‘How many police cars can you see?’ Kevin asked.
Jason counted as best he could. ‘About a dozen. And some MTWTV trucks. We’ll all be on television tonight. Must make sure we get home in time to watch it.’ ‘How much ammunition do we have left?’
‘Not much. But we’ve got plenty of sweets.’
‘And we have each other,’ said Alison.
‘Do what?’
‘Kevin,’ cooed Alison. ‘Don’t you think it’s about time for a love scene? Something steamy, you know.’
‘What, you and me? Not half.’
‘No. I was thinking about me and Reg. No-one ever does a steamy love scene with Danny De Vito.’
‘I don’t look like Danny De Vito. Stop sniggering, Reg, or I’ll give you a smack in the mouth.’
‘Well, well, well, well, well,’ crowed Jonathan. ‘The gang’s all here.’
‘YOU!!!’ The Anti-Rex threw up his hands. ‘Crawford. You filthy stinking-’
Several Repo Men took the opportunity to club him to his knees.
‘Told you you were in for a nasty surprise,’ Rex smirked awfully. The bruised genitals were almost worth it just to see the look on his enemy’s face.
‘And YOU! I thought you and this moron with the shut eyes were dead.’
‘Hi, Rex,’ said Lazlo, not opening up for one little peep. ‘Guess we walked into some deep shit here, eh?’
‘Hi, Laz. Say hello to Lazlo, Harpo/Chico.’
‘The man is a prat,’ said Chico.
‘Language,’ said Harpo. ‘I’ll tell mum if you talk dirty.’
‘What an ugly little sucker,’ said the Anti-Rex.
‘I don’t think there’s room in the lift for all you old pals,’ Jonathan smiled hideously, ‘we’d best go up other ways.’ He tinkered once more at his wrist. The ceiling spread. The sixty-fifth floor rose and soon they were all on the sixty-sixth.
‘We’re not on the roof, by any chance?’ Laz asked.
Things were relatively quiet down in the car park. The big military vehicle was quiet. Two dozen police cars were quiet. Four of the MTWTV trucks, which were assembled, were quiet. The fifth was a bit noisy, though. ‘Hello?’ shouted Balberith. ‘Someone answer me or I’m gonna lose my rag.’
Jonathan took a little peep at his watch. ‘Nine hours and twenty minutes to detonation.’
‘Rex,’ Laz whispered through his fingers, ‘are we on the roof yet?’
‘Are you back in the first person?’
‘I guess not. So where are we?’
Jonathan spoke. ‘You are at the very centre of operations, Mr Woodbrain.’
‘Woodbine, fella, the name’s Lazlo Woodbine, some call me-’
‘I don’t really give a toss what they call you.’ Jonathan swaggered to and fro before his private army. The Repo Men aimed their weapons at Rex, Laz, Harpo/Chico and Rex’s dirty double. They had plenty of choice really.
‘So,’ said the swaggering one. ‘What are we all going to do now?’
‘My brother could turn you into a bunny,’ Harpo suggested.
‘Rex, kindly keep your pet quiet.’
‘What is all this for?’ The Anti-Rex indicated Jonathan’s improbable electronic set-up.
‘All this?’ The lad’s smile passed over his creation. ‘You’d really like to know all about it, eh?’
‘Before I tear your heart out of your chest and ram it down your throat, yes.’
‘Don’t you just wish! okay, why not. I can edit it out later.’
‘Where is Laura?’ Rex demanded. ‘Where is Elvis?’
‘One thing at a time, please. All that you behold is for the most part, simply broadcasting equipment. Although of a somewhat specialized nature, with certain modifications. But you’ll find out all about them later. I propose to broadcast on a world-wide scale, a message to the good folk of this fair planet.’
Harpo looked at Chico. Chico looked at Harpo. ‘Everybody wants to get into the act,’ Chico said.
‘What message?’ the Anti-Rex asked.
‘That Elvis is dead.’
‘Dead??’ The Anti-Rex sprang forward. Water-pistols rose up to meet him. Rifle butts clubbed him down.
‘I love it when they do that,’ said Rex Mundi.
‘What do you mean, dead?’ The Anti-Rex rose, none the worst for wear.
‘I thought you’d be glad to hear it.’
‘You killed him? You?’
‘Not me.’ The black heart was crossed once more. ‘He killed himself.’
