by Steve Aylett
On the corner of Ride and Dive he pushed into a store to ask the proprietor for any help he could spare. The store was jampacked with implements of destruction, and sat behind the counter was a big guy in aviator shades, barely containing his impulses as he read the latest issue of Headshot.
‘I hope against hope that that isn’t Charlie Hiatus who just walked into my boutique,’ uttered the proprietor without looking up. Charlie noticed that the guy was flushed red, and shuddering like an LA apartment. ‘Because if it is I’ll take all my lucky chances in one strong hand and twist out his sputtering innards for their brightly-hued and decorative value.’
Without a word, Charlie backed slowly out again, letting the door swing shut. Bewildered and thoughtful, he looked at his reflection in the store window and was confronted with a head and neck like a stack of starch slices - he seemed almost to possess gills. This did not fill Charlie with confidence. And when the face of the murderous proprietor floated up behind his own, snarling like an alsatian, he hurried on with a growing sense of fear and unease.
Crossing the road and heading down Saints Street he was alarmed at a sudden explosion of gunfire and a guy running out of the bank with a Remington 870 pump. The guy turned to face the bank and, bellowing incoherently, fired ten chirping rounds into a guard who had come prancing after him. A car shrieked up at that moment, and Charlie leapt in, gasping gratefully as it screamed away with him. But no sooner had the bleak-featured driver glanced back than he slammed on the brakes, forcing Charlie out at gunpoint and calling him a ‘mother’. The guy with the Remington pounded down the street addressing him with a stream of blistering profanity and emphasising every syllable with a blast from the shotgun. Sensing danger, Charlie ran up Valentine as fast as his arms and legs could take him, dodging sideways into a bar.
Charlie was feeling as ragged as a seahorse. Only the bartop supported his tolling head. When he looked up he was confronted by a guy in a bruise-blue jacket and white pants who watched him with a ghoulish loathing. The guy told Charlie he would give him some ‘cod eyes’, opened a flick-knife an inch from Charlie’s nose, then strolled to the other end of the bar and regarded him with slow, glutinous laughter. Charlie turned to the barman. ‘What’s that thing when someone gets a knock on the head and suddenly can’t remember anything about himself?’
‘Death,’ said the barman, his face a mask of disapproval.
Charlie ordered a drink, was signalled to wait and went to sit at a table. A guy wearing purple dungarees and a LEGALISE CHRISTIANITY pin stuck into his bare chest sat next to him and drank through a lead pipe from a steel tumbler - speeding like a fire truck, his cheeks began rippling from the G-force. Charlie noticed that across the table was sat a green-haired woman with a tattooed forehead, augmented pupils and what appeared to be a cylinder-grenade hanging from her ear. She leaned forward. ‘Sitting here,’ she growled, ‘surpasses by twenty-seven square leagues all the various and graphic crimes you have ever committed.’
The service here seemed to be glacier slow, and the patrons appeared to take pride in outshining each other’s lethargy. The barman slammed a non-stick tankard onto the table before him, and sneered like a skull. ‘Stupid bastard,’ he emphasised, and retreated into the gloom.
Drinking, Charlie was not encouraged. All the evidence thus far suggested he was an untrustworthy, depraved moron. He was adrift in a land of artform malice and frivolous assassination. Everyone regarded him with a profound, almost cellular derision. What had he done to provoke it? He sullenly expected his erstwhile life to end quite soon in a gush of puce brains.
The speeder put an arm about his shoulders and whispered in his ear, ‘Strong rules don’t bend but break.’
Charlie was seeing things in the shadows. Was that guy over there examining a single raisin? Someone else seemed to be moving so fast he was taking out the garbage before it had been created. The floor was higher than it should have been. The tables were connected by barely visible strands of pizza. A little man cowered past a window, flinching under lightning. A guy at the bar was trying to remove his own face. Charlie could hear bugs creaking as they grew. The woman across the table slapped the drink out of Charlie’s hand and said, ‘Egomania is, never having to say you’re sorry.’ The universe was filled with strange, garbled laughter.
‘Wake me up!’ Charlie shouted, standing quickly.
The woman overturned the table and approached him. The whole crew began bearing down on him like dinner guests. And it was as Charlie burst through the doors into blinding sunlight, the denizens of Beerlight baying after him like leatherwinged demons from hell, that he remembered he was the Mayor.
