” said Remo, nodding to Daphne, “but we do everything.”
“Better than anyone else,” said Chiun.
The producer wore a white robe and a dash of pink silk around her neck. Every bit of the world appeared an insult to his magnificently perfect sense of taste. His wavy hair was dyed blue and hung down the back of his neck.
He liked California because he could go unnoticed here.
“We can't show everything. You've got to do something specific,” he said.
“Name it,” said Remo.
“For a price,” said Chiun.
“Can you spit ink into a bedpan?”
“We can spit it through the bedpan. And you too,” said Remo.
“That's hostile,” gasped Daphne. “You've got to work out your hostile elements. That's hostile.”
“I like hostile,” said Remo.
“Spitting ink through a bedpan sounds absolutely perfect. How long have you been doing it?”
“Since I wanted to meet Kathy Bowen,” said Remo.
“Will this be on television?” asked Chiun.
“National prime-time television, with Kathy Bowen as host and moderator and dynamic force.”
“I have a little poem about a flower opening. It is in the Tang form, an ancient Korean dialect. It can be edited for television.”
“Poetry doesn't go. Could you recite it underwater?”
“I suppose,” said Chiun.
“Could you do it underwater while eating lasagna?” said the producer of
“Not lasagna,” said Chiun. “It has bad meat and cheese, does it not?”
“Eating anything you like?” asked the producer.
“I suppose,” said Chiun.
“While being attacked by sharks?” asked the producer.
“A shark is not an invincible weapon,” said Chiun.
“You can beat a shark?”
Chiun looked to Remo, puzzled. “Why not?” he asked.
“Yeah, he can do sharks. I can do sharks. We both do sharks. We could do a whale if we had to. When do we meet Kathy Bowen?”
“They're Level Ten Powies,” said Daphne helpfully.
“I like that. I like the whole scene, but do we need the poem?” asked the producer.
“Absolutely,” said Chiun. “I will wear my recital kimono. What you see now is ordinary traveling gray, with speckled bluebird wings. Not suitable for prime-time television.”
“Okay, do the poem for ten, may twelve seconds and then we'll bring on the sharks while you're eating your favorite meal underwater.”
“I can cut the Tang to its barest lean form,” said Chiun.
“Perfect,” said the producer.
“Ten hours.”
“Nothing runs ten hours,” said the producer.
“True Tang poems run to fifty,” said Chiun.
“Can't use more than ten seconds,” said the producer.
“How do you know? How do you know unless you have heard a Tang poem?”
“I don't want to hear ten hours of anything.”
“Then your ears need readjusting,” said Chiun.
Helpfully he massaged the producer's ears until enlightenment filled his fair Western face. The producer agreed to ten hours of anything if Chiun would only stop.
He did.
Kathy Bowen was preparing the press conference of her life, as she called it, when one of her producers insisted she meet the odd trio. The old one recited poems while eating underwater and fighting sharks, the young one just fought sharks, and the girl did nothing.
“Maybe we can put her in a costume or feed her to the sharks,” said Kathy. She wore an elegant light print dress with sunflowers, signifying her bright positive attitude toward the world.
“Can't feed a performer to the sharks. It will never get past the screening committee. No real blood around,” said her lawyer.
“Can the sharks eat her without blood?”
“I've seen it done.”
“Wouldn't be a bad attraction. I could look distressed, we could have some attendants desperately try to fish her out, no pun intended, and then cut to a commercial until we come back. No one would leave their sets.”
“Death doesn't go on national television.”
“I see it on the news all the time.”
“You have more leeway with news.”
“They get away with everything,” said Kathy. “All right. Show them in. But I don't have much time. I absolutely want to be in front of the press as soon as possible. I have a warning for America.”
Kathy was given the release forms and the performers were told to enter her presence. Kathy Bowen Enterprises had found out long ago that if she herself handed performers the documents, they would put up less fuss in signing away all their rights.
She would give her famous perfect white-toothed smile and her perfect upbeat handshake and then slip the suckers a pen. It rarely failed.
It failed this day.
The old Oriental wanted ten hours of air time. To her horror, Kathy saw that one producer already had promised it. The younger man, an attractive dark-eyed specimen who did not seem impressed or amused by