‘He did what?’ It was a bit of a chorus really, even some of the Repo Men joined in.
‘He committed suicide, 16 August 1977. Not a lot of people know that,’ he continued, dropping unexpectedly into his Michael Caine persona.
‘You lying git,’ said the Anti-Rex.
‘Oh, but he did, you know. That is partly what all this is about. He came here to me. To the House of Light. You can read it in the scripture. The Suburban Book of the Dead. It tells you all the mistakes he made, before he finally saw the light. My light. I formulated the suicide pill for him. No-one back in 1977 suspected suicide.’
‘But why?’ Rex asked. ‘Why would he want to kill himself?’
‘You have to ask me that? You’ve read his little bible. Seen the Presley hoard. You know how he screwed up. It was guilt that made him do it. Guilt for how he’d screwed everything up. He changed history, he tried to make it right. It ended with all this, Presley City. Him being worshipped as a god. So he had no choice. The only way he could make amends was to go back and kill himself.’
‘Ah,’ said Rex thoughtfully. ‘I see. What you’re saying is that by committing suicide in 1977, none of this could occur.’
‘Exactly.’ Jonathan made a smug face.
‘Er?’ Puzzled head-scratching suddenly became all the rage.
‘Is it just me?’ Laz asked. ‘Or is there a rather obvious flaw in the little punk’s reasoning?’
‘Bunny the big boy,’ said Harpo.
‘I think he just bunnied himself, bruv.’
‘Shut up! The lot of you!’ Jonathan had a bit of a rant. ‘Elvis is dead. That’s all you have to know. And in a little over nine hours you’ll all be dead too. This city will be gone, nothing but blackened rubble. And do you know why?’
The puzzled head-scratching continued in some quarters, but helpless shrugging had now become the latest craze. That and head shaking. It was all a matter of taste, really.
‘Interesting that, isn’t it? We all know that it happens, but none of us know how or why. Rex, pardon me, but you don’t seem to be shrugging helplessly or shaking your head. In fact, correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re nodding, aren’t you?’
‘I certainly am.’
‘And why might that be?’
‘Because,’ said Rex Mundi. ‘I’ve just figured it all out.’
‘Right,’ said Kevin. ‘Plan, anyone?’
‘Uh uh uh uh uh uh uh uh uh,’ went Reg and Alison steamily.
‘You’re proving a real disappointment to me, Reg.’
‘Couldn’t care less,’ Reg drew breath. ‘When did you ever get to give Julia Roberts one?’
Kevin bit his lip and shook his head. ‘Jason, do you have a plan?’
‘Uh uh uh uh uh uh uh uh uh,’ went Jason and Sharon with much gusto.
‘Aw, come on, gang. We’ve come all this way. We have to do something.’
‘But we are, Danny,’ said Jason, Sharon, Reg and Alison. ‘We are.’
Balberith munched upon the main chancer. ‘Sorry,’ said he, ‘I lost my rag. That’s showbiz!’
The MTWTV station head said. ‘OK, the shooting’s stopped and we’re all parked up outside the Butcher Building. Mojo, have you signed the contract?’
‘The pen’s run out.’ Mojo shook the thing fiercely, spraying ink over the station head. ‘Sorry.’
‘Just sign the contract.-The cameras are ready to roll.’
‘Er, if I might just interject,’ Mojo??
?s agent removed the pen from his client’s hand and screwed back the top, ‘I have certain reservations regarding several of the clauses.’
The bespattered station head rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, you do, do you?’
‘If we might just look at clauses 3-8, 17-19, 28-29, 56-58, 103-105, 130-134 . . .’
The station head lit another cigar.
‘I’m going to tell him.’ Bill drummed his charcoal stumps on the steering wheel.
‘Tell who?’ Johnny Dee shifted uncomfortably.
‘His excellency. I’m going to tell him.’
‘Tell him what?’ The devastated cab rattled and groaned. Sparks flew from the wheel rims. Bits dropped off and clattered into the street. ‘Tell him I quit.’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘I can. I’ve been giving the matter a lot of thought. I really quite liked being a cabby. Got me out and about. Met interesting people. If you run your own cab, you’re your own man, you can choose your own hours, plan your holidays. It’s a smart job.’
‘Bill, you’re a demon from Hell. And a burnt-out one at that.’