DONUT THEORY
Henry Blince was the only guy I knew who grew himself as a hobby, and he was now so round he would have been perfect in a hologram. Presumably one of those chins belonged to his Inner Child. I know for a fact that as Blince outgrew his house he bought progressively smaller dogs to give the place some scale. And it was Blince’s responsibility to simulate law enforcement for the Beerlight area.
Whenever a crime was accomplished Blince’s men had to track him down at the Nimble Maniac, the Rainbow Takeaway or Eat the Menu over on Peejay and drag him like a reluctant cow to the scene of the inevitable. He would always be found frowning in the eatery, devoting his pre-Cambrian intellect to questions whose profundity were matched only by their acute irrelevance to the working man. If all roads lead to Rome, how can anyone who lives there ever leave? If music be the food of love, why haven’t birds got ears? Why didn’t dinosaurs put on any underwear? Were he and his dog co-dependent? This was the sort of thing that occupied Blince’s mind. When he heard that Jackson Pollock had suffered a fatal car smash, all he could think was that nobody was better qualified.
When Blince was hauled off to Deal Street in the middle of a meal his amorphous frame was filled with anticipation. For this man every breach of statute was a foodstuff opportunity. He had eaten Exhibit A at the Mirsky murder, released a contagion of armed robbers when they offered him a taco and in a moment of desperation last year had swallowed a victim’s wreath.
The murder scene at Deal Street contained all the features we have come to expect in such circumstances, including a sobbing spouse and the much-debated stench of death - even the splash of blood on the wall was not absent. Blince slowly thrust his way into the kitchen and surveyed the body and surroundings. ‘This the guy?’ he growled, gesturing with a cigar at the corpse.
‘You reckon it was murder, Chief?’ beamed a fidgeting cop.
‘I’d stake life and limb on it, Benny. Are we all made of meat, Benny - that’s what I ask myself over and again in the dark hours. My god it’s enough to dent your cerebellum.’
‘You sure are one sick son of a bitch, boss,’ Benny said cheerfully.
‘You bet your goddamn life I’m sick - sick of you casting asparagus at my authority. Where’s the goddamn wife?’
‘She’s here boss - she’s pretty upset.’
‘Your husband is dead, Mrs Devlin.’
Mrs Devlin blubbed like a seal. ‘It’s impossible, he can’t be.’
‘No? Well, then it’s a miracle he is. Gedder outta here, Benny.’
‘Right.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Blince abruptly, stopping everything. ‘Are those donuts on the counter, Mrs Devlin?’
‘Wh ... why yes, those are donuts - ‘
‘I thought so. Husband had a habit eh?’
Mrs Devlin was bewildered. ‘A ... a habit?’
‘There are three donuts in evidence, Mrs Devlin - nobody leaves three donuts uneaten. Not unless they’re cold-turkey. - Or gorged.’
‘My god, Mr Blince, my husband was shot. The last thing he’d be thinking about is donuts.’
‘Exactly - donuts. Sidder down, Benny - we’re gonna be here awhile.’
The scar tissue moon rose slowly over a city of echoing shots and bonfire cars. Throughout the night the two cops sat with seemingly infinite patience in th
e dead air which accompanies the stifling of fact - while Mrs Devlin was slowly crushed by its weight. ‘Let’s go over it again,’ rumbled Blince. ‘You created six donuts. Your doomed, misguided husband ate one of them while you stood and watched. You left, and when you came back no more than two minutes later the scene was exactly as it is now - that your story? My god, Mrs Devlin, you tell that in the perjury room you’ll be dead quicker than an airplant.’
‘But it’s the truth you stupid man, the truth! How else can I say it?’ And she broke down into sobs of quaking intensity.
