Snuff Fiction

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Dickheads to a man,’ whispered Norman.

  Oh, but what they carried on their burnished silver trays. What toothsome taste-bud ticklers. What choice and chewsome chomperies. As the waiters moved amongst the party guests, bowing with their trays to offer up their bounty, the professor called down from on high and pointed to the platters as each passed beneath him.

  ‘Lo and behold,’ he called. ‘A beano, a beanfeast, a banquet. A Saranapalian swallow-me-down. An Epicurean eat-’em-up. Lo and behold and look you there,’ and he pointed. ‘Fillet mignon of Alytes obstreticans, lightly fried in Ranidae miluh and served upon a bed of Taraxacum.’

  ‘Sounds delicious,’ I said.

  Norman made a face. ‘If you happen to like midwife toad, cooked in frog’s milk and bunged on a bunch of dandelion leaves.’

  ‘Some of these foreign dishes do lose a bit in the translation, don’t they?’

  ‘Hmmph,’ went Norman, waving a waiter away.

  The professor continued to point and proclaim, naming each dish that passed beneath him and loudly extolling its virtues.

  To which Norman added his clever-Dick-I-did-languages-at-Grammar-school translations.

  I passed on the lungs and the livers and lights. The bollocks of boar and the wildebeest’s whangers. The monkey’s brains, although fresh and piping hot (and Bubbles’ looked particularly tasty in the fresh Crad sauce) didn’t thrill me at all.

  Not that I wasn’t hungry. Actually, I was starving.

  But, well . . .

  When you have so many wonderful things to choose from, you hardly know where to start. Eventually I did make up my mind. I decided to keep it simple. Nothing rich, that might be likely to ‘repeat’. Good, wholesome, plain old down-home cooking.

  ‘Beans on toast, sir?’ the waiter asked.

  ‘No thanks, mush,’ I told him. ‘I’ll have the Rocky Mountain oysters, the belly-cut of long pig and the sheep’s vagina, stewed in its own special juices. Oh and a pint of Château-Lafite 1822 and put it in my personal pewter tankard.’

  Class act, or what?

  I do have to say that I got quite a kick out of watching the party guests tuck in. It was a real joy to see top-notch gourmets trenchering it down. I perused them as they picked prettily at penis pasties and pork-sword pilaffs and popped portions of their preferred provender onto proffered plates.

  Pretty much all Ps there again, by my reckoning.

  ‘What are you having, Norman?’ I asked.

  ‘Just the beans on toast for me.’

  ‘Something wrong with the other stuff?’

  ‘Heavens no,’ said Norman, ‘perish the thought. It’s just that I’m not very hungry. I think I ate too much elephant’s dongler for tea.

  Now, whilst all the face-filling was in progress, things had been happening beneath the minstrels’ gallery. A small stage had been erected, with a row of footlights and painted background scenery.

  We were somewhere into the sixth or seventh course when the cymbals clashed and the voice of Professor Merlin was once more to be heard.

  ‘Boom shanka boom boom boom,’ it went. ‘You dine and you sup. Let sweet champagne be danced around and let the lights be dimmed a tad and soft the music play.’

  Then every damn light in the hall went out and we were left in the dark.

  But not for long.

  The footlights glowed; the stage shone bright. Professor Merlin strode onto it. He struck up a noble splay-legged pose, his hands upon his hips. The mariachis played a sweet refrain and the professor said simply, ‘Let our show begin.’

  And then there was a flash, a puff of smoke and he was gone.

  ‘I could do that too,’ whispered Norman.

  Now, what followed next was undoubtedly the most extraordinary piece of theatre that I have ever witnessed. It was ludicrous, though laudable. Absurd, yet absolutist. It was wacky, but wise. It was zany, but Zen. It was monstrous strange, and I fear that we will not see the likes of it ever again.

  ‘Om,’ called the voice of Professor Merlin. ‘Om,’ it called once more. ‘Om, which is the sacred syllable of the Most High. Typifying the triumvirate of Gods. Brahma, Vishnu and Siva. Birth, life and death. For our playlet comes to you in these three vital parts. The stuff of which we all are made. We’re born. We live. We’re cast away. Behold the Boy.’

