The Suburban Book of the Dead: Armageddon III: The Remake

by Robert Rankin

  ‘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.’

  ‘And how do we do that?’ asked a Tom Cruise. ‘We seem to be surrounded.’

  ‘Storm the building.’ Kevin prepared to do just that.

  ‘Couldn’t we hang on a while,’ Reg asked. ‘I fancy taking tea with the parson. How about it, Alison?’

  ‘You filthy pig.’ Alison hit him right in the mouth. Reg rubbed his cheek. ‘Sharon?’

  ‘I’m game, Tom,’ Sharon whispered. ‘Which way up do you want me?’

  ‘Aw, come on, gang . . .’

  The lift went down.

  ‘The vault,’ said Rex. ‘How do we get to the vault?’

  ‘We go down, Rex. Right down.’ Chico gestured to the row of floor buttons. ‘Hold me over there and I’ll use my X-ray vision.’

  ‘X-ray vision.’ Rex made a face. ‘It figures.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Chico examined the button panel. ‘Straightforward enough. Numerological sequence. Three-digit code. Cardinal numbers. Simple and obvious. 666.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Rex made another face, ‘not one of my favourites.’

  ‘Had to be though, didn’t it. After all, your other self’s TV station is the next block down the street.’

  ‘Down the street?’

  ‘Sure. They’re next-door neighbours. Crawford and the other you. Cosy, eh? Tap it out, Rex. Going down.’

  Rex tapped six. Then six again. The lift shuddered.

  Chico smiled. ‘Sixty-six. Crawford’s floor. He’s set up defences to prevent anyone getting to him now. Best press the third six before we go off bang.’

  Rex hesitated. ‘We might well go off bang if I press the wrong button. Six six six is too easy.’ The lift began to heave violently from side to side.

  ‘It’s gonna drop,’ howled Harpo. ‘We’re all gonna die. Save us, Rex.’ Rex’s finger hovered before the six button. The lift rocked. Sparks began to fly. ‘Press six.’ Chico reached for the button. Rex held him back.

  ‘It’s wrong. It’s a trap, I know it.’

  The lights went on and off. The fear flasher flashed and the horror horn went Woooooooooooooo!

  ‘Press six like my brother says.’

  ‘No.’ Rex pressed eight.

  The shaking stopped. The lighting sorted itself out and the lift proceeded down in an orderly fashion.

  ‘How?’ Chico asked. ‘I missed it.’

  ‘Crawford’s not the Beast 666,’ Rex explained. ‘He lives right next door, though. You just told me. So six six eight ... that’s the code. The next-door neighbour of the beast. Smart thinking on my part, eh?’

  ‘Dead smart. Except that the TV station is down the street. Which would make it six six four.’

  ‘Hmm,’ went Rex Mundi.

  ‘This is MTWTV and this is Dick Adamski talking to you live. I have here with me Mojo and Debbie Nixon, distraught parents of America’s favourite bicephalous. Who, if you missed us earlier, is being held captive by Simon “the Black Butcher” Butcher, necrophile, beastialist, mentalist and high-society photographer. Mojo, how are you feeling right now?’

  ‘I’m feeling pretty good right now, Dick, because I know that MTWTV, the station that cares, is right behind Debbie and me. And Presley City’s finest are on the job.’

  ‘And do you have a message for the black butcher himself?’

  ‘I surely do, Dick. If you’re watching, you son-of-a-suppository, I wanna tell you this, holding captives and conducting monstrous experiments can be a thirsty business. And if I were you, I’d be drinking Murdoch Brew, the beer that hits the spot any time. That’s what I’m drinking right now. Cheers, Dick.’

  ‘Cheers, Mojo.’

  ‘The kid’s a natural.’ The MTWTV station head leaned back in his chair and smiled hugely.

  ‘Clauses 689-692, 707-717 . ..’ Mojo’s agent continued.

  ‘Goddamn ... Oh and ouch . . .’ The Anti-Rex skidded on another banana skin. He dragged a handset from his pocket. Pressed buttons, shouted into it. ‘Dee, Kelley. Where are you?’

  Johnny Dee tossed his howling handset out of the glassless cab window. ‘He does go on, don’t he?’

  ‘It came to me in a flash,’ Bill burbled on, ‘a bolt from the blue, as it were. About the cabbying see. I could be like this sort of lone avenger with his own cab. You know the kind of stuff. Crime wave, society under attack, panic in the streets. The police chief is having a rough one. Everything is coming apart at the seams. Only one thing to do. Pick up the Bill Phone and call HELLCAB.’

