by Rhys Hughes
Like the piratical rascal he was, Enid Hans was already rummaging in Abortia’s kitbag for spoils. He pulled out the bottle he found inside. With a delighted squeal he cried:
“Wine! I’ll open this to celebrate my victory!”
And that’s what he did.
“You idiotic corkscrew!” mocked Twistoff.
“What’s the problem?”
“That’s not wine, it’s sherry!”
Enid Hans gasped and clutched his own throat. He attempted a snigger but it came out like a vintage whine. Then he keeled over. He had died of shame! As would you in his position. For this purpose alone had Abortia brought sherry on the trip.
She had lots of forethought. Maybe she’d read this book in manuscript form before its publication.
The golem advanced menacingly on République Nutt and clenched his single fist. Suddenly a figure bounded into the cavern. It was excited and draped itself over the golem.
“I’ve been searching for you for ages… I want to say I’ve changed my mind about working for your Agency… My name’s Snagtooth Toasta and I accept your invitation…”
The golem fatally broke him with a punch.
And continued to advance.
“One step closer,” growled République Nutt, “and I’ll unleash the full force of the Walnut Whip Helmet at you. I can’t miss at this range. Don’t you realise what that means?”
But Twistoff ignored the threat.
“Pouvez-vous répéter cela, s’il vous plait!”
“He’s speaking in French, boss!” cried Breath, but Twistoff continued to walk forward, eyes blazing.
“Merde! You asked for it, monsieur!”
République Nutt leaned forward, pointing the top of his helmet at the golem, then he somehow made it spin clockwise, faster and faster on his neck until it was just a blur, and he shuddered as the rumour energy was generated and discharged into the golem, who staggered and groaned as his reputation was shredded.
The helmet slowed down, its work done.
“A mighty rumour has just been created and it’s about you. There’s no way to erase it, monsieur!”
“So what?” shrugged Twistoff Bellow, and he grinned and winked at Breath, expecting Breath to grin and wink back, but the ectoplasm guy was holding a hand to his mouth and retching. So the golem demanded to know what the trouble was.
“Heard a rumour about you, boss,” said Breath.
“What’s the gist of it?”
Breath shook his head. “Disgusting. Too vile to talk about. You appal me, boss, really you do. How can you stand there now? It’s the very worst accusation I ever heard.”
“But it’s not true, is it?” blabbered Twistoff.
“Feel sick!” retched Breath.
République Nutt continued to laugh. “What did I tell you, monsieur? It seems I have won after all!”
The golem grimaced and arched the eyebrow above his dead eye. With a howl he flung himself at his enemy. République hadn’t expected a being with a reputation as low as Twistoff’s to possess sufficient gumption to continue the fight, and he was stupefied. The golem flung his arm around the Walnut Whip Helmet.
And pulled it off! What a feat of strength!
The human visage that faced him was stained with cream. The golem was about to smash it, but suddenly his flesh hand disengaged and began clicking its fingers. Even Flimflam Ciggy, the metal tapeworm, looked bewildered by this outcome.
What was happening? Twistoff had nothing to do with it. His hand was acting on its own. It clicked madly but its first clicks weren’t aimed properly. The spire of Strasbourg Cathedral was tied in a knot; so was a Chinese submarine deep beneath a portable lake. Then the hand spoke two words: “Cool! Richie!”
It clicked its fingers again.
And République Nutt’s head exploded!
But beneath this head was another, the head of a freckled boy, gigantic and mutant and goofy, bland beyond belief, very retro too, apple pie clean and excruciatingly maudlin.
“I’m Richie,” it said, “and I like surfing.”
Then it directed its gaze at the golem’s hand, at the thing that once had been Hapi Daze, and beams of ice paralysed the fingers, made them drop tinkling to the cavern floor.
That’s what Hapi had meant by ‘cool’…
“Neat, huh?” said Richie.
“GRRRAAAAAAAH!” roared the golem and he jumped at Richie and kicked his head right off.
Beneath that head was another! A human one.
The head of République Nutt…
“Oui, monsieur. This is my real head.”
