This was not enjoyable either. But it was revealing - in the same way that Renton's experience with the air-ducts had been revealing…
And to explain just how, one must first recall that Renton had now established that directors of movies were cheats. That, with regard to their employment of air-conditioning installations in the development of their plot-lines, they were brazenly dishonest. Their repeated reliance on these overplayed and oversized airways as a means by which incarcerated heroes were able to emerge into another scene of the film, was no less than an expression of their deviousness and their desperation. Air conditioning duct-ways do not, in real life, provide this facility. They never have done and they never will. And to pretend otherwise is both disgraceful and deceitful.
And so it was with that oft-used ploy of one character in a drama borrowing the clothes of another. You know, the prisoner who slips out in a suit he's just liberated from a schmuk. And we mean here the sort of schmuk who makes a reasonable living out of cowering in his underwear in a storeroom, bound and gagged and with never any dialogue to deliver. And then there's the hero who borrows the uniform of the enemy storm trooper he's just despatched with his knife - and without getting any awkward blood stains on the lapels or the sleeves - or indeed on anywhere at all. And every time this ruse is introduced, the liberated clothes fit their liberator to a T. Neck size, trouser length, room in the seat. They're all perfect. The stolen clobber could have been made for him. There's never so much as a poor fit round the shoulders. Well, Renton now knew that this was just as ridiculous as all those man-sized airways. Life wasn't like that. It was populated with people with bodies of all sizes. And their clothes were not universally interchangeable, not even when they were as insubstantial as those of Renton's comatose and now naked companion.
The waistcoat was too short, and the thong-thing was too tight.
Now, he could live with the waistcoat. It was awful to look at anyway. And the fact that it could have been another six inches longer was neither here nor there. Nobody was going to notice and certainly nobody was going to care. The thong-thing, however, was quite another matter.
Its waistband was a semi-rigid hoop with a clasp at the back. And it simply wasn't big enough. Getting the thing on had been nothing less than an act of valour. And now, not taking it off was nothing less than an act of endurance. It really did pinch terribly. And there was nothing Renton could do to ease its vice-like grip.
Well, he would just have to grin and bear it. And he would also have to bear what it did to his appearance - in the stomach zone. That slight filling-out of the abdominal domain might not be too apparent within the folds of his normal attire, but squeezed into this contraption, it was quite a different story. There was almost an overhang - and at the sides as well as the front. Just as well that his arse was still neat…
Oh, and then there was his wig. It was a pretty snug fit. Indeed, it was so snug that it was guaranteed to paste his hair to his head, just like he didn't like it. And he'd look like a complete freak when he took it off - and probably more of a dildo than he looked at the moment - in his too-short waistcoat and his too-tight thong-thing - and his too-snug hairpiece. And all in all, he'd had far better days….
But anyway, it was now time to move on, time to find that dressing room. So, in this state of unbridled joy, Renton set off along the corridor, leaving the Lollipop's newest nudist with a pile of discarded clothes - and his unexpressed apologies for taking his own.
And then it wasn't too long before he was thinking again. And what he was thinking was how, in Heaven's name, had he got into this mess? How had he managed to turn a thirst for adventure into a journey through Hell? How had he ended up on a ship run by a gaggle of ghouls, infested with a troupe of dangerous damsels, and stuffed to the gunnels with a crowd of sex-mad maniacs? And now this, this trial by thong-thing - and a thong-thing that not only had a too-tight waistband, but a thong-thing that had not nearly enough room in the vegetable department - and was therefore now bruising them terribly…
Well, at least there was one comfort: this was as bad as it got. Heck, what else could there be? What else could turn up to make matters worse?
And immediately Renton had his answer. It was another man wearing a silvery blonde wig, a colourful waistcoat and a thong-thing, a thong-thing bejewelled just like his own.
Renton nearly fell to his knees. But he immediately changed his mind. That might be inviting disaster.
'Hi,' said the new burden in Renton's life. 'Fancy finding you here. And so late. It's well past our bed time, you know.'
Renton was unsure as to what that last remark might imply, so he decided to adopt his standard procedure in these circumstances and said nothing. He just stared at the stranger as he approached. And, at the same time, he began to wish that he was somewhere on the other side of the universe. Indeed, that he was anywhere on the other side of the universe.
'Cat got your tongue, you little teaser? Or are you just weighing me up?'
For the first time, Renton registered that the man was delivering his small talk in a singsong sort of falsetto. His worst fears were being realised.
'My name's Maurice,' announced the man, 'but my friends call me Tiger.'
Now, Renton wanted to be in another dimension. The other side of the universe wasn't far enough away.
'Well, my dear, are you glad to see me or are you glad to see me?'
The apparition was now standing directly in front of Renton. And without a second's pause it reached forward and pressed a jewel on Renton's thong-thing, a big red one on its waistband. And hey presto! The thong-thing opened. A small trapdoor in its front had sprung downwards to reveal what lay behind it. And it also revealed that Renton wasn't too excited at this development. In fact, he was about as unexcited as he could possibly be. Only his eyes were standing out. But the stranger didn't seem to notice. He just looked disappointed.
