“Let me ask you something Pete,” began Fendel, “what do you remember prior to the day before yesterday?”
“Well,” he answered, thinking hard on it, “what do you want, specific events, general moods?”
“Anything.”
“Well,” Pete went on, going red now from the mental strain, “nothing,” he said at last.
“And what do you think that means?” probed Fendel further.
“That I’ve got the memory of a fish?” he replied deadpan.
“Or,” suggested Fendel, “that we’ve all had our memories erased!”
“Nonsense!” put in Slip.
“Okay,” Fendel continued, “what about that faulty plug over there, we’re all fish right?”
“Right.”
“And being fish, we live underwater yeah?”
“Yeah,” they agreed.
“Does nobody think it the tiniest bit suspect then, that we have electrical plugs here, when we all live underwater?”
“Oh right, like we should be harnessing the power of the ocean instead sorta thing?” asked Pete, shooting so wide of the mark, that it could no longer be called a shot in itself, and has now been officially reclassified as an attempt without aim.
“No,” he replied, “like the fact that electricity is dangerous, and water and electricity is doubly dangerous, and we apparently live with them both, in altogetherly-too—close proximity!”
“It is somewhat suspect when you think about it,” observed Crinkle, swimming to the other side of the hall, where there was no electric socket.
“And do you want to know the real kicker is?” Fendel went on.
“Yes please,” said Slip.
“What puts the most magnificent cherry on an already really rather lovely cake?”
“Go on,” urged Crinkle.
“What signs, seals, delivers, dots every i, and crosses quite literally all the t’s?”
“Just tell us!” shouted Pete.
Fendel paused for a moment, as a matador might compose himself before waving forward his bovine friend in the time-accustomed tradition. He eyed all of them in turn, and then, seemingly deciding upon the finality of something in his head, delivered the most important news since the big bang.
“We’re the Renegade team!” he declared finally.
“We’re the what?” asked Slip, deeply unimpressed.
“The Renegade team,” he repeated, “the most listened-to pirate radio station in the entire universe!”
“Nah, say what?” asked Slip again.
“We are not fish,” he repeated again, slowly this time, “we are the Renegade team, the most listened-to to radio station in the whole wide universe.”
“Not getting it Fends, start at the beginning,” said Slip, unhelpfully trying to help.
“You are not King Slip, fishy ruler of the king-tank,” he said even more slowly, “your name is Slip McGroovy, and you are the main macdaddy, pop pushing, disc jockey on Renegade TM. Queen Crinkle is actually your number two, your Mona to her Lisa sorta thing. His name is Pete Martin,” he said pointing at him, “he’s a suicidal homo sap from the Milky Way galaxy, and it really isn’t that clear what he actually does, or if indeed he actually does anything yet!”
Pete took that opportunity to compose pithy rebukes in his head.
“And my name is Fendel, and I really don’t belong here,” he finished.
“Yeah, well your face belongs here!” shouted Pete angrily.
Some time passed until the moment to speak again seemed proper, like someone had broken wind in a lift, which is wrong on so many levels.
“Your Fendel,” he resumed, “I have already killed, I am in fact another Fendel from a parallel universe, and it is my aim to save you lot, before returning to my rightful place and saving my lot, understand?”
“Your face understands!”
“Stop it Pete,” said Crinkle, “you’re really not helping matters!”
“I understand,” said Slip all of a sudden, “you’re coco loco!”
“I assure you that I am as sound as a pound.”
“A pound of what?” asked Pete bemused.
“A pound of the most rational doctors working on a new syntax for a most correct and mathematically sound, logical predicate.”
“You’re face…”
“Look,” interrupted Crinkle, “I agree that there is something odd going on, but is it totally necessary to kill us?”
“Yes and no,” Fendel began, “we are all here because of the shears of Salamaloo, which we were forced to use to escape the shark there known as Ben, who was at the time, quite set on eating us all.”
Ben the Shark made no response.
“Before that we were all trapped in the after-after life known as Hupa Hool, were I slowly reunited all of you, and further saved my own this-galaxy-self from the clutches of Ben over there, who was then an old man living alone in a hut in the woods, and neither of the sharks he was yet to become, follow?”
“Yes, more or less,” replied Crinkle before anybody else had a chance to speak.
“The reason I have to kill you goes like this, I got to purgatory by dying, I then got to Hupa Hool by dying again, it should follow then that if I kill myself again, I would then go full circle and return to life, as in the circle of death sorta thing!”
“Brilliant,” replied Slip, thinking about how marvellous it was to be him, and not listing to a word that was said.
“I’m with you Fends,” agreed Crinkle, “what about you Pete?”
“Yeah whatever,” he replied, “it’s gotta be better than living in this fishbowl anyway.”
“Then we’re all agreed,” continued Fendel, “I’ll shoot you all in the head with this harpoon gun, and then turn it on myself and take my own life. Once we’re all dead again, we should all be returned to life, I mean, where else is there to go?!”