“HAAAAAAARRRG!” cried the golem and he jumped at République and kicked his head right off.
Beneath this head was the Walnut Whip Helmet.
“The real one!” said Breath.
Twistoff savagely head-butted the helmet and it fractured, spilling goo and scattering chocolate crumbs over a wide area, but there was nothing beneath it, nothing at all!
“How is that possible?” wondered Twistoff.
No more heads, no more deaths.
“How?” he repeated.
“I don’t care,” said Breath. “Just don’t come near me. I know all about you. How could do such a thing? Don’t try to look innocent. Rumours are the only secure source of knowledge. Perverted is what you are! Piss off and don’t even look at me.”
Twistoff opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it and sadly turned away. Some hippies had formed themselves into a living staircase to assist anyone trapped in the cavern to climb out. The golem made use of it, but as he ascended to ground level the rungs retched and expressed utter revulsion at his existence. His reputation was fouler than any other in living memory.
“But I didn’t do it, honest, whatever it was!”
“Get lost, clay pervert!”
Twistoff walked towards Strasbourg. He knew he had to kill himself and had a method in mind, but he wasn’t aware that Scarydung Chinwag and the Queen were still following him. In the city he entered a hardware store and ordered a length of fuse. He seemed to recognise the man who owned the shop. Surely not.
“Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“No,” lied Alf Pieofeels.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m an honest shopkeeper and a married man. Don’t mix with golems, not even depraved ones.”
Twistoff shuddered. “And this is your wife, is it?”
Arsehair Plucker curtsied. “I am.”
Twistoff inhaled deeply, controlled himself. “I require a fuse that will last me all the way back to London. Push the end into me now and light it. I’m going to walk home.”
“That’s a long fuse, very expensive.”
“I want to detonate the moment I reach the Agency, not a second too soon or late,” said the golem.
“How will you pay?” demanded Alf Pieofeels.
“Can’t,” mumbled Twistoff.
“Let him have it for free,” suggested Arsehair.
“Fair enough. I’ve done the calculations. Take this coil. Unwind it as it burns down. Now I’ll push one end into your neck and light the other. See how slowly it smoulders?”
“Thanks,” said the golem and walked out.
* * * * *
One minute later Philip José Farmer turned up riding on the back of King Sciron. He browsed the lasso display, selected a long strong one and paid for it. Then he winked at the storekeeper’s wife, jerked his reins and rode back out, spurring his steed towards the south. He was headed for the city of Opar, lost down the sofa back of prehistory. As he hopped over lines of latitude, he yodelled softly.
Any other loose ends left to tie up?
* * * * *
With his burning fuse trailing behind him, Twistoff followed his chariot ruts. As he walked he was jeered and retched at. Scarydung Chinwag and the Queen gave up their pursuit of him when they reached Paris and went to admire the Eiffel Tower and other sights instead. They found a cheap hotel and based
themselves there, going for regular walks in the parks or along the cultured riverbank.
During one of their walks the sky went dark.
“What’s happening?”
“I’m at a loss to explain it, your majesty.”
“Now the ground is shaking, as if our environment has been sealed in a parcel and is being conveyed somewhere. I hope it’s not a long journey. This gloom is oppressive.”
“But perfect for outdoors humping, ma’am.”
“Guess so. Why not?”
But the streetlamps came on, yellowing the boulevards, illuminating the river and a man in a toga who came running over one of the bridges. He stopped near them, panting and gasping. Scarydung studied him and jabbed a finger at his neck.
“You’ve got clangers! An infestation!”
The Queen squinted. “Clangers, you say? Where?”
“They’re all over him, ma’am.”
“Keep him away!”
Paris frowned and scratched himself. “This doesn’t look like Troy. I’m in the wrong story again!”
The darkness in the sky split down the middle.
The parcel had arrived.
There was a dull thud. An explosion.
A plume of smoke rose up. The Applied Eschatology Agency was no more. The golem was no more.
And France lay on top of Britain, crushing it.
The struggle was over.
France had won! Rightly so.
The postman had given his life for the cause. His body would never be recovered. It was too deep.
