The Greatest Show Off Earth

  ‘I’ve read the book,’ whispered Mr H. ‘And you don’t have the book with you when you do what you do in it. If you follow me.’

  Simon made a face of desperation in the darkness. ‘Do you get the feeling we’re being watched?’

  The warlock, who numbered night vision amongst certain uncanny powers which Simon knew nothing of, said, ‘No, you’re imagining it.’ But kept a wary owl’s eye upon the figures he could clearly see, skulking from one bush to another along the ridge above the abandoned track. ‘Just keep moving,’ he whispered.

  ‘Just keep moving.’ Professor Merlin and his sorely troubled circus folk had reached the palace of King Eddie.

  Ziggurat. Yellow stone. Very large and no time for further details.

  At the grand entrance there was one of those lifty-up barriers and a little guard’s hut. A large guard issued from this. He was carrying a clipboard. ‘Halt who goes there?’ he said.

  ‘The same soldiers who marched out of here about half an hour ago, you stupid jerk,’ replied the officer in charge.

  ‘Ah, well, I didn’t see that. I’ve only just come on duty.’

  ‘We are taking these prisoners to the king. Now, secure this gate and make sure no-one gets through.’

  ‘Sure thing.’ The guard drew his gun. ‘Back off. No-one gets through.’

  ‘No-one except us!’

  ‘Sorry, I’m only following orders. Now back away.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Professor Merlin raised his hand to speak, ‘but I don’t do guard hut and clipboard gags. That’s really Raymond’s department.’

  The guard consulted his clipboard. ‘Ah yes, I have some exposition here. You must be the circus folk that the king is going to have tortured to death for starting a war between Saturn and Eden. The announcement of which the king picked up on satellite TV a few hours ago.’

  ‘Fiddle-de fiddle-dum,’ said the professor.

  ‘Pass friends,’ said the guard. ‘And have a nice day.’

  It was still a nice day at the dock and Raymond, who still had a good many things to do, including, of course, a confrontation with the guard in the little hut, awoke from drowning oblivion to find that he was no longer in it, but had been washed up on a beach a short distance away.

  It was rather a pleasant beach as it happened. Very Miami. And very crowded too. Well, it was the king’s birthday and a national holiday had been declared.

  The sun seekers stared at the frock-coated flotsam. The flotsam stood up and wrung sea from its saturated pantaloons.

  ‘What are you lot looking at?’ it asked fiercely. The sun seekers returned to their seeking of sun.

  Raymond plodded up the beach and up stone steps to the promenade. Here he rested a moment to catch his breath. He had to get to the palace, where he assumed, correctly enough, the circus folk had been taken. But he didn’t feel up to the walk. Well-dressed Edenites paraded the prom. They raised their noses to Raymond as they passed him by, but Raymond ignored them. He needed transportation and his attention became drawn to a knot of young folk gathered about something at the kerb.

  Raymond approached them and craned his neck above their shoulders. An effete-looking young man, of about Raymond’s stamp and clad from head to foot in black leather, sat idly revving a motor bike.

  The motor bike was a Harley Davidson.

  Raymond elbowed his way through the knot and climbed on to the pillion of the Harley.

  ‘Oh my,’ said the effete young man, turning. ‘You’re all wet, you nasty man, get off my cycle do.’

  Raymond stuck his right hand into the pocket of his sodden frock coat and thrust his finger into the small of the young man’s back.

  ‘Say,’ said he in a Hollywood tone, ‘that’s a really nice bike,’ adding, ‘This is a gun, now get moving.’

  There was movement in the palace of King Eddie. But not much of it came from the king. He was a nasty piece of work was Eddie. Far nastier, in fact, than either of his two identical brothers. He was big and fat and old and sprightly and so on and he lolled upon a great big throne in a great big hall which begged for description but didn’t receive any. He stuck out a big fat bejewelled finger at the dispirited, but far from done for, group that stood before him and said, ‘So you are the circus from Saturn, come to entertain me. He he haw haw ho ho ha ha ha.’

  It was one of those maniac laughs that, well, maniacs always have. A real bed-wetter. ‘Come to provide me with entertainment. He he ho ho ha ha.’