“You’re not going anywhere,” growled Ben all of a sudden, “not until I get those shears!”
Ben looked every bit the killer shark again as he advanced upon the Renegadeers. It now appeared, that the dysfunctional upbringing and debilitating daddy issues, had all been an act, an act designed to fool them all into trusting him, so he could reclaim the sacred sheers he so wantonly craved.
“Now I’m going to eat you all,” declared Ben in brutal earnestness.
“Un moment ce tu plait,” said Pierre leader of the Co-leen Resistance, who suddenly materialised out on nowhere between them, holding aloft the shears, “I think these are the shears you seek n’est pas?”
46.
Fate worse than death door
“Yashcoo y’all, it’s Slip the trip here, pumping out beats faster than a quasar, turning around tunes like a true moon lune, and generally dropping down tracks in a lyrical attack! That was Meteor Strike by It Ain’t Half Hot, and now it’s time to go over to our very own music muse, here’s Crinks with the weather.”
“Space is still a vacuum Slip.”
“So there you have it you beautiful Renegade revellers, there is literally no atmosphere out there, so why not get comfy, turn the kettle up to max, and ready yourself for the next cycle of perfect pop that will bring only smiles to those eyes, and tears to those lips!”
That said, Slip pushed go on the next segment selection, and Renegade TM came momentarily off the thought waves.
“Nice job dude,” praised Fendel, making his way over from the computers, “five clicks until we go back on.”
“Does anybody want a cup of tea?” offered Pete.
“Nobody wants your weird stewed plant with added cow,” replied Crinkle, “what’s wrong with your species exactly?”
“Exactly,” he began in reply, “then I’d have to say that it’s the distinct sense of unworth cultivated in us from the very earliest age, that or the fact we need something to occupy our hands and mouth, lest we get ideas above our genetic station.”
“Well put Chimpmanzee,” commented Fendel.
“Every
body listen up,” said Crinkle, “today is the big day.”
“How big can a Tuesday get exactly?” asked Pete seriously, “I mean, I could never get the hang of Tuesday.”
“Today is the day when,” she continued, quite completely ignoring the question, “they release the thinking figures, and we find out how many people are tuning in and listening!”
“Ah don’t sweat it my Crinky dink panther,” replied Slip, “we’re the most listened to radio station in the whole wide universe, I mean, all you have to do is think Renegade TM and, bang, we’re there!”
“Like a bullet to the brain,” remarked Fendel, adopting his usual cheery tone.
“Don’t get cocky Groovy,” she said, “just because people can tune in by thinking it, doesn’t mean they necessarily do.”
“Yeah, yeah Crinks, I hear you,” he replied casually, “Fends, fetch me my neutrino cigar, its time to get victorious!”
“Okay, they’re coming in now.”
“How many people are there now in the universe anyway, this number could break the comms!”
“Hang on Slip,” she said, turning pale, “no that can’t be right.”
“What is it Crinks?” asked Slip, “the number’s yet to have been invented?!”
Crinkle had turned so pale that it was now difficult to discern her, from the white walls of the Humdinger itself. After a lengthy agonising silence, she finally said, in a voice no louder than a whisper:
“Nobody’s listening.”
“Speak up Crinks.”
“Nobody’s listening,” she said again, a little louder this time.
“What do mean nobody’s listening?” asked Slip perplexed.
“I mean,” she said clearly this time, having found her voice again, “the number of people who are listening to Renegade TM in the entire universe, adds up to the grand total of none!”
“But that can’t be right,” replied Slip, “we’re the most listened to station ever.”
“If by listened to, you mean flagrantly ignored, then absolutely, totally agree,” remarked Fendel rubbing metaphorical salt into the wound.
“Not to worry big guy,” put in Pete, “fancy a nice cuppa?”
“But this is my life,” began Slip in low tone, staring through the window out to space, “everything that I am is Renegade TM. If nobody’s listening, then nobody cares about the music, about the Renegade message, or about me.”
“Aw come on Groovy,” said Crinkle reassuringly, “we’ll bounce back, maybe we could play some newer bands?”
“Sure,” he replied not really listening, “newer bands, absolutely. Listen guys, I’m gonna stretch my legs, hold the fort for a mo’ will you.”
“No worries,” replied Crinkle, looking anything but.
Slip made his way out of the Control room and started wondering the maze of corridors onboard the Humdinger.
“Nobody’s listening,” he repeated to himself, as he opened an airlock door.
“Not one person cares,” he said, stepping inside.
“I have wasted my whole life,” he thought, pushing the button that sealed the airlock behind him.
“Think I’ll get some air,” he decided, opening the hatch that lead outside the ship.
WARNING 30 PINGS UNTIL DECOMPRESSION.
Slip did not even hear the computer warning as he stood there waiting for the compartment to decompress. What he did hear, was a maniacal laughter that suddenly seemed to fill the ship. A laughter that seemed to welcome his death, and take a dark, twisted pleasure in doing so.
Abandon hope all ye who enter here door
“Five clicks till you’re on Crinkle!”
