The Greatest Show Off Earth

  ‘No, Mr President, sorry.’ Raymond was leading the heads of state along the corridor. ‘Handy the key being in the lock,’ he said, before anyone could ask. ‘We have to find Professor Merlin.’

  ‘Is he packing heat?’

  ‘No, but he has a great big ship for us to escape on.’

  ‘I wunt to escape on the big ship,’ said the British PM.

  ‘And so you shall,’ said Raymond. ‘Let’s try up here, I think I can hear something.’

  ‘Oh ouch, oh dear, oh mercy me.’ Disecto made unconvincing pain noises. ‘Oh do have mercy please.’

  ‘Shut up!’ roared the king, without the maniac laughter. ‘You’ve had your head cut off. You’re not supposed to still be going, “Oh ouch, oh dear me.” Die in agony like a man, for goodness sake.’

  ‘Oh lummy,’ said Disecto, ‘I’m dead.’

  ‘Oh no you’re not.’

  ‘Oh yes I am.’

  ‘Oh no you’re not.’

  ‘Oh yes he is,’ chorused the circus.

  ‘Shut up, you lot. Lacky, stoke up the fiendishly hot roasting chair. Let’s see who wants to sizzle.’

  ‘I’d like a go at that please,’ said Phoenix.

  ‘Hee he he, ho ho ho, ha ha hoot,’ went the King. ‘And tittery tee hee too. The fiendishly hot roasting chair it is then.’

  ‘Yes, it’s definitely coming from in here,’ Raymond pushed open the door. ‘You might knock first,’ said a dangling lovely.

  ‘Sorry.’ Red-faced Raymond closed the door.

  ‘I wunt to see in there,’ said the British PM.

  ‘Best not,’ said Raymond. ‘Let’s try up here.’

  ‘Fry. Ha ha tee he he.’

  ‘Oooooo!’ went Phoenix, in mock agony. ‘Oh shriek. Oh whimper.’

  ‘It’s not hot enough.’ The big fat king put his finger on the chair. ‘Oooooo!’ he screamed. ‘Oh shriek. Oh whimper.’

  ‘Can I kiss that better?’ asked Dr Bacteria.

  ‘It’s definitely in here,’ said Raymond, pushing open another door. And it was. A dozen powerful-looking firearms turned upon him.

  ‘Stick ‘em up,’ said the officer in charge.

  ‘There,’ said Raymond. ‘I told you it was in here.’

  ‘We are here,’ cried Long Bob. ‘Come unto us, oh magnificent one. Come unto us, Your Majesty.’

  The door of the big chicken shed creaked open. A bright white light welled from within.

  Made hazy about its edges by the glare, something hideous stepped forth. It was taller than Mr Hilsavise and much more powerfully built. It had certainly grown some since the evening before and as it made its ponderous way across the lantern-lit farmyard, the full enormity of its very-much-terribleness became apparent.

  ‘Bugger my boots,’ said grey man number one. ‘Is that Bigfoot, or what?’

  It certainly had big feet. Big chicken feet, with Velociraptor claws. These tore into the ground raising small clouds of dust. The legs were finely muscled, dark featherage concealed whatever dangling unloveliness hung between them. The great chest was covered by a scaly network of silver-blue plumage and the shoulders were broad and muscular. A tall dark crest rose from the massive head, with its sickening eyes and very horrid beak.

  ‘Hail Sate-Hen.’ Long Bob and his followers fell to their knees. Seizing her opportunity, Liza made a break for it.

  ‘Be still.’ The voice which cried from the horrid beak echoed about the farmyard. Inspector D’Eath could scarce control a failing bladder, and it wiped the smile right off the face of Constable Derek. ‘Be still.’

  Liza’s legs gave way beneath her and she sank to the ground. ‘Bring me my sacrifice,’ said Sate-Hen.

  ‘Bring me the pillock in the black leather suit,’ said King Eddie and the soldiers hastened to oblige. One clubbed Raymond down at the fat fellow’s feet.

  ‘That’s a nice suit you have there,’ crowed the king. ‘I gave one just like that to my son Wilfred for his birthday. His had the royal logo on the collar, of course.’

  The king stared down. ‘Yours has the royal logo on the collar as well.’

  ‘Does your son drive a Harley Davidson?’ Raymond asked.

  ‘I wunt a Harley Davidson,’ said the British PM.