  The professor bowed low. ‘If it is entertainment you crave, sire, then none better than we shall supply it. Might I introduce you to The Greatest Show off, er, Saturn.’

  ‘Oh do oh do,’ said the king. ‘It will pass a few minutes while my cringing cat’s-paw (as opposed to menial or lacky) fetches out the instruments of torture, upon which you will provide most excellent entertainment for myself and my court.’

  ‘Your court?’ The professor gazed around at the great big hall which begged for a description but didn’t receive one. ‘Which court might that be?’

  ‘Actually they all have the day off. Although I think I have a dangling lovely upstairs. But do not worry, my soldiers will cheer when I tell them to and I will clap and laugh. Like this.’ He clapped. ‘And ha ha ha ha ha. Ho.’

  ‘If it please Your Majesty,’ said Dr Bacteria, stepping forward, ‘might I be permitted to kiss the royal hand?’

  ‘No you certainly may not.’

  ‘Aw go on, just a little peck. No tongues.’

  ‘You most revolting man. Something really horrible for you I think. The car battery and the jump leads perhaps. Tee he he. Where is my cringing cat’s-paw?’

  ‘I’m here, sire.’ A cat’s-paw in royal livery appeared, trundling a mobile rack piled high with whips, chains, manacles, ball-closure rings, flesh tunnels and Arab straps.

  ‘Rooty toot,’ said Professor Merlin approvingly. ‘Reminds me of a weekend away I once had in Lourdes.’

  ‘Frogs!’ shrieked the Grand Duke’s cringing menial. ‘Frogs all over the palace.’

  ‘Frogs?’ howled the Grand Duke, who, having recently waved off a hastily mustered, but quite substantial airforce, had, in keeping with his other brothers who really knew how to enjoy themselves on their birthdays, retired to his bedchamber with a dangling lovely of his own. ‘What is with frogs? Have you gone completely mad?’

  ‘They’re everywhere, sire. Uuugh!’ The cringing menial pulled a frog from his waistcoat and flung it to the floor. ‘It’s that Moses the elephant. He’s cursed you with a plague of frogs.’

  ‘How very thoughtful of him. Well gather them up and get them down to the kitchen. Frog’s legs for tea, my favourite.’

  ‘But, sire, frogs are only the first plague. He says there’s worse to follow if you don’t let his people go. Lice and flies and boils and blains.’

  ‘What’s a blain?’

  ‘I think it’s the big fellow in Predator. The one with the General Electric mini-gun.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to let the animals go. I’m going to eat them. Invite this elephant of yours into the palace. I’ll eat him as well.’

  ‘Oh woe unto the house of Pharoah.’ The cringing menial left the bedchamber.

  ‘Now where was I?’ asked the Grand Duke.

  ‘Ribbiting your dangling lovely,’ said the frog.

  The Sultan of Uranus had left his lovely dangling. He had taken up residence aboard the four-masted flagship of the Uranian navy and this was currently streaking through air-filled space bound for Eden. Uranus is mostly composed of water, you see, which explains the navy and the flagship and the SS Salamander. And the flying starfish too.

  It all makes sense when you piece it all together.

  ‘How long till we reach Eden, cringing lacky?’

  ‘Not long.’ The lacky consulted an unsynchronized wrist-watch. ‘Pretty soon. But the Grand Duke’s mob have a head start.’

  ‘But we have bigger ships.’

  ‘Because they don’t h
ave any ships at all. They have aircraft.’

  ‘Does that give them an edge, do you think?’

  ‘Haven’t the foggiest idea, sire. I expect if they blast us out of the sky, the answer would be yes.’

  ‘Well see that they don’t. And where is big Abdullah?’

  Where, once again, was big Abdullah? Whither, whence and what at?

  And Raymond. What of he?

  Raymond was riding a Harley Davidson. Not on the pillion this time, but up front. And he was wearing black leather.

  The effete young man, who owned both bike and black leather, sat in the gutter with a soggy frock coat around his shoulders.

  He was weeping dismally.

  Raymond steered the big bike along quite well. He couldn’t get it out of first gear, but you can go pretty fast on a Harley in first gear and it makes a really throaty twin-pipe roar when you do. Banjoes the engine though.

  Young Edenite women waved at Raymond, but Raymond, knowing their eating habits, did not wave back.

