But after getting hooked on these, I tried expanding to other similar series like The Executioner or The Death Merchant , and they just didn't work for me. There are two reasons that The Destroyer stands apart from the other series: the relationship between Remo and Chiun and a sense of humor. Some of the humor relies on implacable liberal-bashing which you may or may not find funny , but most of it is in the character interactions, particularly between Smith and each of his assassins and between Remo and Chiun.
Remo is a smartass and Chiun is a drama queen. But what begins as a shaky master-student dynamic soon morphs into a solid father-son relationship. The constant bickering continues, but the deeper emotions between the two men are just as constant, and just as obvious.
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That relationship was enough to get the duo through adventures. Well, to be fair, Destroyer books were written, but towards the end the stories deteriorated to the point that Warren Murphy, one of the original creators of the series, has disavowed them and declared them non-canonical.
So for those keeping count, from Sinanju. Adding in miscellaneous ghostwriters, the duo was also in control of volumes Will Murray took over and gave us volumes Volumes have been declared non-canon and Mike Newton, Alan Philipson. Jim Mullaney takes over at volume , and continues through volume Mike Newton returns for volumes and also declared non-canon , then Tim Somheil takes over for volumes , which are deemed so awful that Murphy asks readers to pretend they don't exist. The marshmallow bobbed forlornly on top. Molakesh made an odd noise, which I realized was a chuckle.
It turned into a cough, though, and he doubled over against the wooden porch railing, hacking his lungs out. Possibly literally. Something pink and gross flew from his mouth and landed in the snow. He set his half-spilled mug of hot chocolate on the railing. I kind of doubted it.
I would have taunted you with something so vile, so inescapable, you would have ripped that birthmark from your face with your own hands. I tried to imagine what would possibly inspire that kind of reaction in a person. I supposed Shit-face was rather pedestrian compared to what an actual demon could come up with. Those too-low lips twisted into a sneer. Especially not from teenagers. Molakesh regarded me for a moment, then waved a claw dismissively. I hefted my shovel and returned to the driveway, doing the bare minimum needed for that rusty old Cadillac of his to be able to make it to the street.
The curtains stirred again as I worked, and I flipped him off before returning home. This time Molakesh stood on the porch and glared at me while I worked. He held the University of Minnesota mug. The Tweety Bird mug sat on the railing, the steam tugged away from it by the wind. I finished and set the shovel against the ice-slick porch steps. Rain of fire and all that. He stared out over the white landscape. The wind gusted more snow back to where I had just shoveled, but I would write ten essays on service before I was going to shovel his driveway twice in the same day.
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A ball of fire appeared, floating inches above in the air. Even his horns seemed sharper, deadlier. I took a step back, my eyes wide, as he tossed the fire at the yard with the smooth, practiced motion of a major league pitcher. A trail of flames streaked across the yard as the ball hit, leaving behind a long, deep rut of exposed dirt and blackened grass as the fire died down. Molakesh began coughing again like before, only worse. His long-limbed body, which had appeared unnaturally tall and strong only thirty seconds before, sagged in on itself.
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He collapsed to his knees. I reached for his arm instinctively, trying to hold him up, but he shoved me back. Hot chocolate splashed out of my mug and melted through the snow on the porch. He pulled himself up to the railing, leaning against it as if that was the only thing holding him up.
He stared out at the trail of burned snow. And not just physically. Three gray weeks passed, the snow on the sidewalks and streets packing harder and harder until sheets of treacherous ice slicked over everything. The snow had filled that burned-out rut in the front yard. Mom told me to go shovel his driveway again, but I wrote the stupid essay instead. Then I made the mistake of going online. Katelyn and her cronies had created a fake profile for me, where they posted badly spelled rants about how ugly I was, along with photoshopped pictures of me with a steaming turd on my cheek.
Half the school had joined in, it seemed, leaving post after vicious post. I wanted to rip up my useless essay on service. Instead, I made myself a cup of hot chocolate and imagined the heat in my hand was an orb of fire. I imagined the faces of the kids at school who called me Shit-face and left bags of dog poop in my locker.
I imagined their terror as the school burned down around them. Why did you pick here? I would be late, but even hanging out with a creepy old demon was better than first period German. The chair creaked under me as I shifted. He leaned back in his own wicker chair, his legs crossed almost daintily at the ankles.
His cloven goat hooves no longer looked so odd to me, but old man or not, he really needed to do something about those lame brown pants. I was sent here. A joke, I suppose. He always had a particularly vile sense of humor.
Born in flame, to die in… this. His red eyes glowed dimly, like the last embers twitching under banked coal. He was right. I hated it here.fuhekovowege.ga
Changing face: how Nicole Kidman gets under the skin in Destroyer
I shrugged. Maybe go to Arizona. He realizes that Chiun never carried a gun and is over 70, whereas MacCleary, who had told him to always carry a gun, is dead. The retelling of Remo's origin in the story "The Day Remo Died" in "The Assassin's Handbook" and in Destroyer square his origin more fully with later developments.
Chiun is a minor supporting character who appears only briefly in this book in an early training sequence, and is not referred to again. Much of the humour that comes in the later books from the relationship between Remo and Chiun is correspondingly absent. The book also lacks the 'signature' touch, in that the first line of chapter two does not start with the words: 'His name was Remo'.
Related The New Destroyer: Choke Hold (The Destroyer)
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