‘Let’s attempt a benign reconstruction, Benny. As I see it Mrs Devlin there are three possible scenarios.’ Blince got up and went over to the plate of donuts. He picked one up and took a bite, chewing. ‘Your husband in all his fragile innocence, pausing only to offer up a prayer to our Lord, entered the blistering vortex of this immoral chamber in search of nourishment. You yourself, clutching at straws in a desperate attempt to salvage something - anything - from the twisted wreckage of your relationship, had deepfried him a doughy repast. Eating one, your husband stated his first-rate opinion that the donut he had sampled would never become what it ought to be, and cast shadowy doubts upon your skill as a cook, wife and lover.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘At this you became exquisitely violent, and gave your husband the cod-eye by means of a Walther 9mm automatic which you subsequently disposed of in whatever manner your damaged imagination could devise. Am I getting through to you Mrs Devlin?’
‘You’ve run stark raving mad you disgusting tyrant.’
‘Tyrant am I? Distorting the facts! Well, Miss Cherub in the Firmament, I’ll have you know better than I do this round-eyed and refreshing simplicity isn’t fooling anyone. Is this how you looked at your husband before he suffered the flash-flood of your arrogance and fury Mrs Devlin? My god he was dead before the donut reached his midsection.’
‘But it doesn’t make any sense you madman - ‘
‘Madman am I? I’ll fry you in sauce for that you crazy bitch.’
Benny whispered something in Blince’s ear.
‘What?’ said Blince, frowning. ‘Whaddya mean I can’t fry her in sauce? Quit snafflin’ at my ear - I can do whatever I like in this kitchen. Didn’t you drag me out of the Nimble Maniac before I was good and ready?’
‘Please,’ said Mrs Devlin. ‘I must sleep.’
‘Simmer down, lady,’ said Benny. ‘We’re just tryin’ to establish the shocking facts.’
‘You use saccharin or aspartame in these donuts Mrs Devlin?
‘Certainly not.’
‘Sure, I bet.’
Mrs Devlin was lost for a reply. Blinded by hunger and lacking the intellectual fibre to misconstrue the facts with the care advised by the cop academy, Blince surged on like an enraged water bison. ‘The second possible scenario,’ he rumbled, taking up the second donut and stepping over the body, ‘has you, Mrs Devlin, standing here with a formidable sawed-off Remington automatic shotgun, a bandolier of Hi-Power shells about your flabby waist. Your husband was standing - here.’ Blince raised the donut above his head - it threw a huge and infernal shadow on the wall. ‘Awash with alcohol and drugs, you and your oh-so-trusting spouse embarked upon a grim shooting match, using these donuts for target practice. Lacking the ballistic expertise required - or perhaps being all-too expert - you blew every trace of life out of your husband’s face and ears. Then perching on his chest like a harpy, you ate the donut yourself, snickering in the artificial light.’ As Blince ate the donut, Mrs Devlin hid her face in her hands.
‘God’s shining earth’ll go up in a ball of flame before you let fly with the truth won’t it Mrs Devlin? I sense sickness and depravity beyond the human range, babyface - the random particles vibrate differently on my nostrils.’
‘Better not use that on the judge, Chief,’ muttered Benny.
‘Whaddya mean? This whole room’s made up of random particles, you bigot. So’s every crime scene from here to San Diego.’
‘But I’m innocent you nasty man,’ shrieked Mrs Devlin suddenly.
‘Where? On the candy planet?’
‘Good one, Chief,’ sniggered Benny, flushed with hilarity.
Smirking despite himself, Blince took up the last donut. ‘The last possibility is the worst I’ve ever known.’ He became deadly serious again, biting the donut and using the crescent remainder to point at the sink. ‘Over there, Mrs Devlin, you and a passing vagrant were involved in a carnal assignation of the first order. Alerted by cries of animal lust, your sweet-tempered husband entered the room and interrupted your sin. Caught like a troglodyte in a spotlight, you pulled out an impressive Colt Python .357 Magnum with a four-inch barrel - your husband screamed at a pitch only dogs could hear and you let him have it six times in the head, bang bang bang.’
There was a moment’s silence in the room, like the death of a mime but without the laughter. Benny coughed quietly. ‘Er ... what about the donut, Chief?’
‘Oh yeah, then I guess she sat and ate a donut. Anyway wadduz it matter - the bastard’s dead. Tell the boys they can take her to the overnight can.’
‘Right.’
‘It’s a bitter horsepill to swallow aint it Mrs Devlin? Bye bye.’ Mrs Devlin was cuffed and dragged weeping from the room. Blince leaned heavily against the counter and wiped the crumbs from his mouth with a gun rag. ‘There’s one thing that still bothers me, Benny - it’s been nagging me throughout these grotesque proceedings.’