  At very short length he arrived at the palace. And the guard in the little guard’s hut.

  ‘Halt, who goes there?’ asked the guard, holding up his clipboard. ‘And whoever you are, you can’t come in.’

  Raymond revved the engine, drove straight into the guard, knocking him from his feet and then crashed through the lifty-up barrier.

  Unsubtle? Unlikely? Unfunny?

  Raymond didn’t really care. He just roared up the drive towards the palace.

  Within, the king was displaying his equipment.

  ‘This one’s really fiendish,’ he said with a ha ha he. ‘It stretches the limbs horrendously and then these little circular saw arrangements slice them right through. Gore everywhere. Lovely it is. Any volunteers?’

  ‘I’ll have a crack at that please,’ said Disecto.

  The front door of the palace was open. Raymond parked the bike and ducked inside. He stood now in the grand vestibule. All mosaic floor, marble statuary, frescoed ceiling, panelled walls, Doric columns and that thing you find in the entrance hall of every palace you ever go into nowadays: The gift shop.

  Raymond went over to the counter. ‘Shop,’ said he. But there was a closed sign on the counter. Raymond reached over and helped himself to an official guidebook and tour map. This he unfolded.

  ‘Now let me see.’ Raymond examined the map. ‘Grand hall, royal bedchambers, kitchens, solarium, lounge, secret holographic broadcasting room. Ah yes, the dungeons. Down the hall, first flight of steps and follow the signs. Right.’

  Raymond strode away. The fine pair of motor cycle boots he had borrowed from the effete young Edenite, click-clacked gloriously on the marble floors.

  First flight of steps and follow the signs.

  Raymond hurried down the steps. It was here, he reasoned, incorrectly this time, that Professor Merlin and his circus were being held. Chained up and quite pleased to see him.

  The sign on the wall said, To the dungeons, and Raymond followed its pointing arrow. Still nobody about, which was handy.

  A row of cell doors. Raymond slid back the nasty sliding steel shutter on the first and peeped in.

  In a not too distant corner of the tiny room, huddled a figure. He was ragged and wretched. Long of hair and beard and wild of eye. He was talking to a cockroach.

  ‘Hello,’ said Raymond. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m the Count of Monte Cristo,’ said the captive.

  ‘Ah,’ said Raymond. ‘Prisoner gags, is it? I suppose Patrick McGoohan’s in the next cell.’

  ‘No, he’s in number six.’ The count tittered.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Raymond.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said the count.

  Raymond passed the prisoner of Zenda, the man in the iron mask, the princes in the tower and some women in cell block H. He waved to a couple of British journalists, who were awaiting their agents getting the contracts drawn up so they could go home and start work on their bestsellers. Raymond gave Room 101 a miss.

  Finally he came to a big cell door at the end of the corridor.

  ‘This has to be the one.’ Raymond slid back the nasty big sliding steel shutter and took a look inside.

  A large group of people sat in what looked like a recreation room. It had a dartboard and a snooker table and some video machines. But the group sat in armchairs watching TV.

  The Birdman of Alcatraz was on. Raymond sighed. ‘Hello,’ he called. ‘Hello.’

  Faces turned. But they weren’t the faces of Professor Merlin and his circus. But they were faces Raymond recognized. Well, some of them he did. The president of the United States, he recognized him. And the prime minister of England. And the chairman fellow from China. Although Raymond couldn’t recall his name. And the Russian premier and a whole lot of others. All very familiar.

  ‘Hi there,’ said the president. ‘If you’re a tourist, mind if we don’t plead to be set free? The King’s given us the day off and we’re watching TV.’

  Again no exact record exists of what Raymond said next. But it was something to do with what Long Bob did with chickens. Although this time applied to Raymond’s old brown dog.

  25

  And what of the chicken fancier himself? Oh what of Long Bob indeed?

  Dick the poacher had the bleachers out, arranged on three sides of the farmyard facing the door to the big chicken shed. Strings of those horrid outdoor Christmasy lantern things, the ones that really annoying neighbours hang up to light their noisy evening barbecues that they don’t invite you to, but do invite all these really attractive unattached women who take off all their clothes at the end of the evening and frolic around in the swimming-pool that he never got planning permission for and you nearly fall out of your bedroom window trying to get a look through your binoculars and someone else calls the police and he thinks you did and comes round the next day and punches you in the nose. Those lanterns. Strings of those lanterns illuminated the farmyard. And Long Bob’s barbecue was well stoked up.

