Necrophenia

  ‘Oh no!’ I cried, and I dropped my pizzas and drinks and garlic breads and took off down the stairway at the hurry-up.

  And when I reached the platform I came upon a scene of doom and desolation. Torches still burned and the remnants of flares did also. And there was a bad smell in the air now, a bitter, acrid smell, and it was the smell of CS gas. And there on the platform lay bodies. Two bodies. One of them was a golden girlie. The other was the high priest. And he groaned in a fatally wounded kind of fashion.

  And I approached his golden body and I gazed down upon it and all I could think to say was, ‘I am so sorry.’

  And I kneeled low to catch a word. And touch the dying brow.

  ‘Men came,’ the high priest whispered. ‘Men from above. With magical weapons. We fought bravely, but they overwhelmed us. We failed you, sire, forgive us.’

  ‘I am so so sorry,’ I said. ‘And you didn’t fail me. You did your best. I am sorry that I brought you here to this evil place. Can you forgive me?’

  The high priest reached out a bloodstained hand to me. It was clear that there was something important that he needed to say.

  ‘The P . . . The P . . .’

  ‘The “P”?’ I said. ‘The prophecy, do you mean?’

  ‘The p . . . The p . . . The pizza. What flavour did you get?’

  And then he died.

  65

  I had moved to a point beyond anger.

  Beyond rage and fury. Beyond all human feeling.

  I raised my head upon that platform, threw it back and howled. An atavistic howl, it was. A fearsome howl, a midnight window-rattler. And I am sure that my eyes blazed fire and that I was an ugly sight to behold. But I was done now with everything but revenge. The red mist had descended. All that remained to be done now was for me to enter the high tower above, seek out Mr Papa Keith Crossbar and rend him limb from limb. The rending would be both slow and laboured, one little piece at a time.

  And I arose and stood above the body of the high Priest, the golden being whose death was surely my fault. And I swore upon his corpse that I would finish the job I had started and that he would not have died in vain upon this dismal platform.

  And then I strode from that dismal platform and up the stairway and across the concourse and out into that rancid New York night.

  And suddenly bright lights shone upon me. And I heard a voice I recognised, it being that of the Jewish-looking fella with whom I had so recently shared a pizza. And this fella shouted, ‘That’s him, officers - the assassin who would threaten the life of our dear leader.’ Adding, ‘Can I have my reward in cash, please?’

  And horrible hands were laid upon me. And I was brutally smitten down by truncheons of the electric persuasion. And I descended, once more, into that whirling black pit of oblivion.

  Most angrily.

  66

  And I awoke from that whirling pit equally angry.

  Or possibly just a bit more. Although I must admit that in my opinion I had plateaued, regarding the anger. I just couldn’t get any more riled up. It simply couldn’t be done.

  And I was floating. Floating.

  And not on some adrenalin high. But simply floating. Face up in something rather odd. Or was I face down? Or was my face anywhere? I couldn’t see, for it was black and I couldn’t smell or touch anything.

  I did blinkings of the eyes and yes, my eyes were open. But I was in absolute blackness. Had I been blinded? And I opened my mouth to cry out, but no sound came from it. And it was as if all my senses had been shut down and that was a terrible feeling.

  And I did panicking, I can tell you. All alone in the dark.

  And then I didn’t panic quite so much. Instead, I did risings up. I projected. As I had done at The Stones in the Park gig after taking the Banbury Bloater. And later in my coma, when I found that I had somehow developed the ability to leave my body at will and float off abroad in my astral form. Just like Doctor Strange.

  And I arose in that darkness and moved above my physical body and, looking down by means of astral vision, I could now see myself floating there, all hooked up to wires and whatnots all in the dark in a big floatation tank.

  ‘Oh,’ I said to my astral self. ‘A sensory-deprivation tank. Probably not the best place to be for a fellow such as myself, with rather a lot on my mind. My, a fellow could go mad in one of those if he awoke and didn’t know that he was in one.’ So to speak.

  And no! I did not get any angrier at this thought. But only, I must stress, because there was no possible way that I could get any angrier.