‘I had this revelation. Would you like me to tell you about it?’
‘Not really.’
‘You see,’ Bill continued. ‘It’s like this . . .’
‘Officer Cecil.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Officer Cecil. We now have what is called a “containment situation”. The terrorists are surrounded. We have them “in the net”.’
‘In theory, sir.’
‘In practice, officer.’
‘Do you think they know that, sir?’
‘Officer Cecil, I want you to immobilize their vehicle.’
Officer Cecil fell about in mirth. ‘Yes, I bet you do.’
Sam ignored him. ‘Get out of this car. Creep over to them and blow the tracks off their battle wagon with your over-sized weapon.’
Officer Cecil studied the face of Sam Maggott. It was a big fat sweaty face. The face of a police chief who was having a ‘rough one’. It was unshaven. The mouth of the face had bad breath. The eyes were red-rimmed. There was a bogey up the left nostril.
‘You want I should creep over to that great armoured tank of a thing, risking life and limb, and casually blow off its frigging tracks. Is that what you’re saying, sir?’
‘That’s right.’
‘OK then.’ Officer Cecil saluted his superior. Climbed from the police car and marched away.
But not in the direction of the terrorist vehicle. In quite the opposite, in fact.
‘Officer Cecil, come back or I’ll put you on a charge.’
‘Go stuff yourself.’ Officer Cecil raised two departing fingers. ‘I’m going for a beer.’
‘Spit it out, Rex,’ Jonathan advised. ‘Tell us what you know.’
Rex smiled. ‘Well, for a start, I know this. Presley City, all of it, is some kind of big computer game. And it doesn’t take the brain of Einstein to figure out that you’re behind it.’
‘I never thought much of Einstein. He was a Phnaarg. But is that it, is that what you think you know?’
‘I know you’re stuck.’
‘What do you mean?’ The lad made a brave face. It didn’t look all that brave. ‘Stuck? Me?’
‘The game ends in just over nine hours. What happens to you after that?’
‘Well. . . I . . .’
‘Go back and start again. Is that it? Is that what you have to do each time, if nobody wins? How long do you get, each time?’
‘What is all this shit?’ The Anti-Rex made furious fists. ‘What game are you talking about?’
‘Ask the boy-genius.’
‘It’s rubbish. All rubbish.’
‘I don’t think so. It all stems from here, from you. The Department of Human Resources, the Repo Men monitoring information, maintaining order in a city that isn’t really a city. You’re stuck here, Crawford. You can’t get out until the game is won. And you don’t know how to win it yourself. That’s why we’re here.’
‘Rubbish.’ Jonathan had a fair old sweat going.
‘No, it ain’t.’ Lazlo Woodbine opened his eyes.
‘Well, that’s you out of it.’ Jonathan sneered. ‘You only had the four sets. You just lost.’
Rex turned to the man in the trenchcoat. ‘What is all this?’
‘I hate this stinking city,’ Laz stared bitterly at Jonathan, ‘but I never realized why until right this minute. It’s a game all right. A big game and I’ve been here and played in it before. The Tempus Fugitives. My case. The only case I ever get. Time after time after time. I remember now. I’ve done this again and again.’
‘And you always cock it up,’ Jonathan managed another sneer. ‘You never amounted to much anyway. A bit of nostalgia for the old folks.’
‘And me?’ Rex asked.
Jonathan shrugged. ‘You’re supposed to be the hero, aren’t you? So you’d better do some heroing. You’ve got nine hours left to win the game. Because, if you don’t ...’ the boy’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’ll be in this again and again. Just like me. And I’ll make sure you know it. I always wipe the detective’s memory. But I won’t wipe yours. Now you’re in it, you’ll stay in it. So you’d best win it now, eh?’
‘Boo and hiss’ said Harpo. ‘This big boy is a rotter.’
‘How is it won?’
‘You’ve got to get the gold, Rex.’ Jonathan danced a manic little dance. ‘You have to get the treasure and neutralize the bomb. Then you win.’
‘Where is the treasure?’
‘It’s in the vault under this building,’ sighed the Anti-Rex. ‘Hero? You have to be joking.’
‘So where’s the bomb?’ Rex turned back to the little blighter.
Jonathan threw up his hands. ‘I don’t know! If I knew where it was, do you think I’d get blown up time after time.’
