They Came and Ate Us_The B-Movie (Armageddon Trilogy 2)

  Mother Demdike, who had escaped previous mention, tore a garish relic of the Reagan years from its frame and flung it into the fire. Nancy with the laughing eyes melted into the flames.

  ‘Those boys are making merry,’ said the rankest hag that ever troubled daylight.

  ‘They will do what I command. They are locked up neat and nice.’ Wormwood rubbed his palms together.

  ‘Then keep a watchful eye upon them, my precious.’ Mother Demdike broke wind and tittered as the fire turned green. ‘You’ll need a firm hand once they’re free.’

  ‘I know that. They feed upon the thoughts of men. They can gorge themselves a while longer. Now tighten your sphincter, you evil-smelling crone.’

  Mother Demdike stuck out her long black tongue, rocked upon her knees and bellowed with laughter. ‘Know who tends and keeps you, bonny boy. Who cooked you in her womb. Watch your manners or I’ll pop you in my pot.’

  ‘Or maybe I’ll let Carnivean play a tune upon your old bones for a day or two.’

  ‘I’d wear him out, dearie.’ Demdike fluttered her mouldy skirts, a nest of rats scurried from beneath them.

  Wormwood turned on her. ‘Tell me of my assassin. My Nemesis.’

  ‘Let Sonneillon seek him out with your modern wonders.’

  ‘Too slow. There is no peace for me until he is destroyed,’

  ‘Then I shall find him for you.’

  ‘You can do this?’

  ‘Easy-peasy. I will summons an agency of despatch.’ Demdike took out a greasy casket and gently patted the lid. ‘She will seek through the ether. Smell out your Nemesis. Bring you his scrotum for a baccy pouch. How would you like that?’

  ‘Very much indeed.’

  ‘But you must do one thing for me. And you must do it now.’

  ‘What thing is this?’

  ‘Sing to me little Wayne. Sing me “A Boy’s Best Friend Is His Mother”.’

  ‘Hell’s teeth!’ said President Wormwood.

  17

  No-one ever went broke underestimating the taste of the American public.

  H. L. Mencken

  ‘Four men sit once more about a table in a secret room. It is the same secret room as the one in Chapter One. And these are the same four men. The room is still a top-secret room, it is still deep underground and still in a government establishment. What else can I tell you?

  They are still wearing the same grey suits. The first one gets up to speak.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he says. ‘We have, I believe, now reached the time for action.’ Mumblings are exchanged. Heads nod affirmatively.

  ‘The new president has been in office for more than a month. We have all had time to observe him closely. What are your conclusions?’

  ‘He’s a stone-bonker.’

  ‘Would you care to enlarge on that, Mr Aldus?’

  ‘He’s a paranoid schizophrenic. He has turned the White House into a fortress. Insists on having all his food “tasted”. Never lets a soul into his office and apparently spends most of his time conversing with a stack of TV sets.’

  ‘Your views, Mr Lorrimer?’

  ‘Hm, the man is certainly security conscious. But let us not forget, eight assassination attempts have been made on him. This, I feel, might colour anyone’s judgement, personal-safety-wise.’

  ‘But regarding his mental health?’

  ‘He’s definitely out to lunch.’

  ‘Mr Asher?’

  ‘The American public love the guy, Mr Russell. The country is up to its eyes in the brown stuff but no-one’s got a bad word for him. Did you catch his speech last night about the financial crisis?’

  ‘I did indeed. He has promised to put the entire country back on its feet in two weeks.’

  ‘Good God.’ Mr Lorrimer’s jaw dropped. ‘He promised that?’

  ‘He sure did. He claims that he has cured the glitch in the country’s computer network and that he is personally restructuring the entire monetary system. He has developed this new kind of credit card. The Americard. It is ID, medico record, credit status, car and front-door key all rolled into one. It is activated by the owner’s thumbprint and so can never be stolen and misused. He considers that this will sweep away crime, as soon as he has phased out money. He intends to do away with personal taxation, cut military spending to near zero, increase welfare payments and insitute a jobs-for-all policy which will wipe out unemployment at a stroke.’

  ‘He didn’t mention anything about having harnessed the power of the tides and curing cancer, I suppose?’ Mr Lorrimer asked.

