‘I’ve got pots of the stuff in my cubbyhole,’ said Mr Smith. ‘Did I neglect to mention it?’
‘You have what?’ Byron’s jaw hit his chest. Mr Smith turned away to rummage in his tool-box. He was definitely chuckling.
‘You total swine!’ said KK Byron Wheeler-Vegan.
The big truck thundered on towards the pleasuredome. Ella Guru was at the wheel. Weapons were going click click.
‘You really think we’ll make it through security?’ the Mascara Snake asked.
Spike slotted charges into a Crawford Corporation pulse rifle. ‘Let’s hope.’
The armoured helicopters had, as it happened, ceased to circle the perimeters. Most of the guards had taken themselves off to mess rooms to see in the New Year in the manner that was natural to them. As the big truck approached the outer defences there was no-one there to raise a hand against it. Which was a shame really, because it spoiled the opportunity for an extremely exciting shoot-out, with the big truck plunging into the car park, smashing up priceless automobiles and all that kind of thing. But there you go.
The Gadarene Swine plunged about the stage. Any physical description of themselves or their stage act would be gratuitous, but they were ‘getting it on’.
There was fire and brimstone and the gnashing of teeth.
‘One of mine.’ Elvis hummed along. ‘No. Two.’
‘How can you tell?’ Rex put his hands over his ears. The crowd rocked on. Painted faces glazed. Hands clapping, feet pounding. Atavistic.
It wasn’t Woodstock, but it seemed like they were having a good time. But time was ticking on. And still there was no sign of Wormwood.
The footloose Pope had been swept away and Wayne was warming up his horses. Fine big horses they were. One white, one red, one black and one ‘pale’. They got a mention in Revelation, but then didn’t everything?
‘I really do have to take a leak, man,’ woofed Fido. ‘I’m sorry but there it is.’
Christeen sighed deeply. ‘All right. Do it here and make it quick.’
‘Thanks.’ Fido lifted his leg on to the nearest ironwork of the deserted gallery.
‘Ooooow,’ cried Byron. ‘Who did that?’
Mr Smith, still chuckling, looked up from his tool-box. ‘What’s your problem?’
Byron plucked at his damp trouser leg. He gave his fingers a sniff. ‘Something just pissed on me,’ he complained, searching in vain for the culprit.
Mr Smith stopped chuckling. ‘We’d better get a move on. Tonight’s the night.’
‘Tonight’s the night.’ Mother Demdike, looking like most men’s idea of a good time, straightened Wormwood’s cravat. ‘You’re a dream. Give mummy a great big kiss.’
‘Leave hold, you superannuated gargoyle.’
‘Naughty, naughty. And me all spruced up for your special occasion.’
‘You smell as ripe as ever. And I’m not leaving here until Crawford returns carrying at least two heads.’
‘You don’t trust him, do you? He’ll be away into the night by now.’
‘He wouldn’t dare defy me.’
‘Wayne, no-one can touch you. You have the country today, and tomorrow the world.’
‘Sure?’
‘Would mummy lie to you?’
‘But the assassins . . . They’re here. How can that be?’
‘What can they do? Shoot you?’
‘Wouldn’t do them a lot of good.’ Wormwood flexed his shoulders.
‘You’re invincible. A one-man army. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll pop out, lop off their heads and drop them back in. Would that make you feel better?’
‘Aw mum.’ Wormwood nuzzled his head into Demdike-Kim’s far from motherly bosom. ‘You’d do that for me?’
‘Of course I would. Just sing me that song again.’
‘So. What’s the plan then, Jack?’ Crawford placed another drink before the drunk. He’d had to get it himself. Shortage of bar staff.
‘Plan?’ Jack did focusings. ‘I’ve had a terrible sex life,’ said he.
‘You what?’
‘Sex. You know what I mean.’
‘That has got nothing to do with it.’
‘I thought when you were famous you did it all the time.’
‘And don’t you?’
‘I never got anything. My wife left me. She went back to Britain with a plumber. She’s suing me for a fortune as well.’
‘Jack, pay attention. I need to know about the plan.’
‘What plan?’
‘Tonight. Rex and son of Presley.’