But then his expression turned to one of amazement. Renton had landed a thundering punch on his chin. And he was now about to repeat the procedure with his other fist.
When he'd done that, the stranger had no expression at all - other than the passive one that accompanies a lack of consciousness. He had been reduced to the condition of the donor of Renton's outfit, an outfit that, Renton now realised, came complete with a handy inspection panel - for those who were handy inclined.
Renton found himself once again with far too many emotions to cope with all at the same time. So he focused on just one: surprise. Surprise that anyone could have had the effrontery to reveal his merchandise in such a totally wicked way, and surprise that he had returned the favour so quickly - and with his fists! This was remarkable, undeniably remarkable. And it was a measure of just how much his current situation was getting to him, just how much life on this dreadful spaceship was beginning to crumple his karma. He was cross, really cross. And he had better bring all this nonsense to a head - and quickly. Otherwise he would get even crosser. And who could tell what he'd do then?
So he took three deep breaths, packed up his belongings, closed the trapdoor behind them so that they'd stay packed up - and made off for the she-lions' den…
34.
When he arrived there, he walked straight in. And there at the far end of the room were four of those blasted women. His fears were well grounded. Clearly women had got a lot smarter of late.
Well, the disguise had better work or he was in deep doodoo. And hadn't he better say something? He had, after all, just walked into their private place - and without an introduction or even an announcement. Then it suddenly occurred to him. There was a fifth woman. She was standing beside him. And she was just about to do something he'd not really welcome. Like she was just about to hit him…
And pow! The Tickler training clicked into place, and Renton's left elbow assumed its alternative duty as an offensive weapon. It cracked into the woman's chin like a hammer and she was down. But before she'd hit the floor, Renton was out of the room and running, and running fast despite t
hat bloody thong-thing. He had to get away from that place and as quickly as he could. It appeared that his disguise hadn't worked quite as well as he'd hoped.
He tried to retrace his steps. If he could only find his room - the room that overlooked the operating theatre - then he would be safe. It had worked when he'd last been pursued by a bunch of aggressive women. So why not again?
And he was being pursued by them. He could hear them. It sounded like all of them. He was beginning to feel that he might spend the rest of his life being pursued by women in various stages of undress. Not a bad prospect under normal circumstances, but in his present situation, he'd settle for something less thrilling.
As it was, he had to settle for shock. It was the guy in the matching diamante thong-thing, the guy he'd laid out with his fists. He'd appeared from nowhere - with a baseball bat held out at head height. Even Renton's Tickler credentials couldn't help him. He ran straight into it at full speed. And within a millisecond he was unconscious, deeply unconscious…
…albeit with his wig still in place.
35.
It was impossible. No matter how hard she tried, her attention was drawn to Bessie's mouth - and to that unsavoury display within. Cristalina would simply have to endure it. She would have to grit her teeth and say nothing. Just like her boss wasn't…
'So you don't know who he is?' spluttered Bessie, her tongue working feverishly at a pâté of fritters and fries. 'He's out cold - and you can't bring him round?'
Cristalina hesitated. She knew her boss well enough to see that there was something more to come. There would be a real question next. And that's when she would have to respond, and not before. In any event she could see that Bessie was stoking up with another load of oral raw material, a scoop of fried egg and more of those awful fritters, just the sort of stuff to accompany a real “proper” question. And when the load had been delivered it came. It was in three parts.
'So when will he come to? When can we talk to him? When the hell can we find out who he is?'
This enquiry was succinct and not unexpected. It was also predominantly yellow. The gruesome one had managed to coat all her front teeth and the tip of her tongue in a yolk coloured paste. And each word that she spoke was now yellow with yuck.
Cristalina suppressed a heave.
'I think he'll come round in an hour or so - or maybe a little sooner. And I've left Bebs there - with Angie and Hazel and Tina. And they're all set to go just as soon as he does. And then…'
'Shit!' exploded Bessie, 'You're so bloody sure of yourself, aren't you? You think you've got all the friggin' answers, and all the right friggin' answers. Well you're wrong, my little Miss Nasty. You're totally friggin' wrong.
'Not only did your stupid bunch of whores let the bastard go. And I mean, he'd only just walked into their room, only effin' given himself up, and still they let him go. But then they let him get himself knocked out. So now we can't even find out who the fuck he is. Not exactly covering themselves in glory, are they? Well, are they?'
There was now a dribble of yellow paste on Bessie's chin.
'And has anybody given a passing thought to exactly what this geezer might be up to? Like who he might be working for. Like who else might be in his team.
'Have you thought about that, you icy-arsed bitch? Well, have you?'
But Bessie didn't want an answer. She just wanted to carry on.
'Can't you see how serious this is? Can't you understand what this might mean for our "project"? Don't you realise it might screw it all up?'
'Of course…' Cristalina started. But it was useless. Bessie was in full flight. She had even forgotten she was in the middle of her breakfast - and that her mouth was now actually empty.