  ‘Silence! Where is my son Wilfred?’

  Raymond climbed to his feet and went into ‘Simon’ mode. ‘I have taken your son hostage,’ he said. ‘He’s safe enough for now, but if I don’t get back soon with the professor, his circus and all these heads of state, there’s no telling what my mad brother, with the stammer and the thing about razor blades and eyeballs, might do to him.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ wailed the king. ‘Oh dear, oh mercy me.’

  ‘So we’ll be going now.’ Raymond smiled. ‘If you’ll just have your soldiers lay down their weapons.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ went the king. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘I would strongly advise a weapon-drop scenario myself,’ said Professor Merlin. ‘Naturally I speak as an impartial observer.’

  ‘Yes yes. Drop your weapons.’ The soldiers laid down their arms.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Raymond.

  ‘Daddy,’ an effete young man in a soggy frock coat burst in through a side door, ‘a nasty boy stole my suit and my bike.’

  ‘Weapons up,’ shouted the king. ‘And open fire indiscriminately. Although not in my direction.’

  ‘We should open fire,’ said Inspector D’Eath. ‘Where is F—’

  ‘No please,’ Constable Derek held up his hand. ‘Please don’t say it again.’

  ‘Should we shoot it?’ asked grey man number three. The men in grey had some pretty snazzy hardware. From the ACME small arms factory, Eden.

  ‘I’m not paid good money to take pot-shots at something like that,’ said grey man number two. ‘I’m for legging it, me.’

  ‘Here,’ said grey man number one, who had been looking through the special binoculars. ‘Who are those blokes in black creeping around at the back of the farmyard?’

  ‘Bring her to me,’ roared Sate-Hen, and it was a most serious roar. ‘Let me feast upon her. Bring her to me now.’

  ‘Shoot them now,’ the king shouted and the soldiers cocked their weapons.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Raymond to the professor. ‘I think I’ve screwed this up.’

  ‘Shoot them now.’

  The soldiers squeezed upon their triggers. Then something whistled down from the sky, struck the palace and exploded most noisily.

  ‘It’s the bloody Saturnians!’ The king, who had tumbled, rose to his feet. ‘They shouldn’t be here yet. My airforce is still on holiday, they haven’t got back yet.’

  Another explosion rocked the palace.

  ‘Time to do something impressive,’ said Professor Merlin. ‘Are you up to it, Raymond?’

  ‘Am I up to what?’

  The professor shot out an extendible finger. It whipped across the great hall, poked the nearest soldier in the eye, hooked his weapon from his hands and flung it into those of Raymond.

  ‘I should capture the king if I were you,’ said Professor Merlin.

  ‘Stick ‘em up,’ said Raymond, putting the muzzle to the king’s big fat head. ‘And tell your soldiers to drop their guns again.’

  ‘Do as he says. Do as he says.’

  The soldiers dropped their guns again and stood complaining. Then yet another explosion occurred close at hand, so they ran.

  ‘Come on,’ said Raymond. ‘There’s still lots to do.’

  Men in black took up positions.

  Dick Godolphin prodded Liza in the back. ‘To your master,’ said he.

  And in the tool shed Simon shone his torch around and asked, ‘Just what am I doing in here?’

  ‘In here,’ said Raymond, prodding the king.

  ‘Why in here?’ asked the professor.

  Raymond indicated the sign on the door. Secret Holographic Broadcasting Room.

  ‘Aha!’ the professor aha’d. ‘Now isn’t that con
venient?’

  ‘Very,’ said Raymond. ‘Now, quick, let’s get this done.’

  If you wanted a nice deserted beach to soak up some sun on, then the one where Raymond was washed ashore would now be it.

  The sun seekers had fled.

  Overhead Saturnian craft, dark aeroforms like winged solar discs (in keeping with the ancient Egypt look) swung in circles and poured down fire upon Eutopia.

  Shells burst into the sea, up the beach and along the prom. So perhaps it wasn’t really the place to soak up some sun.

  Yellow stone fractured. Ziggurats shook. And now from above the circling craft came the ships of Uranus. Stirring craft, tall masted, with rows of gun ports.

  The Sultan stood at the helm of the leading Man o’ War. ‘Bomb bays open, Mr Lacky.’

  ‘Bomb bays open, sire.’ ‘Release consignment load.’