  ‘Not so far.’

  Mr Russell spoke. ‘We have got to put a hold on this guy fast.’

  Mr Asher raised his hand. ‘The thing is, Mr Russell, he is actually capable of doing these things. Any president could solve most of the country’s problems if he chose to.’

  ‘It is not as simple as that, Mr Asher. Not as simple at all.’

  ‘Well, actually, with all respect, it is, sir. You see, seventy-five per cent of our gross national product, our profit, is either wasted upon non-essential services, lost through mismanagement, drained into preposterous military projects, misdirected due to government in-efficiency, corruptly bled off ..’

  ‘Yes, yes. We know all that.’

  ‘So does he, sir.’

  ‘But he can’t know where all the money goes. No-one can know that.’

  ‘Apparently he does. That is why he is dealing with it all by himself.’

  ‘The man is completely impossible. He’ll be knocking on our door next. We must act now before everything gets out of hand. Mr Aldus, kindly bring us up to date on Project Wormwood.’

  ‘Certainly sir. As you know we have been working with Bio-tech. We have created a near to perfect facsimile of the president. We fed it part of last night’s speech and intercut it with the real president, you can’t see the join. We have a computer match on his voice-prints, our replica even spits the same.’

  ‘But total body prosthesis?’

  ‘Not really feasible, sir. The technology does not exist. We have a head and shoulders and a right arm so far, so we can only go for close-ups on TV. The sheer mechanics of walking, talking, even performing simple functions cannot be contained within the confines of a body framework. Thus we have come up with a compromise that I think you will find attractive. We suggest that the president has a “stroke”. He will survive mentally unimpaired but with only the use of his right arm. All necessary electronics for our replica can be housed in a covered wheelchair.’

  ‘Excellent, Mr Aldus. Once the tragic “accident” has been arranged, the substitution can be made at our private nursing home. The public will rally to his support. This is sound thinking. Well done.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘So when do we give the president his fatal stroke?’

  Mr Lorrimer spoke. ‘With security being what it is, this poses certain difficulties. But I believe these can be overcome. I propose that we enlist the services of the president’s would-be assassin. Give him the tools to finish the job.’

  ‘All well and good. But no-one knows the identity of the assassin . . .’

  ‘I do,’ said Mr Lorrimer. All eyes turned upon him.

  ‘You do? But how?’

  ‘By applying common sense. Eight assassination attempts. If we discount eight different assassins, and the FBI see the mark of a single hand on each, then it is logical that our assassin must have been present each time to make his attempts. Thus my security have maintained close crowd surveillance on every occasion that the president has been on public view.’

  ‘But the FBI have tried that. Wormwood has thousands of devoted followers. The same faces turn up in the crowd time and again. Checking them all out is an impossibility.’

  ‘I didn’t need to check them all out. Only the one who comes in a different disguise each time.’

  ‘But if he always comes in disguise, how could you recognize him?’

  ‘He always wears the same mirrored sungl
asses.’

  ‘No-one is going to be that dumb.’ Mr Russell guffawed.

  ‘This guy is.’ Mr Lorrimer pulled four blow-ups from a buff envelope and laid them on the desk. ‘Different beards and moustaches, but always the same sunglasses. The same exclusive sunglasses, designed by Pierre Mon-tag of Paris, see the little logo on the top right-hand lens, designed for a single client. A most singular client. A millionaire New York recluse. A Mr Noah Never.’

  ‘I am very impressed, Mr Lorrimer. Is there more?’

  ‘Certainly is, sir. I ran these photographs through the computer to build up a likeness without the disguises and you’ll never guess what the computer came up with.’ With a suitable flourish, Mr Lorrimer produced the print.

  ‘Gosh,’ said his three confederates, and things similar. ‘It’s a young Elvis Presley.’

  ‘Isn’t it though?’

  ‘This is amazing,’ said Mr Russell. ‘What do we have on this Mr Never?’

  ‘Not a lot. His kind of money buys a lot of privacy. No-one has him on file. Not even the IRS. But I’ve been digging, he has a string of aliases. According to Pierre Montag he is also something of a ladies’ man. Favours a rather risque up-market nightclub called the Split Beaver.’

  ‘I know it,’ said Mr Aldus brightly. Eyes turned upon him. ‘Know of it, I mean. Notorious place, I understand.’