‘Rex? He read my books you know. Before I wrote them. Well after. But before he got here. I get confused.’
‘What are they planning to do?’
‘I don’t know. He never tells me anything. I don’t think he likes me. Don’t know why. But you like me, don’t you Jonathan? You’re my friend.’
‘I’m your best friend. Tell me about your suit.’
‘It’s just a silly suit. Look you can do this.’ Jack plunged his fist into his chest. It vanished from sight.
‘Ouch!’ cried Byron. ‘Now someone’s biffed me in the ear.’
‘Who gave you the suit, Jack?’
‘Mr Smith. Why are you asking all these questions?’
‘I’m trying to help you. You’re in great danger.’
‘I’m going to die.’
‘No you’re not.’ Jonathan made to pat Jack’s shoulder but he thought better of it. ‘You’re fine. You’re famous.’
‘But no sex.’
‘Will you shut up about that. I’ll get you as much sex as you want.’
‘I just want Spike.’
‘Who’s Spike?’
‘She married Rex. She’s a Zen.’
‘I thought they were all dead.’
‘No.’ Jack beckoned Jonathan closer. ‘There’s thousands of them left and they’re all coming here tonight. They’ve got tanks and planes and missiles . . .’
‘How do you know this?’
‘I write it. I know.’ Jack fell backwards off his bar stool.
‘By the time we got to Woodstock we were stoned out of our brains,’ he sang from the floor.
Jonathan struggled to get him upright. ‘Jack, tell me about the Zens. Missiles you say?’
‘And bommy-knockers and . . .’ Jack slumped on to the bar counter. Jonathan considered his deadly digit but Jack looked out for the count.
‘Missiles, eh?’ Jonathan shook his head, made fists towards Heaven and stalked away.
From the corner of a sneaky eye Jack watched him go. ‘To hell with you and the horse you rode in on,’ sniggered the far from drunken Jack Doveston.
29
What do you think of it so far?
Ernie Wise
Rubbish!
Eric Morecombe
Rex was mingling. Well, he was doing his best. It was only now occurring to him just how few of the merrymakers actually spoke his own tongue. Yet surely these people were Americans. They all looked very much alike. No hints of obvious racial difference. They were all tall, pale and pleasing to gaze upon. Rex pondered. And he took a little time to ponder upon several other matters also.
For one, and this was a big one, history had it that Wormwood pressed the nuclear button at the stroke of twelve this very night. But not from here. From the war room beneath the Pentagon. And history was mute upon the subject of mile-high pleasuredomes and parties to rival the bacchanals of Asgard. Andthere were all the other imponderables. Crawford and the Americards. The disposables. It was all wrong. It had never happened and should not be happening now.
Rex had once had a long chat with the Time Sprout regarding travels into history. (Although you’ll find no mention of it here.) The sprout recalled his first encounter with Elvis and how nothing had been ‘right’. He put forward the theory that once the present becomes the past it decays, falls apart, jumbles together. The further back you went the more it had all rotted away. It explained a lot. But not all.
/> There has to be an answer, thought Rex.
‘Yes,’ whispered a soft voice at his ear. ‘But you’ll not live to find it.’
‘Kim.’ Rex jerked about. Demdike hit him hard across the face, knocking him from his feet. Party people dodged aside cheering loudly.
‘No. Wait.’ Rex backed away on his bum. Kim pursued him across the dance floor. Rex dragged out Cecil’s big pistol. Kim kicked it from his hand. Rex scrambled to his feet and prepared to run. Kim grasped his shoulder, spun him around and kneed him in the groin.
‘Uurgh,’ said Rex.
Kim’s face was not a pretty thing to behold. The evil Demdike within growled hideously. She gripped Rex by the throat and hoisted him into the air.
‘Aaagh,’ said Rex in ready response.
Kim’s thumbs were beneath his chin. ‘I’m going to pop your head off,’ said Kim, applying pressure.
The party people offered encouragement. ‘Lovers’ tiff,’ one explained to much applause.
Rex kicked and fought but to little avail. The creature lifted him higher. Gripped him tighter. Some way off Elvis danced on oblivious. Rex gazed up. Vision was starting to cloud over. Above him the faces of the living chandeliers looked down upon his torment. They did not seem at all concerned. Funny that.
