No Contest

Chiun knew Remo was making a cry for attention, however wrongheaded his methods. But was he sincerely planning to carry on with this unthinkable, shameful display? Chiun had thought so until today.

Chiun found an observation point along the shore of a thick stew of water. In the middle of the swamp was a narrow shelf of land decorated with orange flags. The ridiculous runners emerged and loped down the trail, eyes peeled for the famous meat eaters. Chiun knew enough of crocodiles. A crocodile would not attack a group of humans.

And yet a crocodile did. The vicious beast with a dark crust lunged from the water, bolted across the bridge and twisted its head to clamp down on the nearest leg it could find before propelling itself into the opposite waterway.

More crocodiles gathered under the surface of the water. Chiun was curious. Crocodiles didn’t attack in large groups unless they were starving. And yet, with a burst of noise and water, the animals loped out of the lake and chased down the runners. There was chaos. Crocodiles plunged into the water with their victims and returned seconds later for another. Soon not a single runner in the lead pack remained. Some of them doubtless still lived, but were likely being tucked away into crocodile meat lockers for a later meal.

This was all interesting and atypical. Chiun made a note to describe the behavior to Emperor Smith the Insane. He would assure the Emperor that the crocodiles in question were quite plump enough.

Remo claimed he was repulsed by this television silliness, but he was without chagrin. Even Remo was not so inane—they were observing the wallowing of the hogs and yet Remo did not see himself as lolling in the same mud?

One of the crocodiles discovered Chiun and homed in on his shadowy place on the shore. It was the big one who had made the first kill. The giant brute slithered below the water, as silent as a ripple on a pond, until he rocketed to the earthen bank and closed his mighty jaws on the gaunt and ancient ankle of a weak and helpless old man.

But the great rows of teeth clacked unexpectedly together. No bony ankle. The giant croc didn’t have time to be surprised before something else happened that was even further beyond the grasp of its crocodilian intellect.

The tiny little old man stepped on its snout—and pinned it there.

What did Remo’s curious reaction mean? Was the young Master up to something even more devious than Chiun had credited him with? Was there some scheme that Chiun had not even guessed?

Unlikely. Still…

The group of stragglers emerged onto the bridge that separated the bodies of water and for a moment they kept on their wary way. There was no sign of trouble.

Then their faces slowly registered the understanding that there should have been a sign of something. The leaders had not been that far in the lead. The runners should be visible a mile or so ahead on the land bridge.

Then the first straggler came across a pool of blood-soaked earth. The great brute held captive under Chiun’s left sandal went through a fit of thrashing at that moment. There was panic and much ludicrous scrambling on the part of the marathon runners. The swarm of crocodiles emerged behind them. Another swarm emerged in front. The runners were trapped.

Again, quite unlike the crocodile behavior Chiun knew. Crocodiles and Remo both behaving oddly. What makes a crocodile act like a lunatic? What lessons are there in a crocodile’s lunacy?

Far back, another runner emerged from the bush and sprinted across the land bridge in a blood-soaked T-shirt. He was barefoot and his wrists were swollen obscenely, likely a result of the hundreds of ant stings he received after being knocked unconscious by rabid kangaroos. He was Runner Number 10, or so his T-shirt said.

Runner Number 10 was moving pretty well for a dead man. He slipped up on the crocodiles like a shadow and began stepping on their skulls with his bare heels. Crocodile skulls burst open. Eight crocs were dead before they knew it.

Runner Number 10 ran around the other panicking runners, his bare feet flying over rocks and water. Yes, water. For a second he was running on the surface of the swamp…

Then Runner Number 10 stepped around the snapping jaws of the front formation of crocodiles and used his furious fingers on their heads. He poked at them. It would have been comic if not for the sudden red holes appearing in the skulls of the crocs. In seconds, the roar of the monsters was silenced. The crocs were lifeless.

“This is a stupid race and you are all morons,” Runner Number 10 announced loudly and clearly for all the hidden ESN cameras to record. “I’d rather die than be a part of it. Goodbye.”

Runner Number 10 ran back the way he had come. His body was found in the bushes an hour later, although death had changed his appearance markedly. The wrist swelling was diminished. His hair was bleached by trauma. His last act had been, for some reason, to reverse his shirt so it was on backward.