‘What?’ the Doveston cowered. ‘Execute me? Murder me?’
‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘I’ve been planning it for years.’
The Doveston’s lips trembled. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why? All right, so you went to prison. But didn’t I make it up to you? Didn’t I leave you all that money?’
‘Only so I would praise you in the book. And the money was really nothing but a short-term loan, to ensure the Great Millennial Ball went ahead. And you knew that money would be useless after society collapsed.’
‘So I left you all the food in the cellars.’
‘Just to keep me alive, so that when you were fully in control, I would write your damn book.’
‘So why?’ The Doveston’s eyes went every which way. ‘Why do you want to kill me?’
‘Because of something you did many years ago. Something that seemed trivial to you at the time. A bit of a laugh. A joke. You took away something from me. Something that I loved. I mentioned it in the book. But I didn’t make a big thing out of it. I didn’t want to warn you. I wanted you to come here, so that I could kill you, because of what you did.’
‘I don’t understand. What did I do? What did I take from you?’
I leaned close to his ear and whispered a single word. A single name.
‘No!’ His eyes rolled. ‘Not that! Not because of that.’
‘That,’ I said. ‘That is why you are about to die.’
‘Please . . . please . . .’ He wrung his hands together. I cocked the pistol.
‘Goodbye,’ I said.
‘No, wait. No, wait.’ He fumbled in his pockets and drew out the little silver coffin-shaped snuffbox. ‘Don’t deny me this. Don’t deny me my lifetime’s work. Let me take the pill before you pull the trigger. It will be but a second for you. But for me it will be an eternity. I will be immortal. Please.’
I nodded thoughtfully.
‘No,’ I said, snatching the snuffbox from his hand. ‘I deny you immortality. I condemn you to death.’
He begged and pleaded and rocked in the chair. But I shook my head. ‘It’s a pity you were sleeping when the helicopter landed. Had you looked down and seen the pattern of the trees, you would have known what was coming. You would have read the name that the trees spell out. I gave you that chance. A chance to cheat fate. Because when I was under your drug and in my kitchen, I saw the future. This future. This moment. I put it in the book. You didn’t read it carefully enough. Goodbye, Doveston.’
I put the snuffbox into my pocket.
I threw aside the pistol.
I put my hands about his throat. And I killed him.
And now we really have come to the end. And if you are studying this manuscript in the New State Archives, you will notice that the script has changed again. That once more it is written in longhand.
Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? They don’t let you use the typewriter to whack out your final words while you sit in the new-fangled electric chair, waiting for the arrival of the executioner.
You are given a pen and paper. You are told that you have five minutes.
I must have gone a little mad, I suppose, after I killed him. I realized what I’d done, but I couldn’t feel any guilt. I had behaved very badly. But I had not killed an innocent man. After I’d strangled him, I picked up the leather bondage teapot. The one with all the spikes, that had once belonged to Chico’s aunty, and I smashed his brains out with it.
I must have made a lot of noise. The helicopter-pedallers rushed in. They beat me most severely.
The magistrate was not in the mood for mercy. He was a young fellow and he said that his father had told him all about me. His father had been a magistrate too. His father had once sent me down for seventeen years.
The New World Order had no time for people like me, he said. People like me were a waste of time.
He condemned me to the Chair.
I don’t remember too much about the trial. It was held in private and the outcome was a foregone conclusion.
I don’t really remember too much about what happened after the pedallers beat me up and dragged me into the helicopter.
Although there is one thing I remember and I will set it down here because it is important.
I remember what the pedallers said to each other as they got their legs pumping and the helicopter into the air.
‘Senseless, that,’ said one. ‘A truly senseless killing.’
And then he said, ‘Here, Jack, look down there. I never noticed that when we flew in.’
And Jack said, ‘Oh yeah, the trees. The trees are all laid out to spell letters. Huge great letters. What is it they spell?’
And the other pedaller spelled them out. ‘B,’ he said, ‘and I and S and C—’ ‘BISCUIT,’ said Jack. ‘They spell BISCUIT.’
Yes, that’s what they spelt. Biscuit. My dog, Biscuit. He murdered my dog, so I murdered him. Was that wrong?
When I wrote that passage about being in prison, the one about bad behaviour and about the bad man who kills. Kills an innocent man. Remember? When I asked whether there really is such a thing as an innocent man?
Well, I still don’t know the answer to that.
But that is it for me. The man in the black mask is coming to turn on the power. I must put aside my pen and paper.
For it is time for my big aaah-choo!
My goodbye.
Well, almost.
You see, they always allow a dying man to make a final request. It’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something. There’s no point in trying to come up with something clever. So I just kept it simple.
I just asked whether it would be all right if I kept my silver coffin-shaped snuffbox with me. As a keepsake. And would they mind if, in the final second before they pulled the switch, I just took the one little pill inside.
They said, No, they wouldn’t mind. That would be OK. They said, What harm could that do?
It wasn’t as if it was going to let me cheat death. It wasn’t as if it would make me immortal or something.
And here he comes now. The prison chaplain has said his last words. The executioner’s hand is moving towards the switch.
I must sign off now. I must take the pill
I know that its effect will only last for one single second in real time and then the switch will be pulled and I will die. But for me that single second will be an eternity. And what more can anyone ask for out of life, than eternity?
Not much, in my personal opinion.
P is for pill.
P is for paradise.
I’ve had a lot of trouble with Ps in the past.
But not this time.
No absolute time.
No absolute space.
Years and years of heavenly bliss.
And swallow.
Here we go, here we go, here we go.
Here we go, here we go, here we go-oh.
Here we go, here we go, here we go.
Here we go-oh, here we go . . .
Here we gone.
And snuff.
Also by
ROBERT RANKIN
The Antipope
The Brentford Triangle
East of Ealing
The Sprouts of Wrath
Armageddon: The Musical
They Came and Ate Us
The Suburban Book of the Dead
The Book of Ultimate Truths
Raiders of the Lost Car Park
The Greatest Show Off Earth
The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived
The Garden of Unearthly Delights
A Dog Called Demolition
Nostradamus Ate My Hamster
Sprout Mask Replica
The Brentford Chainstore Massacre
The Dance of the Voodoo Handbag
Apocalypso
Snuff Fiction
Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls
Waiting for Godalming
Web Site Story
The Fandom of the Operator
The
Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse
The Witches of Chiswick
Knees Up Mother Earth
The Brightonomicon
The Toyminator
The Da-da-de-da-da Code
Necrophenia
Retromancer
The Japanese Devil Fish Girl and Other Unnatural Attractions
The Mechanical Messiah and Other Marvels of the Modern Age
The Educated Ape and Other Wonders of the Worlds
Illustrated works:
The Bumper Book of Ficts written by Neil Gardner
EMPIRES
E-book edition cover illustration by Robert Rankin
Art direction, gorgeous haircut, baritone sax, steel pan and ukulele playing, corsets and goggles: Rachel Hayward
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Robert Rankin, Snuff Fiction
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