Give me an edge, prayed Rex Mundi, yet again.
‘We’ll have to take out the gybo and polish the cogs,’ said Byron. ‘It will take a while. Is that all right, do you think?’
‘I’ll get the coffee on,’ said Mr Smith. ‘Nothing much is going to happen for a while anyhow.’
‘Say goodbye.’ Kim’s thumbs forced Rex’s head back. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye.’ Rex’s hand was on the hilt of his own pistol. With that superhuman strength which always distinguishes the really decent hero from the rest of the old dross, Rex tore it free of his belt and rammed the barrel into Kim’s grinning mouth.
‘Eat this,’ he said heroically. And he held down the trigger.
And nothing happened. Rex squeezed the trigger again and again. Nothing. Still nothing.
‘Safety-catch, you fool.’ The voice was somewhere in his head. The voice he knew. Rex thumbed the safety-catch and fired. It was messy. But then it was bound to be. In the light of greater messiness yet to come it can be rated about four on a scale from one to ten. Kim’s head exploded. Grisly brain bits spattered the dancers. Rex was flung backwards but he kept his finger down. The gun spat explosive charges into the flailing body. And the body came apart at the seams. And that within clawed its way out.
It was a black pulsating globe. Thin snake-like limbs thrashed about it, tearing through the host’s shredded body. The globe split and a baby’s head, bald with yellow snapping teeth, rose from it. The eyes glowed red with hatred. The circle of crowd expanded at the hurry up. This was no longer entertainment.
Rex pulled the trigger but the gun was now empty. He flung it in the traditional manner at the creature.
A barbed appendage shot from the baby’s mouth. Coiled about Rex’s leg. Rex was dragged from his feet. The demon hauled him in.
‘Help,’ screamed Rex. ‘For God’s sake help me.’
The red eyes bulged. There was big sulphur and bad vibes generally. Coils whipped out. Pinned Rex’s arms to his sides. The mouth expanded, dripping foul ichor. ‘Die,’ rumbled a deep dark voice. ‘Yum, yum, yum.’
‘Pro maleficiatis nutriendis et maleficiis Diabolicisque cjuibuscunque infestionibus destruendis.’
Rex turned his frightened eyes. Jack had appeared through the crowd.
‘Ad omne maleficium indifferenter solvendum et Diabolum conterendum.’
The demon turned its hideous face upon its attacker. The tongue uncurled from Rex. A cry rose up from the evil mouth.
‘No. Not here. It is impossible here. No.’
‘Pro materialibus intrumentis maleficialibus emittendis.’
Rex felt the coils loosening. He dragged himself away. Jack approached the thing. A silver crucifix in his hand.
‘Virtuosius corroborated ventriculi a maleficialium instru-mentorum materialium vomitione fessi.’
‘No. No!’ The demon drew itself into a tight ball, spinning with cruel spines, rose into the air and flung itself at Jack.
Rex ducked for cover. Jack dropped his cloak from his shoulders revealing the suit of the Tomorrowman. It pulsed with light as if activated by the words of the holy exorcism.
‘No!’ The demon struck Jack in the chest. But he didn’t fall. He didn’t even feel it. The thing passed clear through him. Well, not exactly through. It did not emerge from the other side. It was gone.
Jack stooped. Took up his cloak and placed it once more about his shoulders. ‘We’d best away,’ he told Rex.
Rex climbed shakily to his feet. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘And thanks, Jack.’
‘What’s all the hubbub, bub?’ Elvis grinned his way on to the scene. He caught sight of the blood-spattered corpse. ‘Oh Hell. Excuse me while I do it once more.’ The remaining contents of his stomach took flight. On to European royalty this time. ‘Sorry ma’am.’
From a high balcony Jonathan Crawford watched the three men push their way through the murmuring throng and make off from the great hall.
‘This is getting better by the minute,’ said Jonathan.
‘And did we promise you a night to remember or what?’ said the Buddhavision reporter, as the camera team zoomed in on the defunct Demdike. ‘We’re going to take a station-break here. But stay tuned for the rest of the party. Brought to you live as it happens. Only on Buddhavision, the station that cares. And we mean it.’