  ‘Consignment load released, sire.’ And further bombs rained down.

  ‘Switch it all off,’ said Raymond to the king. They were in the Secret Holographic Broadcasting Room. ‘Switch off all the holograms on Earth.’

  ‘I wunt to do the switching off,’ said the British PM.

  ‘The king can manage,’ said Raymond. ‘Can’t you, Your Majesty?’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re doing.’ King Eddie wrung his big fat fingers. You’ll cause chaos down there.’

  ‘Not for long, I intend to have all the heads of state back home very soon.’

  ‘And we’ll be making your existence well and truly known,’ said the president

  ‘Oh dear oh dear. Whatever should I do?’

  ‘Oh stand aside.’ Raymond pushed the fat man out of the way, cocked his gun and shot the secret holographic broadcasting unit into a million fragments.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘That’s done.’

  ‘Ahem,’ said Professor Merlin. ‘A very thorough job. But do you not feel that this might compromise your plan to replace King Eddie with a hologram? You having destroyed the necessary equipment, and all.’

  ‘Shit!’ said Raymond.

  Explode! went an explosion, bringing down a lot of ceiling.

  ‘Back to the ship,’ cried Raymond. ‘Everyone back to the ship.’ He turned his gun upon the king.

  ‘Don’t shoot me please.’

  Raymond cocked the gun once more and put it to the big fat and now most sweaty forehead. ‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.’

  ‘Because . . .’the king whimpered. ‘Because . . .’

  ‘Because he would be far better as a hostage,’ said Professor Merlin. ‘And because you’re the good guy and good guys don’t go shooting people in the head.’

  Raymond put aside his weapon with some relief. ‘That’s two good reasons,’ he said. ‘I only needed one.’

  26

  ‘Come to me,’ boomed the voice of Sate-Hen. And as the farmyard wasn’t that big, Liza now stood before him, shaking in her habit and tottering on her toes. Sate-Hen tore off her gag.

  ‘Kneel before me, girl. Pray to me.’

  ‘Pray?’ asked Inspector D’Eath. ‘Isn’t that a euphemism for—’

  ‘Yes it is.’ Jenny Lestrade snatched up her two-way radio. ‘Open fire!’ she ordered. And the men of F.A.R.T. opened fire.

  Indiscriminately. These were manly men after all and a soft target was a soft target, whether it was the soft target they were supposed to be shooting at or not.

  The chickens arose in a frantic feathery cloud as shots raked across the farmyard, into the ground, overhead. Some even as far as the hideaway bush.

  ‘We’re under attack,’ yelled grey man number one, flipping the safety catch from a small Howitzer affair. ‘Return fire.’

  ‘All I can see is bloody chickens,’ yelled grey man number two.

  ‘Then shoot the chickens.’

  ‘This is the bit I really like,’ and grey men all opened fire.

  ‘Hostile fire on the hillside,’ called a man with boot-blacked eyeballs. ‘Take them out with mortars, wide radius.’

  The men and women of B.E.A.S.T. were fighting their way through chickens to the farmhouse, where they kept their stock of weapons.

  ‘I know I should help,’ said Mr Hilsavise, beneath the Land Rover, ‘but it says in the book that I stay here and wait for . . . ah yes.’

  Along the abandoned railway track they came. The villagers. And they carried flaming torches.

  ‘Pray to me,’ crowed Sate-Hen, oblivious to the gunfire and the shouting and the chickens. ‘The End Times come and so shall I.’

  Now is that evil, or what?

  ‘Run!’ bawled Raymond. They were outside the palace now and chaos was king. Above, the warplanes of Saturn engaged in a mighty battle with the fleet of Uranus. Things kept falling out of the sky. Bombs, bits of plane, masts, people, more bombs.

  ‘I cannot run,’ said the professor. ‘You must leave me here.’

  Hercules the strong man, who hadn’t had much of a part, scooped the old man up in his arms.

  ‘We shall ride.’ The Lady Alostrael spoke words of power. A wind arose and with it forms took shape. Horses. Great white horses, although somewhat fuzzy round the edges. ‘Get on. Everyone. They will not last for long. Hurry now.’

  ‘I wunt to ride on the motor cycle,’ said the British PM.

  ‘You wunt a clip round the ear,’ said Raymond. ‘Get on a horse at once.’