Rex turned to his loathsome double. ‘Where is the bomb?’
His other self glared back at him. ‘Not my bomb,’ he replied. ‘I don’t know.’
‘So what are you planning to do?’ Rex gave Jonathan another glance.
To you, nothing. You want to live. So, find the treasure, stop the bomb and win the game.’
Rex laughed. ‘But then you win, don’t you? You are free. And you sell the game to-’ he pointed skyward ‘-and go on running the show. In your own sweet fashion. Thinking up new scenarios, and in complete control.’
‘Sounds fine to me,’ said Jonathan, preening generally.
‘But not to me!’ The Anti-Rex made mighty fists. ‘I’m going to run this planet, you little shit.’
‘Don’t be so silly.’ Jonathan fluttered his hands in the air. ‘You’re no threat to me. But I do so like having you in the game. Comic relief, you know. But enough of all this chit-chat. Time is against us. And you must be getting on with your exciting adventures. So I shall say ta-ta for now.’
There was a grinding of gears and a meshing of cogs and a steel wall plunged down, effectively separating Rex, Harpo/Chico, Laz and the Anti-Rex from the boy in the control room and his private army.
‘Best get to it,’ came Jonathan’s closing comments. ‘Nine hours left. Every man for himself.’
19
Elvis is everywhere, man.
M. Nixon
The Anti-Rex began to grow somewhat bulgy. Unsightly swellings pulsed on his face. His eyes rolled. Large lumps came and went on his forehead. Buttons popped from his shirt. It wasn’t pretty, but it was pretty standard stuff. Harpo/Chico, for two, wasn’t impressed.
‘This is all crap!’ roared the bulger. ‘All of it. I’ve never been here before. I’m not in this “game”.’
‘I saw you last time, scumbag.’ Laz straightened his belt. ‘And the time before that. My memory’s coming back clearer than a closet queen in a clergyman’s cloister.’
‘Did I kill you the last time?’ the Anti-Rex asked. ‘Because I’m sure as Hell gonna do it now.’ He lunged toward the man in the trenchcoat. And then . . .
‘Aw shit!’ A carpet of banana skins materialized beneath the feet of the Anti-Rex and sent him sprawling.
‘About time too,’ said Harpo. ‘Nice one, Chico.’
‘I suggest we make a break for it,’ Chico said. ‘We’d best take the lift.’
‘You take yours and I’ll take mine.’ Lazlo Woodbine took to his heels.
‘This is MTWTV broadcasting live on the air,’ came a talking head on all available networks, wavebands and whatnots. ‘We are outside the Butcher Building in uptown Presley City, where today a most dramatic scene is unfolding. The building is now surrounded by police cars that have raced here because Harpo/Chico, two-headed love-child of popular showbiz couple Mojo and Debbie Nixon, recently kidnapped by aliens, is now known to be inside. Held hostage by Simon “Baby Slayer” Butcher, psychopathic maniac and photographer to the stars.’
‘Do what?’ went Sam Maggott, who was picking it up on the police band.
‘Do what?’ went Jonathan Crawford, alias Simon ‘Baby Slayer’ Butcher, who was picking it up on all kinds of sophisticated how’s-your-fathers. ‘Say again?’
‘Earlier today Harpo/Chico managed to call us from his inhuman captivity to say that Butcher proposed to carry out obscene medical experiments upon the helpless infant. There have been no ransom demands and it appears that Butcher, described by a close friend as a “screaming shirt-lifter and fish fetishist who should be strung up by the gonads”, takes pleasure in acts of unrivalled barbarity against minors. We’ll be right back after this station break.’
‘Osh Kosh By Golly. Baby garments with that extra neck space. As worn by Harpo/Chico, the all-American boys. Doncha just love ‘em?’
‘Frig!’ Crawford thumbed the channel into darkness. ‘Or perhaps not frig. In fact, not frig at all.’ He smiled his smug little smile and made free with the console tapping. “This is just perfect,’ he said.
‘Did you hear that?’ Kevin asked.
Jason, Sharon, Reg and Alison were all smoking cigarettes and looking a mite shagged out.
‘Hear what?’ asked one of the Julia Roberts.
‘Up there in the Butcher Building. Simon Butcher’s got Harpo/Chico. He’s a psycho. I’ll bet he’s holding Laura. Has to be. We’ve got to save her.’