  We beheld the Boy. He rose up in the midst of us from beneath a rug, where he’d lain in wait. We applauded the Boy’s appearance. We applauded loud and long.

  For this boy was undoubtedly a Principal Boy. This boy was played by a girl. A beautiful girl, as it happened. Young and tender-limbed and slender. Wide of mouth and eye. Some toffs amongst the crowd wolf-whistled and did their Terry-Thomas ‘well, helllooooos’.

  The Boy moved slowly through the crowd. Slowly on shuffling feet. Wearily he climbed onto the stage. Turned to face the audience, offered up a sigh, suggestive of a day’s hard labours done. Then gave a long languid yawn.

  Which set Norman off.

  I mimed a fist to the face.

  The Boy settled down upon the stage. He wore rags and had nothing to cover him. He seemed pretty down upon his luck.

  However, no sooner was he asleep than he began to dream and we were treated to a lavishly presented dream sequence with sparkly fairy folk flittering round and a big fat angel in a liberty bodice and wellington boots, who took a shine to the Boy and showered him with shimmering dust.

  ‘Would this be the ludicrous yet laudable bit?’ Norman asked.

  The voice of Professor Merlin spoke. ‘A gift is given. A gift is received,’ is what I think it said.

  Now, as far as I can make out, the basic story went like this. There is this little boy and he’s given something special by an angel in a dream. We don’t know what this special something is, but it must be really special, because everyone he meets wants to snatch it away from him.

  First up is this sort of wicked uncle chap. He wears a black turban and has a painted-on beard and bad breath. The bad breath business got a lot of laughs, as did the posturing of this wicked uncle chap, who tries and tries again to bully the special something away from the Boy.

  We jeer and catcall and roundly boo this uncle.

  Then there is this group of good-time Charlies. They pretend to be chums of the Boy. But we all know what they’re after. They get the Boy drunk, but he won’t part with his special something and the good-time Charlies caper about and bump into the invisible pillars and fall down a lot. And we laugh.

  Then we get to the real baddy. The Evil Prince. The Evil Prince has a stonking great palace, with handmaidens and his own full-size indoor crazy golf course and everything.

  His approach to the Boy is more subtle.

  He invites the Boy into his palace. Lets him play a round of crazy golf for free. And gives the Boy presents and makes a big fuss of him and pats his head a lot.

  The harem scene made the show for me. I thought I knew of every inconceivable permutation of man and beast and fowl and fish that there was to know. And, after all, I had seen all those video tapes of cabinet ministers doing what comes so naturally to them, within the walls of Castle Doveston.

  I was impressed.

  And just a little horny.

  I won’t recount the details here, because they’re not really relevant to the plot of the play. But trust me on this, it was

  INCREDIBLE

  So, anyhow. The Boy, having given his all in the harem orgy, and got a fair bit in return, offers the special something (which he has somehow managed to hang on to even whilst doing that weird thing with the trout) to the Evil Prince. He gives it to him as a present for being so kind.

  And, without a by-your-leave, or even a kiss-my-elbow, the Boy is seized by the palace guards, dragged beyond the walls, given a sound duffing up and left for dead.

  We all boo a lot at this. Although we do agree that the Boy has been a trifle foolish in trusting that Evil Prince.

  The Boy then falls into a bit of a coma
and the fat angel comes back and puts the wellington boot in. But then the fat angel forgives the Boy and bungs him what seems to be a bag of magic dust.

  In the final scene, the Boy returns to the palace. The Evil Prince is enjoying a right royal blow-out and laughing himself stupid, because he now owns the special something.

  But the Boy springs up from under the table and flings the magic dust from his bag onto a candle flame. There is a bloody big bang, a good deal of smoke and when this finally clears, we see that every-one in the palace is dead. Except for the Boy, who has somehow miraculously survived. He takes a big bow, receives a bunch of flowers and the show is over.

  Apart, of course, from the rest of the bowing. We all boo the wicked uncle and the good-time Charlies and the Evil Prince and we cheer the fat angel and the flittering fairies and again the Boy.

  And that’s that.

  Well, almost that.