Something descended from above.
It looked like a ruptured vat of liquid helium that had been blasted into the ionosphere by a violent detonation and was now returning to Earth. It contained a moving figure.
A man inside the vat was shouting…
Scarydung Chinwag and the Queen cocked their ears.
This is what the man said:
“The shock of the blast has knocked the thorn out of my heart and split the tank of helium, so I’ve been cured and thawed out simultaneously. I’m alive again, but the impact of my descent will kill me permanently. That’s very ironic! No matter. I have just enough time to tell you about Zimara. He’s a traitor, a double agent!”
“What’s he saying?” wondered the Queen.
“Not sure, your majesty.”
But Cherlomsky continued anyway:
“It was Zimara who exploited a rent in the floor of Limbo, leaned into it and manipulated events on Earth. It was he who jammed an umbrella in my sewing machine and he who burned down my library. He was the one who kept playing the saxophone and he also directed République Nutt to find the subterranean cavern!”
“Still can’t understand a word,” frowned the Queen.
“Nor me,” said Scarydung.
“Yes, Zimara was the real villain! He read the golem’s thoughts about clothes and sent the skin of Marsyas to Abortia. It was he who provided a 1950s science-fiction X-ray machine, the sort that magnifies insects, and it was he who gave money to the penniless yeti so it could phone Werner Herzog and Klaus Kinski!”
“Can’t make out a syllable. Can you?” asked the Queen.
“No, ma’am,” said Scarydung.
“Where do you think he’ll land?” wondered the Queen.
“Let’s watch and find out!”
They stood and watched the vat come down. It landed right on top of them and squashed them to pulp. Cherlomsky also died. Blood and glass mingled, badly. By this time, Breath had reached Paris. He stood over the carnage and shook his head.
“I was a relatively minor character. How can I justify remaining alive when all the others are gone?”
He went into a nearby gunshop and bought a gun and shot himself. It was the right thing to do, even though there are no gunshops in Paris. He had enough decency not to let truth get in the way of honour. Isn’t this a fine place to end the story?
* * * * *
No. République Nutt and his accomplices might be destroyed, Twisthorn Bellow too, and Abortia Stake, Hapi Daze, Dancin’ Daze, Breath O’Dicks and Professor Shylock Cherlomsky, but the game is far from over. The game is only just beginning!
Three figures of vastly deeper evil than anything that has appeared so far have observed everything. Now the way is clear for them to step in and take over the world.
“Shall we laugh for a bit?” asked the Russian Tsar.
“Good idea,” replied the Belgian King.
“I’ll go first,” said the President of Canada, “and let’s work through the entire sequence before stopping.”
“Fine by us. After you…”
“OK. I’m ready. Here goes. Ha, ha, ha! Come on, you’re next! Ha, ha, ha, I said! Ha, ha, ha!”
“He, he he!” cried the Russian Tsar.
“Hi, hi, hi!” added the Belgian King.
“Ho, ho, ho!”
“Hu, hu, hu!”
“Ha, ha, ha! He, he, he!”
“Ha, ha, ha! Hi, hi, hi!”
“Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho!”
“Ha, ha, ha! Hu, hu, hu!”
“He, he, he! Hi, hi, hi!”
“He, he, he! Ho, ho, ho!”
“He, he, he! Hu, hu, hu!”
“Hi, hi, hi! Ho, ho, ho!”
“Hi, hi, hi! Hu, hu, hu!”
“Ha, ha, ha! He, he, he! Hi, hi, hi!”
“Ha, ha, ha! He, he, he! Ho, ho, ho!”
“Ha, ha, ha! He, he, he! Hu, hu, hu!”
“Ha, ha, ha! Hi, hi, hi! Ho, ho, ho!”
“Ha, ha, ha! Hi, hi, hi! Hu, hu, hu!”
“Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho! Hu, hu, hu!”
“He, he, he! Hi, hi, hi! Ho, ho, ho!”
“He, he, he! Hi, hi, hi! Hu, hu, hu!”
“He, he, he! Ho, ho, ho! Hu, hu, hu!”