  Johnny cast his eyes towards heaven.

  ‘When there’s some deep shit in your neighbourhood,’ sang Bill. ‘Who you gonna call? Call HELLCAB!’

  ‘Doesn’t scan, Bill.’

  ‘You could join me, Johnny. Remember Randall and Hopkirk Deceased! I could be the dead one. Even like this I’m better looking than he was.’

  The Hellcab ground its way painfully through the late afternoon streets of Presley City.

  ‘When something pongs and it don’t pong good, who you gonna call? Call. . . HELLCAB . . .’

  ‘Straight on at the lights,’ said Johnny.

  Balberith popped the main chancer’s final foot into his mouth and swallowed. Then he stuck his head through the hole in the roof and took a bit of a look round. There were a good many cameras. But none of them were pointing in his direction. All were aimed up at the ButcherBuilding.

  ‘So that’s where the movie is,’ Balberith dabbed his black lips with a table doth, ‘I’m on then.’

  8.50

  The lift doors opened. ‘Ah,’ said Rex. ‘We’re here.’

  ‘Debbie.’ Dick Adamski extended his mike. ‘Would you be kind enough to share a word or two with us?’

  ‘I’d love to, Dick.’ Debbie thrust out a pair of breasts that really should have had received considerable mention previously. ‘I’d just like to say-’

  The channel flickered. The screens of the viewing public became breastless. And then the face of Jonathan Crawford went world-wide.

  ‘Hello, suckers,’ Jonathan winked horribly, ‘it’s me, Simon “the bogeyman” Butcher. Maniac, destroyer and ruler of this fair land. Yeah, ruler. That’s what I said. I’m in control here. I run it all, the Department of Human Resources, that keeps you little maggots working. The Repo Men who monitor you and keep you on the straight and narrow. The government. All of it. It’s me. Never guessed that, did ya? Well now you do. So don’t touch that dial because I’m gonna tell you all about it. You ready?’

  The Anti-Rex pressed his fingers to the steel wall. They pulsed and throbbed. Lines of energy spread in red streaks. The steel began to melt.

  ‘Ever had that feeling that your life wasn’t your own? That someone was manipulating you? Well, you were right. It’s me. You lot are nothing but pawns in my game. The ultimate game. Rubbish, that’s all you are. And I’ve grown tired of you. So, guess what I’m going to do. I’m going to press my little button and wipe the lot of you out. The same way I wiped out Elvis-’

  ‘Ooh, eek, and what the Heck?’ went the viewing public. ‘You done what?’

  ‘Elvis is dead, suckers. What do you think of that?’

  The millions of viewers really didn’t know what to think. So they shook their heads, opened cans of beer and settled down to await further revelations.

  They didn’t have to wait long.

  ‘You’re all gonna get it in the neck,’ crowed Jonathan. He raised a finger and prepared it for the big plunge down.

  ‘I shouldn’t do that if I were you, sir.’

  Jonathan’s finger hovered in the air. The way some of them do. He turned to view the owner of the all-too-familiar voice.

  ‘Oh no! Not you!’ Jonathan’s jaw hit his chest.

  ‘Just back off is all.’

  ‘But... it’s ... you . . .’

&
nbsp; ‘It’s me, fella.’ The young man wore a gold lame zootsuit and the very bluest of blue suede footwear. He had a serious quiff on, cheekbones to stagger the senses of the gods and really killer side-burns. And he curled his lip. Just so.

  ‘Move away from the console,’ said Elvis Aaron Presley, for could it possibly have been anyone else?

  ‘But you’re dead . . . I . . .’

  ‘Killed me? Killed me! Elvis the Ever-living. Some hope, mister. Now step aside easy now and don’t touch nothing.’

  It was not to be noticed that the King held in his hand nothing more nor less than a trusty Smith and Wooden heart. ‘And stick ‘em up while you’re about it.’

  ‘No no no no no.’ Jonathan took to shaking his head. He also took to sticking his hands up, though. ‘This is all wrong. This is not what’s supposed to happen. And I think I’ve run out of lives. Go away, you’re spoiling everything.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ With the gun firmly trained upon Jonathan, Elvis addressed the cameras. ‘People of the world,’ said he, ‘you all heard what the little guy here had to say to you and you all know who I am. So I guess you’ll all approve of this.’ He cocked his pistol.