  Professor Merlin appears to great applause. He climbs onto the stage and he bows. He makes a very brief speech of thanks and then he takes out his snuffbox. It’s the slim silver number, shaped like a coffin. He taps three times upon the lid, for Father, Son and Holy Ghost, then he takes up snuff and pinches it to his nostrils.

  And then he lets fly with a very big aaah-choo! The cymbals clash a final time. There is a flash and a puff of smoke.

  And there he is, gone.

  Vanished.

  24

  Aaah-choo! Bless you.

  Trad.

  The riotous applause and cheering died away. The footlights dimmed, the hall’s lights glowed again. On cue came the waiters, bearing trays of sweetmeats. Cheesy things and chocolates. Cognac and cheroots. Strawberries in crack and schooners of absinthe and mescal.

  The mariachi band struck up once more and folk jigged and wriggled, but few made the effort to climb to their feet and dance. They were all bloated and not a little stoned.

  ‘Well, that was a load of old toot,’ said Norman.

  ‘Come off it,’ I said. ‘It was brilliant.’

  ‘So what did it all mean, then?’

  I made expansive gestures.

  ‘You haven’t the foggiest,’ said Norman. ‘I did like the donkey, though.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to say thanks a lot to Professor Merlin. I wonder where he went.’

  ‘Gone,’ said Norman. ‘Off’d it. A big aaah-choo and goodbye to everyone.’

  ‘What’s the time?’ I asked.

  Norman tugged a fob watch from his pocket. It had more than the hint of Meccano about it. ‘A quarter to twelve,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t time just fly when you’re enjoying yourself?’

  ‘Okay.’ I stood up and squared my shoulders and then I did that breathing in deeply through the nose and out again through the mouth thing that people do before they take on something big.

  A bungee jump, perhaps.

  Or a leap through a ring of fire on a motorbike.

  Or even a daring dive from the top of a waterfall.

  Or a sabre charge on horseback into the mouths of the Russian guns at Sebastopol.

  Or—

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Norman.

  ‘Preparing myself for the big one.’

  ‘I’ve no wish to hear about your bowel movements.’

  I showed Norman my fist again and mimed repeated violent blows. ‘Biff biff biff,’ I said. ‘And Norman’s out for the count.’

  Norman rolled his eyes and got to his feet. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I know what we have to do. Find the woman with the green lipstick. If she has any green lipstick left. She’s probably smeared it all off, pushing porcupine’s peckers down her gob.’

  ‘I never knew there were porcupine’s peckers.’

  ‘Yes, well, there were only a few left. I had most of them at lunchtime.’

  ‘Come on,’ I said to Norman. ‘Crank up your peacock suit and let’s get this done. I’ll feel a lot better about ringing in the New Year once we’ve grabbed this woman, tied her up and bunged her in the cellar.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Norman tinkered with his remote control. ‘This lad’s on the blink,’ he said, shaking it about. ‘I think some of the circuits have come unstuck.’ He gave the delicate piece of equipment several hearty thumps. ‘That’s got it,’ he said.

  ‘Right then.’ I explained to Norman the cunning strategy that I felt we should employ. It was simple, but it would prove effective. All we had to do, I told him, was to shuffle nonchalantly amongst the lolling guests in a manner that would arouse no hint of suspicion, and bid each of the womenfolk a casual how-d’you-do whilst having a furtive peer at their lipstick. Then whichever one of us found her would simply shout across to the other: ‘Here’s the murdering bitch,’ and together we’d make the citizen’s arrest.

  Whatever could go wrong with a strategy like that?

  Nothing.

  Also, I felt that doing it this way would give me the opportunity to chat up some of the top notch totty and perhaps see myself all right for a bunk-up to bring in the New Year.

  It was only fair. It was my party.

  ‘Go on,’ I said to Norman. ‘Off you go.’

  Norman went off, going how-d’you-do, and I went off, doing likewise.

  ‘How-d’you-do,’ I went, ‘enjoying the party?

  ‘Hope everything’s OK.

  ‘Please don’t stub your cigar butts on the floor. Kindly use the human ashtrays provided.

  ‘A little more Charlie with your strawberries, your Royal Highness?’