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” she replied, adjusting her hat angle in the mirror for the umpteenth time.
Ladies and gentlemen it is my great delight this night to welcome you all to the most fashionable event of year, Style. This year, Style is sponsored by Image is Life from the fashion houses of Barutha Seven, and if you all take a look in your gift bags you’ll find some free low fat water, and a gratis online subscription to HeadNovel© - the online universe where your real social skills are immaterial. After a moments ado, we will begin tonight’s fashion show, I would just like to take a moment to remember all those forgotten and underprivileged parts of the universe, where an understanding of style amounts to little more than a t-shirt and jeans combo. Our giant hearts go out to you, we only hope that some of the love spread here tonight will help brighten the darkness that is your meagre existence. So, ladies and gentlemen, this is it, I can now officially declare that… Style… Is… Now!
“Two clicks Crinkle!”
“I’m ready!” she bellowed back, approaching the wings that lead onto the catwalk.
Crinkle was dressed in some of the latest Barutha fashions, and was about to make her model debut on the catwalk of the year’s high fashion event, Style. This was her big moment, the moment when she would at last hold her head high and shout at universe “look at me, I am beautiful!” She was next up, once the last model returned back from the catwalk, it was her turn, a turn in which she intended to shine as bright as a newly born proton star. The last model returned back to the wings and she stepped out onto the catwalk.
Wearing the latest Barutha midnight sun line, Crinkle is dressed in the organic tones of the by the pool, business executive, narcolepsy range. As you can see, she is wearing…
Crinkle was now half way down the catwalk, doing her best model walk, and really pouting it up for the cameras.
She is wearing…
She had done it, realising all her dreams in way fell fashion swoop. Tomorrow she would be the talk of the universe, the face on all the glossies, and a topic of awe and wonder discussed only in whispers, lest something so precious could break.
She is wearing…
Something was wrong, why did he keep repeating the same thing. There was nothing for it now, she just had to keep going, and hope that her adoring fans would not notice.
Where is she? Where is Crinkle?
She was right there. Right at the end of the catwalk now, holding her best “I know I’m beautiful, I was born this way” pose.
This is hopeless, send out the next model!
They couldn’t see her. She was so short that is was impossible to see her tiny frame. Even though she stood at the very end of the catwalk, under the brightest of spotlights, not one of the guests there had spotted her. It was as though she was so tiny as to have been rendered invisible, so unimportant as to have become unnoticeable. She may well have been a grain of sand, lost in the magnitude of space, with no purpose, no direction, and about as meaningful as an unbalanced equation.
Chantisca is dressed from head to toe in accelerated ice, fashioning the latest liquid cut range from the Diatribe Brothers…
They had gone on without her. Her big moment had passed, and she had burnt about as bright as a wet sneeze. It was then that she decided to kill herself. Reaching inside her dress for the bottle of turbo metabolisers, which she always kept in case of an attack of over cake indulgence, she figured that about half the bottle would be enough to burst most of her major organs. Unscrewing the lid and putting the bottle to her lips, all she could now hear, was an insane laughter that suddenly seemed to fill the entire room, the kind of laughter that, if it were possible, would take a great delight in drowning tiny kittens.
Certain death door
Pete sat on the wall that surrounded the top floor of the car park and contemplated his life to date.
“What have I done with my life? I mean, you know, really done. I went to school with friends who are now doctors and lawyers, “stupid Kev” is now an accountant, and last I heard “dizzy Debs” is now a member of parliament! And what do I do? Sell bill boards. Not even the boards themselves, but the base slogans and depressed brand identities that we’re all meant to care about! My life is less meaningful than last year’s must-have crisp packet! Why do I even bother? My girlfriend hates me, I’ve nowhere to live, a
nd my car’s just exploded, just when I thought we’d finally bonded! I mean, maybe I should just end it all, right here, right now, just toss myself gaily from this wall and plummet happily to my death below, spread all over the streets of Sutton. I mean what’s really stopping me?”
He paused as though waiting for some divine intervention, some beautiful reminder of the absolute sanctity of life, a perfect moment that would waft into vision and dispel all his feelings of gloom. A heron flew directly above him, and shat on his head.
“Oh so that’s how it is huh?!” he shouted at the universe as though the universe was listening and might therefore sympathise, (in actuality the universe was in still in bed, having stayed up all night contemplating itself).
“Okay, you’ve asked for this!” he declared, getting up to stand precariously on the not widest of walls that surrounded the very top floor of the car park.
“Before I die,” he began defiantly, “I want to make it perfectly clear, that I do this not out of spite, but instead with the concrete understanding that the universe is sick, fundamentally and in essence, ill. I have therefore decided to take my own life, with the hope that these last words will echo through the ages.”
Pete cleared his throat in order to deliver his epic farewell, and in doing so, slipped on a lose brick he was perched on. As he fell regretfully to his death, seven stories below, all he could hear was a disturbed giggle, which he wrongly assumed originated from his old foe, the universe.
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