  And what was that funny sound?

  ‘What’s that funny sound?’ asked grey man number one. He and his grey companions were squeezed into the hideaway bush on the top of the hill. ‘Does that sound like singing, or what?’

  Grey man number two adjusted a pair of highly sophisticated night-vision binoculars, manufactured by the ACME Optical Instrument Company, Eden. ‘The door of the big chicken shed’s opening. Gawd, strike a light, look at that.’

  Grey man number one put the binoculars to his squinty grey eyes and took a squinty grey look. And he too said, ‘Gawd, strike a light.’

  A procession was winding its way from the hen house. First came Long Bob in full regalia. Seed sack robes with luminous feathered pentagram chest motif, winged helmet. Swinging a censer.

  He was chanting what might have been Om Mani Padme Hen. Or was possibly ‘The Birdie Song’. And behind him came the chickens. In ranks of four. In perfect step. And singing.

  Such dear little voices. Like a choir of cherubs.

  Long Bob paused beside the barbecue at the centre of the farmyard and the chickens filed past him, singing their little hearts out. They filed to the bleachers and in a fine rehearsed fashion, took their seats. No pushing or shoving, all very civilized. Very organized.

  ‘With a little bit of this and a little bit of that and a little bit of,’ Long Bob wiggled his bum and did finger peckings.

  Barking mad. And lo . . .

  From out of the farmhouse came the looker and Military Dave and the three Roman Candles. Singing along and swinging their censers.

  And where was God-awful Godolphin? Ah, here he comes right now.

  The tool shed door burst open and Dick emerged dragging a gagged nun in high heels.

  ‘Nuns in bondage,’ whispered grey man number one. ‘I could go for that.’

  A dog in a robe followed Dick, a tired looking dog indeed.

  The gagged nun kicked and fought, but Dick dragged her along with a curse and a cowardly blow.

&nbs
p; ‘What are they doing exactly?’ asked Inspector D’Eath, who was dug into the long grass that Simon had missed during his Allen Scything. ‘I can’t make it out.’

  ‘You’re looking through the wrong end of the binoculars,’ said Chief Inspector Lestrade, to the accompaniment of titters from Constable Derek.

  ‘Ah yes, I can see clearly now. But when are we going to make our move? I haven’t heard a peep from F.A.R.T. about when they intend to flush Bum-Poo out.’

  Constable Derek thrashed helplessly on the grass with his knuckle rammed into his mouth.

  ‘Oh dearly beloved,’ cried Long Bob, ‘we are gathered here tonight as hallowed brethren and sister, to welcome the dawn of the new beginning. To honour and worship and make sacrifice to He who will deliver us when the light becomes darkness and the darkness covers the face of the Earth. Now as is prophesied, when moons shall fall from their orbits and the End Times will be upon us, let us praise the great one, let us praise and worship and generally toady up if we know what’s good for us. So mote it be. Hail Sate-Hen.’

  ‘Hail Sate-Hen,’ agreed the censer swingers and the fellow who was getting his legs kicked.

  ‘Hail Sate-Hen,’ said that fellow’s dog. ‘Here, Dick mate, I can talk.’

  ‘We shall sing,’ Long Bob continued. ‘Number three in the End Times Hymnal. “Old MacDonald Had a Farm”, omitting the verses about ducks, cows, pigs, horses and plastic fertilizer bags. In the key of A.’ Long Bob blew a pitch pipe.

  ‘He’s barking mad,’ said Simon, who was lying under Long Bob’s Land Rover.

  ‘You’re right,’ agreed Mr H. ‘The verse about the fertilizer bags is the best one. With a big pile here and a big pile there.’

  ‘I have a plan,’ whispered Simon. ‘If I can just make it to . . .’ He paused.

  ‘The tool shed,’ said Mr Hilsavise.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Simon. ‘The tool shed it is then.’

  ‘Are you tooled up?’ asked the president of the USA. ‘Are you holding? Packing heat?’