  I really had reached the cut-off point and I’ll say no more about it.

  And so I floated up upon high, looking down at myself floating down upon low. And I was pleased to note that someone had given me a jolly good wash and a shave and a haircut. Although I did feel that they might have had the decency to slip a pair of swimming trunks onto my naked loins before they deposited me into the floatation tank and switched off the light.

  But why was I in the floatation tank? Why hadn’t I simply been killed and conscripted into Papa Crossbar’s Army of the Dead? Or bunged straight into the incinerator for instant disposal?

  And I did some more detective thinking and drew the conclusion that there had to be a very good reason for my captors to keep me alive. And that it probably wasn’t one that I was going to be too keen on. And would probably involve torture and torment, and things of that nature, grimly.

  And so where was I? In the big CIA building? I really did hope that I was, because I had, prior to my truncheoning down, given a thought or two as to how I might gain entry to a building that would probably be rather big on security. So if I was in it, it was rather handy. Wasn’t it?

  So, best have a look-see, eh? And I drifted upwards, and my weightless, invisible non-corporeal astral spirity-magical form passed through a ceiling and into a room above. And this was a locker room of some kind, smelling strongly of plimsolls and man-bits. And I drifted through an open doorway and into a big gym hall where chaps in ninja costumes were doing some working out. They were beating each other up and smashing lengths of four-by-two with their bare hands and generally carrying on in an overly macho manner. And I could hear their thoughts, and their thoughts were simple thoughts that encompassed complete dedication to their leader Papa Crossbar, violence and sex. And I made a mental note that once I had escaped from the floatation tank, I must keep clear of these violent zealots.

  And I drifted onwards and upwards, through computer rooms manned by men in white coats, who wore thickly lensed spectacles and carried clipboards. The canteen and recreational areas. Offices, offices and more offices. And then rather elegant furnished apartments. And then to the very top floor, where I saw him.

  And he sat there at a great Gothic desk of black basalt. On a great Gothic chair carved from similar stuff. And he had piled up a lot of silk cushions onto this chair to get him up to the level of the desk. Because, as well as being the most evil being alive on the planet, he was also something of a short-arsed little git. Although I might not have put too much emphasis before upon the matter of him being somewhat vertically challenged, it really can’t hurt to mention it now. All things considered.

  The short-arsed little thoroughgoing swine.

  And please don’t get me wrong here. I have nothing against and no axe to grind regarding the shorter in stature. I’m not that tall myself and although I’d like to say that some of my very best friends are positively dwarf-like, I regret that I can’t. But only because I have no very best friends. Which is rather sad.

  And I stood before the desk of Mr Papa Keith Crossbar, vile twentieth-century Homunculus and would-be bringer of death to all Mankind. And I hated him. With every smidgen of my body and my soul. I utterly, utterly hated him. And I cast my mystic eyes all around and about this room that was his headquarters and his sinister lair. And both he and his room were also rather sad. And I knew instantly, instinctively, why both he and his room were rather sad. And it
was because both lacked for love. This man was absolutely loveless. The very concept of love was totally alien to him. And I could feel this, as I stood invisibly before his desk in my spirit body. There was no love in this room and there could never be.

  The room itself was cold and bleak. The walls were of a dull grey cast, the floor unpolished slate. But for the desk and chair there was no other furniture. No pictures hung upon the walls, the windows uncurtained. The views that lay beyond these windows were without doubt panoramic - all the world that was New York spread beyond and below. And it all looked far more wonderful at night.

  But the loveless fellow at the desk didn’t look upon the city beyond and below. For he’d had frosted glass installed and so the views were blanked.

  And then I realised that yes, this room was exactly as it should be. It was the perfect office for such a cold and loveless foul monster as Papa Keith Crossbar. As The Flange had sought to create the perfect lounge room that would facilitate the Second Coming of Jesus, and the native followers of Jon Frum had done years before that, when they built their imitation airstrips to lure down the God from the sky. This was the perfect office for such a creature as this. And he simply had to be in it.

  And curiously that gave me an idea. It was a long shot, of course, But it was an idea. And what I really needed at this time was an idea.