  ‘No!’ cried Jonathan, and it really must be said it was the real one this time. ‘Stop, you don’t know what you’re doing.’

  Elvis squeezed the trigger and without further words wasted, shot Jonathan’s brains out. On prime time.

  ‘Nice shot,’ said Kevin. ‘Do you think BAH-REAH told him to do it?’

  ‘Goddammit!’ croaked Sam Maggott. ‘Storm that building!’

  ‘Oh this is great.’ The voice of the MTWTV station head called through a fog of cigar smoke. ‘If Elvis liberates Harpo/Chico this is worth millions. Millions. Get Dick in there, try and arrange an interview.’

  ‘789-807,’ said Mojo’s agent.

  ‘Someone throw this bum outta here,’ roared the smoker.

  ‘Beer please.’ Cecil placed himself upon a bar stool.

  ‘In a minute,’ the Tomorrowman’s barman adjusted the TV set above the bar, ‘I’m watching this. The last bit of the book’s coming up and I want to see what happens.’

  Rex wandered amongst the Presley hoard. ‘Okay,’ he dandled Harpo/Chico, ‘we’ve got this far. Where’s the bomb?’

  ‘I don’t actually know that.’ Chico scratched his little chin. ‘I can’t be expected to know everything, you know.’

  ‘About this Cosmic Message of yours?’ Rex asked.

  ‘I’d rather not discuss that at the present moment, if you don’t mind.’

  The Anti-Rex’s hands blazed upon the sheet steel. Molten metal dribbled away. The hole widened.

  ‘People of the world.’ Elvis straightened his hair. ‘I’m back amongst you. Although I’ve never really been away. I’ve always been here to help and guide you. But other guys, bad guys, have been playing bad games with all of you. But that’s all done now cos I’m here to deal with things in person. It’s me, I’m here, I’m holy and I’m handsome. Elvis the Ever-living. So, now listen up, there’s something you gotta know. We got terrorists here in our midst.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ said Kevin.

  ‘Terrorists unseen and unknown. And they plan to destroy this great city of ours. In less than eight hours a bomb will explode and kill you all. You, my people. So listen up and listen good. You gotta find this bomb. Locate it and then call in to me. That’s what you gotta do if you love me. It’s somewhere in the city. So find it and call it in. It’s a test for my love. Do it for me.’ The screens blanked. Elvis was gone.

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ Kevin shrugged, ‘it’s the first I’ve heard about any bomb.’

  PresleyCity suddenly got very busy indeed. Folk issued from all quarters. Manhole covers came up, hoardings came down, shop windows caved in. There was a whole lotta searching going on. But it wasn’t being done in the spirit of communal well-being, but in panic and hatred and the settling of old scores.

  Crowds poured into the streets. Buildings took fire. People began to die. It was all wrong.

  ‘It’s all wrong.’ Rex shook his head. ‘How could he do it? How could he let this happen?’ He wasn’t talking about all that up there, because he hadn’t been watching the tele. He was talking about all he saw down there, all he saw down there in the vault. ‘I knew the man. He was honest. He cared.’

  ‘He fouled up.’ Chico shrugged his shoulder. ‘Not his fault really. He did his best.’

  ‘So now we’ve found the hoard, what should we do with it?’

  ‘Burn it!’ Harpo said. ‘Burn it all.’

  ‘What?’ Chico asked.

  ‘Destroy it,’ Harpo continued. ‘We have to erase it all.’

  ‘What are you talking about, bruv?’

  ‘Chico, the space-folk told you plenty, but they told me plenty also. Not that I’m really supposed to let on. Burn it, Rex, that’s what you have to do.’

  ‘Burn it?’ Rex was very doubtful indeed. ‘This is the work of masters, men of genius. You can’t burn art, it’s a sacrilege.’

  ‘Rex, these paintings are blasphemy. Elvis isn’t God. You know that. All of it must burn now. None of it can be allowed to leave this place again. No future archaeologist must ever dig up one fragment. The whole thing stops here, tonight. For ever.’

  ‘He-a-vy,’ said Chico.

  “Then the game ends?’ Rex thought he’d ask.

  ‘The game ends when you defuse the bomb.’

  ‘Hmm,’ murmured Rex Mundi.

  ‘Torch it, Rex, you know it makes sense.’

  ‘Well.’ Rex dithered. ‘But I’m not happy.’