  Now there’s nothing quite like an all-out attack on your city to persuade enlisted men that perhaps they should be back on the job, rather than sitting about swigging tea and watching TV.

  Soldiers in red and white poured from their barracks.

  The strange cavalcade of semi-transparent horses, one with the king slung across the saddle, and led by a fellow wearing the prince’s leather suit and riding on his motor cycle, passed by these soldiers at close quarters.

  The soldiers watched them, took stock of the situation, arrived at a joint decision and gave chase.

  Simon backed away from the tool-shed door. He hadn’t missed anything and he knew he had to do something. But he didn’t know quite what. He shone the torch around in desperation. The shed was packed with stolen farm equipment, Long Bob must have been nicking stuff for years. But unless he also had a Sherman tank stashed away in here, none of it was going to help. Simon’s torchlight flared across something in the corner, half concealed beneath several fertilizer bags.

  It was the mighty Allen Scythe of Mr Hilsavise. ‘Boom Shanka,’ said Simon.

  ‘We’re supposed to be shooting Simon, not these nutters in black.’ Grey man number one let off another barrage.

  ‘I’ve mostly just shot chickens,’ said grey man number two. ‘I just shot the poacher’s dog,’ said grey man number three. Aw shame.

  Tease tease, went Simon with the Allen Scythe.

  ‘Oh my God,’ shouted Raymond. ‘Look along the dock.’

  ‘Soldiers,’ cried Professor Merlin. ‘What a lot of soldiers.’

  ‘We’ll never get past them.’

  ‘Well we must surely try. Charge!’

  The villagers with flaming torches had now reached the farm gate. But what with all the warfare and everything, Long Bob’s brigade having opened up from the farmhouse and everything, and that monster that was about to make that nun . . . and everything . . . And everything . . .

  They felt somewhat disinclined to go any further.

  ‘Come on,’ said Mr Hilsavise. ‘Charge!’

  ‘Into the jaws of death.’ Professor Merlin drew his sword and spurred his fading charger.

  The soldiers were now lined up before the SS Salamander. Two rows. Red and white. A bit like Rorke’s Drift, but without Michael Caine. They raised their rifles and the officer in charge prepared to give the ‘fire’ order.

  Raymond revved the Harley. He couldn’t think of a better way to go. ‘B.b.b . . . bad to the bone,’ he shouted, as he let out the clutch.

  ‘Charge!’ Professor Merlin charged. ‘Front rank fi—’

 
The missile whistled down, passed over the heads of the charging horsemen, over that of Raymond and close above those of the red-and-white riflemen.

  And then it struck the side of the SS Salamander. And then there was a bloody big explosion. Raymond swerved the bike to a halt. ‘Oh no,’ he said.

  The professor reined in his vanishing steed. ‘My ship.’

  Amid a lot of smoke and confusion the soldiers were climbing to their feet and picking up their weapons. ‘Fire!’ cried the officer in charge. And the soldiers raised their guns.

  And then . . .

  And then . . .

  And then, through the large and gaping hole in the ship’s side poured the Millwall supporters. Two hundred knights with home-made weapons and a bad attitude.

  And the knights beheld the soldiers.

  And the soldiers beheld the knights.

  And lo, the soldiers were all clad in red and white.

  The colours of Manchester United.

  The men of F.A.R.T. shot at the men, and woman, of B.E.A.S.T. The men, and woman, of B.E.A.S.T. shot at the men of F.A.R.T. The grey men shot at the men of F.A.R.T. and the men, and woman, of B.E.A.S.T. And when the men of F.A.R.T. and the men, and woman, of B.E.A.S.T. were not shooting at each other, they shot at the men in grey.

  It was a shame that none of them chose to shoot at Sate-Hen, because he was just about to do the unspeakable to Liza.

  ‘Get ready,’ Mr H. told the torch bearers. ‘It’s going to happen any second now.’

  And it did.

  As the horrible claws of Sate-Hen closed about Liza’s head, there came a great splintering of woodwork and a roaring of engine.

  The mighty Allen Scythe erupted from the tool shed, with Simon clinging on behind. Its great solid wheels, with the nineteen fifties’ racing-car tyres, ripped up the ground, scattering what chickens were left to be scattered and the huge hair-clipper grass-cutting attachment on the front rattled its razor-sharp teeth back and forwards. Very fast.