“Can we stop laughing now? My throat’s getting quite sore,” pleaded the President of Canada.
“Not yet. We’ve haven’t finished the sequence. Another seven laughs of varying complexity.”
“Fair enough. Whose turn is it?”
“Yours, I believe…”
“Hi, hi, hi! Ho, ho, ho! Hu, hu, hu!”
“Ha, ha, ha! He, he, he! Hi, hi, hi! Ho, ho, ho!”
“Ha, ha, ha! He, he, he! Hi, hi, hi! Hu, hu, hu!”
“Ha, ha, ha! He, he, he! Ho, ho, ho! Hu, hu, hu!”
“Ha, ha, ha! Hi, hi, hi! Ho, ho, ho! Hu, hu, hu!”
“He, he, he! Hi, hi, hi! Ho, ho, ho! Hu, hu, hu!”
“Ha, ha, ha! He, he, he! Hi, hi, hi! Ho, ho, ho! Hu, hu, hu!”
“Okay, done now…”
“Thank goodness for that. My throat’s in agony!”
“Worth it though, wasn’t it?”
“I suppose so.”
“Excellent! Well done everyone! That was truly diabolical and very melodramatic and sly.”
“We’ve practically taken over the world already with laughter like that, don’t you think so? I do!”
“Yes, nothing can stop us now! Nothing at all!”
“Well spoken! Nothing!”
“Nothing!”
“Nothing!”
“Nothing!”
“All together now…NOTHING!”
* * * * *
The bored reader reached the end of the book and closed it with a fateful slam, crushing the three villains and utterly destroying the universe they dwell in. That’s you, by the way.
You killed them all.
Well done!
F I N I S
SOUNDTRACK
Way back in the self-indulgent decade of the 1990s some authors were in the habit of including fake soundtracks at the ends of their books. It was a naïve way of trying to intimidate the reader with the author’s supposedly fine, funky, cool, ironic taste, the literary equivalent of those awful hosts who insist on playing you their favourite records in pitiless sequence and demand total control of an evening’s playlist. This smug custom no longer exists among modern authors and the following list is therefore a travesty of a
n anachronism. Too bad. These songs are not amongst my favourites, however. On the contrary, exactly one third are rather irritating. But reference was made to them in my novel. So…
“I Can Take You to the Sun”—The Misunderstood; Released as a single on the Fontana label in December 1966.
“All Along the Watchtower”—Bob Dylan; Included on the album John Wesley Harding”, released on the Columbia label in December 1967.
“Dancing Days”—Led Zeppelin; First track on the second side of the album Houses of the Holy, released on the Atlantic label in March 1973.
“I Don’t Like Mondays”—The Boomtown Rats; Released as a single on the Ensign label in July 1979.
“Dedicated Follower of Fashion”—The Kinks; Released as a single on the Pye label in February 1966.
“Free Your Mind and Your Ass Will Follow”—FunkadelicFirst track on the first side of an album of the same name, released on the Westbound label in 1970.
“Voodoo Chile”—Jimi Hendrix; Final track on the fourth side of the double album Electric Ladyland, released on the Reprise label in September 1968.
“Dr Beat”—Miami Sound Machine; Released as a single on the Epic label in August 1984.
“Send in the Clowns”—Stephen Sondheim; From Act II of the 1973 Broadway musical A Little Night Music, written especially for actress and singer Glynis Johns.
“Heroin”—Velvet Underground; First track on the second side of the album Velvet Underground & Nico, released on the Verve label in March 1967.
“Fire”—The Crazy World of Arthur Brown; Third track on the first side of the album with the same name, released on the Track label in 1968.
“Whip It”—Devo; Released as a single on the Warner Brothers label in 1980.
“Golden Brown”—The Stranglers; Released as a single on the Liberty label in December 1981.
“Goody Two-Shoes”—Adam Ant; Released as a single on the CBS label in 1982.
“I Predict a Riot”—The Kaiser Chiefs; Second track on the album Employment, released on the B-Unique label in March 2005.
“You Need Hands”—Max Bygraves; Released as a single on the Decca label in 1958.