'Don't you fuckin' well "of course" me, my young girl. You just shut up and listen.' Bessie leaned across the table, jabbing the air with her finger.
'This triangulation thing. We've got to do it now. And I mean now. Not some time this afternoon when you've decided you've got your effin' Lagooners in the perfect effin' place. That's off. Understand? We do it now. And that means we do it wherever those soddin' runts just happen to be. We may be running out of time. Christ, we may be out of time already. So get your ass off that seat and get fuckin' to it. And I'm coming too. I've had just enough…'
'They're already in position,' said Cristalina abruptly. 'I thought exactly as you did. Whoever this man is, he spells trouble. And the sooner we get on with things the better. So we've worked through the night. All ten Lagooners are now in the stern pod-bay. We're just waiting for your OK.'
Bessie's body seemed to judder. It was as though something had exploded deep inside her. Then Cristalina noticed her hands; they had tightened into fists. And her face; her face had tightened into a mask, a mask of pure menace. Compared to most faces in the universe, it had more than a head start - a lot more. But even so, this was something of a triumph. She had excelled herself. She had turned the simply grisly into the absolutely frightful. And she had done it with what Cristalina imagined was an overdose of rage. She knew Bessie hated her, but not nearly as much as she hated her habit of being one step ahead. That really riled her. And now that rile would mean a rail. It was a cert…
'You bitch! You fuckin' bitch!' opened Bessie. And then after a slight pause she added a third, this time with a more deliberate enunciation. 'You fucking bitch!
'You think you can get the better of me, don't you? And you think you can do it all the time? Well, you couldn't be more wrong. You just couldn't be more wrong. I've let you get away with a lot in the past, an awful lot. Well not any more. After this little lot is over, it'll be different. Very different. And you ain't gonna like it. Not one little bit.
'And there's one thing I'll tell you now, Miss Crista-effin'-lina. You'll not have another chance to show how soddin' smart you are. How "I've already done this," and "I've already done that" sort of smart. Oh no. This is your last show. Your very last. So make the soddin' best of it. Make the soddin' best of it for as long as you soddin' can!'
Bessie's arms were now rising. They were lifting those white-knuckled fists high into the air.
'I am so angry I could spit,' screamed Bessie. 'I could spit down your soddin' throat. And if you say another word I will. I warn you. I soddin' well will. So don't. Just don't…'
And then she brought those massive fists down onto the table with an almighty crash.
'Just get us to those bastard goonies. And now. I mean now. Do you understand? Now!'
And with that, the hulk rose from its seat. It was time to go. And time to do what Cristalina had so cleverly conceived all on her own. All without an ounce of assistance from the Lord High Chief Executive of the gigantic Trampul Empire, the same chief executive who was now castigating her - for doing it all so well. And when it worked she would be in the wrong again. She was sure of it. Success would in itself be an excuse for the next onslaught. And then the Cow would take the credit. That was the Cow's job.
But none of this concerned Cristalina. Every display of her boss's fury simply made her more certain that her boss was really rattled. That she knew she was facing a threat to her own position. And she couldn't sustain it indefinitely, all this power without a spark of intellect or a grain of imagination. In fact, with nothing at all to support it. And then she would fall - and her crown would fall with her.
Cristalina caught herself grinning. It would all happen soon. It would all happen very soon. And nothing could stop it. Nothing. Not even a lunatic in a silvery wig and a sparkly thong-thing. Not even him.
36.
He was by a pond. Its surface was slightly feathered towards the middle. The breeze was trying its best. But it was barely a breeze, more like an overgrown zephyr. And the pond was hardly bothered.
It wasn't yet spring and the trees were still bare. But nevertheless the sun was warm on his cheek. There was that feeling of the promise of spring, that assurance that the magic had not been lost, and that all would soon start afresh.
This place was truly wonderful. And what a contrast. Just imagine, only a few days before he'd been on that terrible spaceship, that affront to human sensibility, that tube of titillation they called the Lollipop. A floating whorehouse loaded with perves - and run by a gang of wierdoes. And then there were those terrible blondes, those horrible women who had chased him. That had been really awful.
He turned to walk along the edge of the pond, his mind still grappling with the horror of that time - and with the excesses, all those frightful sights that he'd witnessed. They were almost beyond belief. Then he noticed a sharp pain across his stomach. It was terrible. It made him wince.
And the midges. They were nearer now. And there were more of them, a great black cloud rising above him. And the cloud had a distinct shape. It was the shape of a… of a woman, a woman in profile. Yes, a seated woman with size D jugs. And she was talking. Renton could hear her. Or was it the midges? No, it was her. And she saying something about him, and about… yes, about his body…
'No way I'd ever fancy something like this, all lean and skinny. And look at his chest. I've seen soddin' shadows with better chests than that. No thanks. I like 'em all humpy and knobbly. You know muscles on muscles. And those concave sort of arses, the ones that look as though they're in a constant state of thrust. Not like this geezer's. Did you see it when we dragged him in? Like a girlie's really. And about as sexy as a sandwich. No, you can keep all of that, thanks very much. I like my men to look like men. Not like a long drink of water.'
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