  I drifted around to the rear of the desk and had a peep over his shoulder. He had before him on the desk what looked like an ancient tome. And a really ancient one, like one of those really ancient and gem-encrusted golden Bibles that they have so many of in St Katherine’s Monastery on the slopes of Mount Sinai.

  And I recalled that Captain Lynch had told me about how St Katherine’s Monastery had and still has the largest and most valuable collection of Christian holy books in the world. They have handwritten pages from the original gospels there and more gem-encrusted Bibles than the Vatican’s vaults. Apparently it was the fashion (a fashion that I suspect was started by the monks themselves, as St Katherine’s also boasts some of the fattest and best-dressed monks in the world) for Kings to pilgrimage to St Katherine’s (which also has the original burning bush in its courtyard, although it no longer burns, of course) and bring the monks a really expensive present to show how sincere and devout they were.

  And Kings, who, without advisors, never had a lot of imagination, would go, ‘Now what would be a really nice present to give a bunch of monks? I know, a Bible. I’ll get a big gem-encrusted golden one knocked up. And in case they’ve already got one, I’ll make sure that the one I give them is even bigger and more gem-encrusted.’

  And boy, do they have some great big gem-encrusted golden Bibles.

  And the big ancient book open on the desk of Papa Keith Crossbar looked like one of those.

  So what did this loveless body have? This hateful horrible man?

  And I peered over his shoulder to have a good old look. And I had a good old look. And then I wished I hadn’t.

  The words on the pages were penned in Latin and I knew not their meaning. But these were no holy words, no words of inspiration. Nor indeed were they the pidgin-tongued lyrics of old George Formby songs. No, these words were those of ancient magic and although I could not understand their meaning, it was as if, as I looked, they tried to raise themselves from the page and force themselves into my head. For surely these were the words of a magic dark and dire and dreadful. And doom-laden. And dirty-doggish.

  And I drew hastily back. But Papa Keith Crossbar did not; his eyes were tethered to the pages by invisible bonds. And the words arose to him and entered his brain. And I knew then what these words must be: the words of the most terrible spell that had ever been brought into reality by Man - the spell to create the Homunculus.

  And then another revelation came upon me.

  That this was the year 2007.

  And that we were now in the 21st century.

  And so the twentieth-century Homunculus was preparing to use that terrible spell to raise his own magical son. And that had to be super bad because, as far as I knew, that had never been tried before. In all the long history of horrible Homunculus-raising, an actual Homunculus had never done the raising of his next in line. I didn’t know just then exactly what the consequences of this would be. But, instinctively once more, I reasoned that they would be dire.

  And outside thunder rolled across the sky. And lightning flashed beyond the frosted windows. And I knew deep down in my Look Back in Anger heart that tonight was going to be the night that he did this evil deed.

  And if he succeeded, then it meant—

  The End of the World.

  Oh dear.

  67

  I did hoverings all about and wondered what to do next for the best. Get back into my body at the hurry-up, escape from the floatation tank, make my way up here and crush the life from this monster’s throat before he could invoke the terrible magic and bring his awful horror into this world seemed favourite. No - and I gave this matter some thought - I could not think of anything better than that. Although the Devil, as they say, is in the detail.

  But now a door opened and in walked an evil cat’s paw.

  I reasoned that he had to be an evil cat’s paw because he was, after all, an employee of the Evil One himself and apparently had permission to enter without knocking.

  And the Evil One looked up from his evil book and gazed evilly at the evil cat’s paw who had entered his evil room, evilly.

  ‘Did you knock?’ he asked.

  The cat’s paw shook his head.

  ‘Did I call “enter”?’

  The cat’s paw shook his head once more. I noted that the cat’s paw had a rather nifty haircut, rather retro nineteen-fifties. A bit early-Elvis. And a suit, of course. A black suit. And a black suit is a classic. Unless it’s made out of polyester.

  ‘Well, can you think of any reason at all why I should not kill you for your insolence?’

  ‘But for the fact that I’m already dead, sir, no.’

  ‘I’m trying to learn a spell here. It might look easy, but it’s not.’