  ‘Well, Mr Lorrimer. You’d better get the place “staked out”, as they say.’

  ‘Oh I have, sir. I have indeed.’

  ‘Check out these wheels, Rex.’ He and Elvis were whistling through the New York night in the King’s new automobile. ‘Traded in three of my old ones for this. The Koshibo Tiger. What this car ain’t got ain’t worth a diddle. Controlled environment, virtually crashproof, nought to sixty in three seconds. Four-wheel anti-lock braking system. See this steering wheel, the inner ring is the accelerator. Give it a little squeeze and . ..’ Rex made one of those curious faces that astronauts make when the G Forces hit them. ‘No key,’ Elvis continued. ‘Little plastic card you slip into the dash, this car is fully thief-proof, no grand theft auto for this boy.’

  The car was long, white, chic and shameless, scoop front, high tail-fins. Big fat tyres. ‘It’s hardly what I would call low profile,’ Rex put in, when he was able to draw breath. ‘A mite conspicuous, don’t you think?’

  ‘Loosen up, Rex. We’re nightclubbing is all.’ Rex was far from loose. He was getting nowhere. They were no closer to bearding Wormwood in his den. They had come up with no plans of campaign. He and Elvis had come to a dead end. Rex’s frustration pulsed in his head.

  ‘You’ll love the Split Beaver,’ Elvis assured him. ‘Wait till you see the chicks.’

  Rex sank lower into his seat, which the in-car computer moulded to accept the contours of his body. ‘Are you quite comfortable, sir?’ it asked him in breathless Bim-boese. ‘A little music perhaps?’

  ‘Alrighty,’ Elvis gave the accelerator ring another squeeze, ‘let’s rock and roll.’

  The night folk of the Split Beaver were currently making the most of another of President Wormwood’s new policies, abolition of the drug laws. Presidents past had squandered billions of dollars waging war against the South American drug lords. The famous and fruitless WAR ON DRUGS. Wormwood merely scrapped the entire programme, purchased this year’s crop direct from source, imported it and had it freely distributed to those wishing to indulge. By cutting out both the middlemen and the military involvement, not to mention the countless government bodies, security forces, drug squads and so on, he had reduced national expenditure on the ‘problem’ to near zero, put every stateside pusher out of business, cleared drug-related crime from the streets and made a lot of old hippies very happy.

  The Koshibo Tiger crept into the car park of the Split Beaver. A dozen slim headlamps dimmed and retracted. The megaphonics died away. ‘I hope you enjoyed your ride, sirs,’ purred the silicone voice. ‘If you would care to tell me when you will be returning I will have the coffee on and the seats warmed.’

  ‘Doncha just love it?’ Elvis asked. ‘About four hours, honey.’

  ‘Thank you sir. Be careful as you leave the car. There is a slight ground frost. Have a nice evening.’

  ‘We will, honey.’

  Rex climbed from the car. There was a chill in the air and he turned up the collar of the white tuxedo Elvis had pressed upon him for the occasion with, ‘It’s a swanky place, so take a shower.’ The parked cars in the statue-lined parking area spoke favourably of the Beaver’s clientele. The stretched Rolls Royces and six-wheeled Porsches drawled in the international monetary tongue.

  Fangio’s this wasn’t. The club’s facade was a grand classical job. Ionic columns of green marble rising to capitals of the Corinthian order. Gilded entablatures and scotias adorned with lapis lazuli. As for the windows ...

  ‘Showy, ain’t it?’ said Elvis. ‘Come on, let’s get inside.’ A liveried doorman bowed them in. An exotic androgyne, resembling something that had escaped from Beardsley’s Under the Hill, fawned over Elvis, promising delights to stagger the senses of satyrs.

  ‘My buddy and me will take a drink at the bar first.’ Elvis waved the creature away. ‘This way, Rex.’

  Rex Mundi did his best to take stock of his surroundings, but they were all a bit much. The entrance hall was palatial, lit by chandeliers the size of small houses which rained light in crystal waterfalls. From the carpet of rich purple pile, walls heavy with over-embellishment rose to meet them somewhere near Heaven. On many of the walls hung priceless Victorian erotica. Sepia photographs of plump smiling ladies and grave-faced men engaged in all forms of imaginative coitus. Beneath these were printed little epigrams. Rising to meet the challenge. She has her hands full now. The dog has his day. Yodelling up the canyon. Taking tea with the Parson.