  ‘Rex, I’m one half of a two-headed baby. Just how happy do you want to be in one lifetime?’

  The face of Elvis was back on the screen. ‘Find it for me my people.’

  A hole appeared in the steel wall and the Anti-Rex stuck his head through it. And what he saw made him grina very wicked grin.

  Rex stood before Adoration of the Shepherds by Georges de la Tour (1593-1652). Elvis was right there in the middle, thinly disguised beneath a railwayman’s cap and carrying a flute. [Check this one out if you’re ever in the Louvre, I speak not one word of a lie.]

  ‘You have to burn,’ Rex told the canvas. ‘Although I hate like damn to be the one to do it.’

  ‘Torch it, Rex. Come on now.’

  ‘OK Harpo.’ Rex had about his person a Carrier slim-line computer-controlled cigarette lighter. It took flame the first time, the way all of them do.

  Rex held it dose to the priceless painting. The ancient paint blistered, the fire took hold.

  Laura Lynch pressed her ear to the wall. Someone was out there. Someone.

  Rex stepped back from the burning canvas and glanced around the vault. The da Vincis, the Michelangelos, the Van Goghs, the Caravaggios and Carsons gazed back at him. Dumb, it seemed, with disbelief at his act of unspeakable vandalism.

  ‘Sorry chaps.’ Rex backed towards the lift.

  Laura began to beat at the wall. ‘Help me!’ she screamed. ,

  ‘Well, it’s burning.’ Rex watched as the flames spread. ‘So where is the bomb?’

  ‘Rex, it’s you, help me.’

  ‘Let’s get out, Rex, above it all, look down, try and reason it out.’

  ‘Sounds good to me, Chico. Up it is.’

  ‘Rex! Help me!’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘It wasn’t me. Come on, into the lift, quick.’

  ‘No, wait. I heard something.’

  ‘Rex, help.’

  ‘Rex, hurry, it’s getting awfully hot in here.’

  ‘Shush, Chico.’

  ‘Don’t you shush my brother.’

  ‘Don’t you start.’

  ‘Help!’

  ‘It’s Laura. Laura!’ Rex shouted. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m here, Rex. Here.’

  ‘She’s here.’

  ‘Rex, forget about her. She’s not important.’

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘D
on’t you tell my brother to shut up.’

  ‘Laura, I’m coming.’ Rex plunged forwards, taking Harpo/Chico.

  ‘No, Rex, no.’ The Presley hoard was fast becoming an inferno. ‘We’ll fry ... ooh ouch . . . mum ... do something, Chico!’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ Chico screwed up his face and hunched his shoulder. The flames parted before Rex and roared up harmlessly to either side.

  Neat trick,’ said Rex.

  All at once, because there’s nothing to be gained by dragging it out, they were before the blank wall. Rex put a hand upon it. ‘She’s in here, but there’s no door.’

  ‘Let me,’ said Harpo. ‘Chico isn’t very good with numbers.’

  Chico hung his head.

  Harpo rattled his share of fingers on the blank wall.

  The wall dissolved and Laura Lynch fell into Rex’s arms. Which would have been very romantic, if we felt we could trust Laura one inch.

  ‘Oh Rex,’ Laura kissed him passionately, ‘you saved me.’ ‘I had a little help from my friends.’

  Harpo/Chico smiled up at Laura.

  Laura didn’t smile back. ‘God,’ she said, ‘what an ugly little sucker.’

  ‘Right,’ said Chico, ‘that does it.’

  ‘No, wait,’ Rex was staring over Laura’s shoulder. ‘What’s that thing in there?’

  ‘Oh, that’s the coffin of Elvis Presley. He’s dead, you know.’

  ‘Well, actually I didn’t.’

  Rex looked down at the bunny rabbit. ‘Turn her back,’ he told Chico.

  The truck began to rock and the MTWTV station head began to get a sweat on. ‘What’s going on out there?’ he demanded to know.

  Trouble, sir.’ The driver spoke through his little hatch. ‘Lots of mob violence. But we’re getting it all on tape, no worries. They’ve all gone mad since Elvis made his broadcast. They’re tearing the city to pieces.’

  ‘Here we go here we go here we go.’ Kevin flung the big military vehicle into gear. It plunged forward, mashing police cars, scattering rioters, mounted the big front-steps and ploughed into the lobby of the Butcher Building. ‘Let’s kick ass.’