  And so on and so forth and suchlike.

  I thought we were doing rather well, actually. We were quartering the hall, moving in almost orchestrated shufffing zig-zag parallels not altogether unlike a combination of Rommell’s now legendary pincer movement and the ever-popular ‘Hokey Cokey’.

  I rather hoped we’d be doing that later. Along with ‘Knees Up Mother Brown’ and the ‘Birdy Song’. They really make the party go with a whizz in my opinion.

  I suppose I must have how-d’you-do’d my way through at least fifty women before I chanced to glance across to see how Norman was doing. He appeared to be doing rather well, by all accounts. For where all my how-d’you-dos had ended with me shuffling on alone, Norman’s hadn’t. It seemed that all the women Norman had how-d’you-do’d to were now following him.

  They trailed along behind in a giggling all-girl conga line.

  I sighed and shook my head and did some more how-d’you-dos. I was getting rather fed up with how-d’you-dos, as it happened. So I thought I’d switch to hi-hello-theres, just to liven things up.

  Mind you, I don’t know why I even bothered with any pleasantries at all. None of the well-heeled, well-fed, well-sloshed, well-stoned women even showed the faintest interest in me.

  I was well peeved, I can tell you.

  I mean to say, this was my party and they were scoffing my grub and getting pissed on my booze and spacing themselves out on my dope. The least that one of these stuck-up tarts could have done was to offer me a blow-job.

  But did any of them?

  Did they Hell!

  I thought I’d slip into Irish mode. Women always go for Irish blokes. It’s in their charm and the melody of their language. Or it’s the hint of danger about them. Or it’s something else about them. But I reckon it’s the accent.

  Well, I thought it was worth a try.

  ‘Top of the morning to you,’ I said to Ma’ll-yell-if-you-thrust-it-up. She looked strangely unimpressed.

  But her boyfriend looked rather upset.

  ‘Sling your hook, you bog-trotting loon,’ was what he had to say.

  I leaned low in his direction. I recognized him immediately. He was that honourable literary chap, Hairy-fat-prick.

  ‘Off about your business,’ he drawled. ‘Or I’ll know the reason why.’

  I stared the fellow eye to eye and then I head-butted him straight in the face. Well, it had been a long and trying day.

  Old Hairy fell back in a crumpled heap and I smiled over t
o Ma’ll-yell.

  ‘Fainted,’ I said. ‘Too much brown ale. You know what he’s like.’

  I shuffled off some more.

  And then, do you know what, out of the blue it just hit me. I suddenly paused and thought, What am I doing here? I mean, what am I doing here?

  I thought, bloody Hell, I know what I’m doing here

  I’m shuffling!

  Shuffling. I hadn’t shuffled for years. But here I was doing it now. I was shuffling about amongst all these rich folk. These really really famous folk. A complete stranger. Someone who didn’t belong here at all.

  I was a shuffler, me. Always had been, always would be. All the wealth I’d been left by the Doveston couldn’t change what was really inside. I was just a shuffler. I was shuffling in the way that long ago the Doveston had shuffled. The way that the Principal Boy in the play had shuffled. It was the very same shuffle.

  The very same shuffle.

  And then, of course it hit me. I realized exactly what the professor’s play meant.

  It was the life of the Doveston. The whole bit. Birth, life and death. As in ‘Om’. Brahma, Vishnu and Siva. And how had the play ended? With the downfall of the palace and the Evil Prince. And how had the professor concluded the entire performance?

  With a big aaah-choo!

  And what was it Danbury Collins had said?

  Assemble all the members of the Secret Government in one big room and then blow the lot of them to kingdom come.

  With dynamite, perhaps?

  The Big Aaah-Choo!

  ‘Oh shit!’ I went. ‘Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!’

  ‘You have me fair and square,’ said a voice. An Irish voice as it happened. A fellow stood up, a fellow in a frock. A fellow wearing green lipstick and brandishing a blow-pipe. ‘O’Shit’s the name,’ he said. ‘Cross-dressing Secret Government hit man. How did I give myself away? Should I have shaved off me beard?’

  ‘Forget it,’ I told him. ‘Don’t you realize what’s going to happen?’