  ‘This way, Rex.’

  Rex shrugged and followed Elvis to the bar. Here the walls, free of photographic fancy, were given up to murals as big, brash and crude as latrine scribblings. Their sheer vulgarity was upsetting. The effect was not lost on Rex. ‘It’s a theme bar,’ Elvis explained as they pressed through the early-evening merrymakers. Rex’s attention now became drawn to a row of tall artificial phalli rising from behind the bar counter. As he watched, a barman wearing nought but an oversized sharkskin codpiece gripped one of these and drew it backwards. ‘Draught beer on tap,’ said Elvis. ‘Care for one?’

  ‘No,’ said Rex firmly. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘Loosen up. Hey fella, two beers.’

  ‘It’s crass. Let’s leave.’

  ‘No, wait Rex. The chicks, I swear.’

  Rex viewed ‘the chicks’. They were curious to the extreme. They were of that rare breed that is only seen in the company of wealthy men. No-one ever seems to know who they are or where they came from. They can be seen dining in exclusive restaurants, boarding jet planes or being chauffeured away from Harrods.

  The friend of mine who was once in the TA told me that they are cloned in a secret Nazi establishment in South America and that very rich men buy them through a kind of mail-order catalogue. He said that a friend of his knew someone who had actually seen such a catalogue. I told him that he was a drunken Glaswegian bum. He told me that it was my round, which it was.

  Rex continued to view them. They were of exquisite beauty and carried themselves with assured poise. But their elegant faces were here muddied by make-up and they wore the costume of the street whore. The men in their white tuxedos drifted amongst them, feeling and fondling. Elvis pressed a beer into Rex’s hand. ‘I’m gonna cruise round a bit. See what’s happening. Indulge yourself. My treat.’ And with that he was gone into the crowd.

  Rex took up his beer and sought a secluded table. The furnishings were sumptuous enough. Overstuffed sofas set within booths which could be curtained off, as and when the need arose. A number of these were already curtained and the sounds issuing from them left no doubts that the need had arisen and was being amply catered t
o. Rex sighed and sank into a vacant sofa. He placed his beer before him on to a low table of travertine marble. On this stood numerous small bowls containing narcotics. Rex dipped a bespittled finger into one at random and took a little taste. It did nothing to immediately raise his spirits.

  ‘Is anyone sitting here?’ Rex looked up. She was lovely. Slim and almost childlike, her tiny face seemed to glow. Her eyes were large. They were golden. She wore a flesh-toned catsuit and her long black hair was laquered into a tall crest.

  ‘No. Please sit down.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m Kim. What’s your name?’

  ‘Rex,’ said Rex.

  ‘Hi Rex. You a friend of Mr Never?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The young guy with the mirror-shades and the killer sideburns. You came in together.’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s right.’

  ‘That his new Tiger outside?’

  ‘Yes it is.’ Rex sipped beer and took another dip in the bowl. ‘You like the car then?’

  ‘And some.’ Kim took a dip in the bowl. A big dip.

  ‘I’m sure he’d be happy to take you for a ride in it. What is this stuff?’

  Kim laughed. A pretty mouth, Rex thought. ‘It’s high-grade coke cut with a pheromonic adreynal opiate. Hits the spot, eh? So what do you do then, Rex?’

  ‘I’m Mr Never’s bodyguard and chauffeur as it happens.’

  ‘How about that. Do you know who you look like?’

  ‘I have been told, yes. What are in these other bowls?’

  ‘Oh, uppers, downers, inners, outers. Do you wanna have sex, Rex?’

  Rex felt that he certainly did. ‘Are you on your own then? I mean you didn’t come with anyone?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Kim giggled. ‘Come on, let’s do blood.’

  ‘Do blood?’ Rex didn’t like the sound of that.

  Kim winked. ‘Well what kind of girl do you think I am?’ She pushed aside the bowls and emptied the contents of her shoulder bag on to the table. Loose change, make-up sticks, cigarettes, lighter, an elegant gold device which bore the logo of Koshibo Electronics.