‘What’s that Chief?’ smiled Benny in gleeful anticipation.
‘Are certain species of fish neofascist? I mean some of ’em conform to all the prerequisites.’
‘Oh, Chief, you’re missing the point,’ Benny laughed good-naturedly. ‘Don’t you understand that once again you have eaten the evidence? Because you are digesting the few remaining donuts here at the crime scene, you will not be able to prove even one of them finely-crafted tales in the perjury room.’
Blince frowned with this new knowledge, then began looking about him. He picked up the deep-pan and looked inside - six more donuts swam in the fat.
Benny snickered, gaped and started blinking too fast.
GEPPETTO
Leon Wardial was cheerfully ahead of his time - but it was a close call. As a student Leon had almost become English through bad illumination and lack of exercise. Noting that the precedent system in Western law bore an identical structure to that of mental neurosis, he had written a thesis on Crime as a Creative Medium and been kicked out bodily by a principal of such frail health Leon himself had had to support him during the procedure. He entered the world with an almost senatorial lack of practical knowledge, naively invigorated by the dismissive rage with which he was greeted at every turn. Like everyone in America he wanted to make a living by writing trash. Academe had taught him that if you leave the dishes for long enough they’ll get done by evolution. But Leon soon found that money had to be earned or stolen. Nobody wanted his thesis, which he had retitled Damn the Police. People told him the army built character, but fortunately he already had one. So he sought the traditional wisdom of Uncle Savage, respected thief and dagger artist.
Savage was stripping a chainsaw when Leon entered the basement seeking what he termed a ‘burglar’s wage’.
‘A burglar’s wage he says,’ muttered Savage, a vein in his temple throbbing audibly in the small room.
‘If you’ll teach me sir,’ said Leon brightly, tripping over coils of rope.
Savage looked as though he’d as soon shatter Leon’s ribs as grace his ear with a verb.
‘Can you handle a grapple, boy?’
‘If you mean a grappling hook Uncle, no. Though I did on one occasion throw a net over a prairie dog. In New Brunswick.’
‘A net over a prairie dog he says - god almighty. On one occasion he says. I bet it’s an occasion you remember well eh boy? While I can barely sleep nights for all the wildlife I’ve wrestled into submission with these two hands.’
<
br /> ‘Pardon me Uncle but your bestial peccadilloes are hardly the issue here.’
‘What, you bastard? I’ll slash your throat from sternum to navel.’
Bounding over moonlit rooftops, arguing red-faced over the plunder and bickering at the foot of their victims’ beds, Leon and his uncle formed an uneasy alliance. Whistling loudly as he dropped silverware into the sack which Savage, glaring furiously, held open, Leon would reel off quotations from Voltaire in a Scottish accent and pause only to have a good laugh. He repeatedly alarmed his uncle by pretending to pass out on the premises and would wait until Savage, flushed and gasping from the exertion, had dragged him through the window to safety before sitting up and asking why Savage’s belly was heaving. He became adept at snagging his uncle’s pants with a grappling hook and hurling them at the eaves in a flap of rags. Pointing with a guffaw whenever Savage tripped on a slate, Leon was a constant source of umbrage and the two would inevitably scuffle and shove on the starlit ledges, hurling diamonds and slugging each other with nuggets of masonry.
Leon had quickly discovered that the best way of getting into something is to think of it as mischief. This adroit principle entered him like a sickness. It suggested that the tedium of the getaway could be relieved by pretending that Kermit was trying to get out of the sack. It caused him to sit at gang meetings mimicking a cop siren without moving his lips. He made unneeded extra cash at K-Mart demonstrating flame-retardant dungarees. He frightened little kids by murmuring poetry. The cops hated him - he was forever telling the truth and throwing a spanner into their inquiries. Savage felt as though he’d knitted a monster.
But he had to concede that Leon had contracted a personality since the days when he had had to stamp on snails in an attempt to entertain the gloomy child. Most youngsters these days could not entirely believe in a thing unless it was printed on a T-shirt, but Leon seemed to have a genuine interest. Savage talked about his life as a re-offender. How could someone be offended by the same thing twice? Was nothing learnt?