‘I think we shall dispense with further mingling,’ said Rex. ‘Elvis, go and get the big gun.’
‘Is it butt-kicking time?’ the big E enquired.
‘It is.’ They were back in the car park. Jack drew his cloak about him. ‘I feel extremely odd,’ said he.
‘Something you ate perhaps. Thanks again, Jack. You saved my life.’
‘Yeah. I did, didn’t I? How come I’d do a thing like that?’
‘Perhaps you got smart.’
‘Perhaps. Get down.’ They hastily took cover behind an all-chrome Koshibo Commando. Soldiers were issuing through the grossly painted front doors to take up defensive positions.
‘How are we going to get back inside?’ Jack asked.
‘Certainly not that way.’ They skulked away to find the rock ‘n’ roller with the big big gun.
Christeen edged along a crumbling corridor. Fido twitched his hooter. ‘Someone on our tail, man.’ Sniff sniff. ‘Two someones in fact.’
‘Rambo and Eric.’ Christeen tousled the dog’s head. ‘Took you long enough.’
‘Why did you say that back there?’
‘Say what?’
‘You said “safety-catch, you fool”. Why did you say that?’
‘I don’t exactly know.’ Christeen shrugged. ‘I just felt I had to. Come on. It can’t be far now.’
‘You keep saying that. Can I take another leak?’
‘No, you can’t. Now what is that?’
‘What is what?’
‘That is what.’ Before them, somewhat out of place in the cobwebby gothic, stood what looked for all the next world like a high-tech computer. It winked little lights and made a soft melodic purring sound. And beyond that . . .
‘Is that a person or what?’ asked Fido.
It was the shape of a person. But it glowed from within and shimmered about the edges like a cheap super-imposition.
‘The Tomorrowman,’ said Christeen.
‘I’ve wet myself,’ said Fido.
‘It’s that gun again,’ said Jack.
Elvis hefted it proudly. ‘Ratatatatatat.’ He waggled the multi-barrelled killing machine to and fro. ‘Weighs a ton. The strap is cutting right into my shoulder. It’s gonna ruin the whole cut of my suit.’
‘Would you rather I took it?’ Rex asked. ‘I do want my go, you know.’
‘No way. Am I t
he King or what?’
Rex made a hopeless face. ‘We do know what we are supposed to do, I hope.’
Heads nodded. They obviously did. Which was encouraging. Although not very.
‘What are we going to do, chief?’ Barry asked.
‘Barry,’ Elvis scolded his cerebral companion, ‘you haven’t been paying attention. That’s not like you.’
‘I was talking about the big truck, chief.’
‘What big truck?’
‘The big truck that is heading straight for us.’
‘I don’t see no big truck.’ Elvis gaped about.
‘Neither do I.’ Jack had already taken cover.
‘Nor me.’ Rex glanced suspiciously at Elvis. ‘What’s happening, Barry?’
‘That’s odd, chief,’ said the puzzled sprout. That’s very odd indeed. There was a big truck and then there wasn’t.’
‘You putting us on, green buddy?’
‘No chief. Honest. I saw it.’
‘Come on,’ said Rex. ‘Let’s get going.’
‘No Rex. Jump!’ Rex jumped. The truck was suddenly upon them. One moment it wasn’t, the next moment it was. The three men flung themselves from its path as it thundered into the car park, ploughing all those priceless cars into scrap the way we had all hoped it would.
Ella Guru clung to the driving wheel. ‘What happened?’ she gasped. ‘What’s happening?’
The big truck thundered on. Rex rose in time not to see it once more. There was tangled wreckage and heavy tyre marks and then there was nothing.
‘It’s coming apart.’ Rex urged Jack up. ‘Let’s get moving.’
‘It’s coming apart.’ Steam hissed from Byron’s Inter-rositer. Beneath it sparks crackled. Mr Smith made his gravest face yet.
‘Did you hear that? Feel that?’
‘I felt it. What was it?’
‘The big flywheel. It faltered. It faltered, Byron.’
‘Say it’s not happening.’
‘All right. It’s not happening. Does that help?’
‘Not a lot.’