  ‘I never suggested that it was, sir.’

  ‘No, but you were thinking it. I can hear you thinking it. And don’t think that if you sing a song in your head as you are now doing that I won’t be able to hear what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said the evil cat’s paw. ‘Naturally, sir, my only wish is to serve you absolutely.’

  ‘And have sex with the woman in charge of the Filling Room.’

  ‘And that too, sir. But everyone in my department wants that. At least, all the men do. And some of the women, too.’

  ‘She’s a bit of a looker, eh?’

  ‘I should say so, sir.’

  ‘Then I wonder, perhaps—’

  And I could hear him thinking. And he was thinking about the woman that he wanted to become the mother of the twenty-first-century Homunculus this very night. At midnight. Which seemed about right. As this sort of stuff generally comes to pass during the witching hour. And he was considering the woman who ran the Filling Room because he had extracted a mental image of what she looked like from the mind of the evil cat’s paw. But he was now thinking that no, he wouldn’t do that, he would use the golden girlie that his minions (the ninja fellows I’d seen practising) had kept alive. Having killed off all the rest of the golden Begremites. Whose bodies he had then had incinerated.

  Killed off ? All the rest? Astral tears now came to my astral eyes. He had simply had all the rest of them killed because he had no use for them. And the one that he had kept alive, he had done so only so that she could be inseminated with a being of absolute and unremitting evil.

  I stood and shook in my astral body. ‘I will kill you,’ I said. Though none could hear this but myself.

  ‘Get the golden woman all prepared,’ said Papa Keith Crossbar to his evil cat’s paw. ‘Get her all scrubbed-up and all loved-up. I don’t care what you pump into her veins as long as she remains conscious and c
ompliant. And I want her here by the stroke of midnight. Do I make myself understood?’

  ‘Absolutely, sir. But first I have a memo from Accounts that I’d like you to have a look at. It’s regarding a purchase order for stationery that hasn’t been processed properly. Normally I’d have Mr Carapace in Sales Admin give it the once-over, but he’s away at a convention in Florida this week, Corporate Cat’s Paw Con, and I—’

  Papa Keith Crossbar raised his hand. ‘Get out of my office,’ said he.

  And the evil cat’s paw left the office and I followed on behind him.

  And once he had left the office and closed the door behind him, he turned around and he did that thing that in America is known as ‘flipping the bird’, but which we more civilised Englishmen call

  ‘giving the finger’.

  Which made me laugh.

  And certain words came loudly through that door. And these words were shouted by Papa Keith Crossbar. And these words were, ‘I heard you thinking that. And I’ll punish you for doing it.’

  Which also made me laugh. Though not, perhaps, quite so much.

  And I followed the evil cat’s paw as he slouched along a corridor and into an office of his own. A small and poky office, its walls enlivened by photographs of naked women, mostly bound and wearing nothing but shoes. And though I had to applaud his good taste in wall-enlivenment, I didn’t think much of his office as a whole. And when he slumped down into his chair and kicked off his shoes, I was not altogether taken with the smell of his feet. And yes, he was one of the walking dead. But is that really an excuse for poor foot hygiene?

  And having kicked off his shoes and got his feet polluting the atmosphere, he picked up the receiver of the telephone on his desk, punched buttons and spoke into it.

  ‘Barry,’ he said. ‘Dave here. I’ve just been in the old man’s office and he wants that golden tart up there by midnight. What? The purchase order? Yes, I did try to chase that up. Yes, I know Carapace in Sales Admin should deal with it. Yes, it is a pain in the neck, I know. But what can you do? What? The End? What “The End” are you talking about? Oh, the one tonight, I see. Well, yes, that will be the end of Mankind as anyone understands it to be and also the end of everything else living upon the planet. Yes. But what? Will it affect the processing of orders for stationery? I never thought to ask. I’ll ask when I see him later. He’ll probably want me to lend a hand in the ceremony. Sacrifice a cat, or a hippopotamus, or something. What? Trevellian in Corporate Holdings did what? Not with that tall woman from Sales Services? No, really?’