The Suburban Book of the Dead: Armageddon III: The Remake

  The hand, which missed the ducking Rex by inches, struck the cab, rocking it upon its wheels and leaving a fearsome five-knuckled intaglio above the driver’s door. The hand was broad, black, scaled and terribly taloned.

  Rex rolled across the sidewalk and came up with his hand inside his leather jacket. Now where was Laura’s gun? Rex patted himself frantically. Not upon his person, it so appeared.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ groaned Rex.

  Bill turned upon him. ‘Don’t recognize me yet?’

  Rex gaped at the cab driver in the soiled jumpsuit. The cab driver who now displayed a big black muscular right arm about four feet long, curtained by torn Lycra and ribbons of human flesh.

  ‘Let’s give you another clue. Tell me when you think you’re getting warm.’ Bill began to bulge in all directions. His shoulders spread to the accompaniment of sickening bone-cracking reports. His head expanded, the facial features flattening, but for the eyes which popped from their sockets. The crutch of the jumpsuit shot forwards as if under the impetus of some mighty erection. A tiger’s head sprang out from it snorting and snarling.

  Rex watched in horror as the black claw tore Bill’s left arm from its socket and flung it far up the street.

  Another huge and hideous arm sprouted from the ruined shoulder. Rex felt that now really would be the time to make a getaway.

  With a great heave the black claws ripped off Bill’s scalp, his face split from top to bottom revealing the three demonic masks of Hades rising from within. One of a bull, one of a ram and the third a beast of terrible aspect.

  ‘ Asmodeus!’ Rex did further backings away. ‘But how? You’re dead. Gone into the ether.’

  ‘When you killed me back at the Miskatonic? You expelled me from that plane. Now I exist in this one. And I’m really hungry.’

  The beast-face leered at Rex and then began to laugh. Now, it wasn’t your average giggle, snigger, snicker, titter or tee hee. Nor, it must be said, a hoot, chuckle, chortle, crow or cackle. There wasn’t even a hint of the belly wobbler or the throaty guffaw. What you had here was your one hundred per cent pure, full-scale Hell’s-a-happening, deep-down Satanic bowel loosener. And it fair put the wind up Rex Mundi. Asmodeus shook away the clinging remains of good old Bill. Gobbets of cabby flesh, splinters of fractured bone and jaded jumpsuit remnants sprayed over the sidewalk.

  ‘That’s better,’ said he, flexing his titanic shoulders and thrusting out his great barrel of a chest. ‘It was really cramped in there. I was just supposed to keep an eye on you and let you lead us to the enemy. But sod it, I’m really hungry. Those bigfoot noses don’t hit the spot.’

  ‘I could get you a takeaway.’ Rex took another step backwards and found to his unhappiness that he had backed himself neatly into a well-barred shop doorway.

  The monstrous tiger on which Asmodeus sat crept forwards, sulphurous plumes of smoke rising from its nostrils. Asmodeus dug his spurs in. ‘Gee up, Tigger,’ he cried.

  For those who missed his performance in They Came and Ate Us it must be said that this wasn’t a very nice demon at all. Heinrich Kramer, co-author of the merry Malleus Maleficarum, wrote of him thus:

  ‘Et quosdam daemones, quos Dusios Galli nuncupant, adsidue hanc immunditiam et tentare et efficere, plures talesque adscurant, ut hoc negare impudentiae uideatur.’

  And how true those words are, even today.

  ‘Sweetmeats first,’ crowed Asmodeus. ‘I want this to last.’

  He plunged at Rex, who had nowhere to run, scooped him up with a single movement and held him good and high. ‘Yum, yum, yum.’

  ‘No, wait. Let’s talk about this.’

  ‘Off with his goolies, nice and slow.’ Asmodeus prepared to make a substantial, octave-raising munch. The lad in the leather kicked, struggled and called for mercy. But it really wasn’t going to get him anywhere.

  The beast-face pursed its lips and a set of those extendible animatronic teeth, which have become de rigueur for every good monster since Alien hit the screen, snuck out, dripping slime.

  ‘Oh no. Don’t do that.’ Rex crossed his legs and thought ‘retraction’.

  The extendible teeth went ‘snap snap snap’.

  ‘Put Rex down!’

  Rex turned his terrified eyes from the impending horrors below. Laura stood before the cab. She held the intricate hand weapon in both hands. ‘Put him down.’

  Asmodeus took his teeth back. ‘What’s all this?’

  ‘Put him down or I shoot.’

  The three faces turned and glared back over the demon’s shoulders. ‘Ah yes; you. I shall have uses for you once I’ve eaten.’

  ‘Put him down. I mean it.’

  ‘She means it,’ said Rex.

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘No, she really does. You’d best put me down if you know what’s good for you.’

  Asmodeus swung his faces back to Rex. ‘What’s good for me at about this time is a nice supper off the bone. Followed by a good cigar, a bottle or two of brandy and acts of gross depravity upon the whore.’

  ‘Shoot him, Laura!’

  Laura thumbed dials on her weapon and let off three rounds into the back of the demon’s head.

  ‘Oh ouch! Oh shit! Oh Hell!’ ‘Oh bah!’ went the ram’s face. ‘Oh snort!’ went the bull’s.

  Rex found himself crashing to the ground.

  ‘That really smarts.’ Asmodeus clawed at the back of his head.

  ‘Shoot him some more.’ Rex crawled away. Laura shot him some more.

  ‘Oh bloody bleeding blimey.’

  Rex was on his feet and running. ‘Get back in the cab.’

  Asmodeus shook his head and swung his mount around. ‘Now I’m angry. Let’s kill ‘em and eat.’

  ‘Get in the cab.’ Rex thrust Laura into the back of the car and threw himself into the driver’s seat. He scrabbled at the dashboard. ‘Where are the keys?’ he asked.

  ‘I haven’t got them, Bill must of taken them.’

  ‘Aw damn!’

  Asmodeus reined his devil steed around to the front of the cab. He climbed down and smiled thricely through the windscreen. ‘You’ve upset me now,’ he growled, ‘and do you know what happens when I get upset?’

  Rex considered that it probably wasn’t anything good.

  Asmodeus took hold of the front bumper and gave the cab an almighty shake.

  ‘Rex, do something!’

  ‘What can I do? Oh no!’

  Asmodeus lifted the cab and held the front of it high above his head. ‘Say good night people.’

  ‘Good night, Rex.’

  ‘Goodbye, Laura. It’s been nice.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s been really nice, as it happens.’

  ‘Goodbye!’ screamed the three faces of Asmodeus the arch-demon. ‘But first lunch.’

  12

  32. And smoothly did they now dress. And cool were their shades. And well-heeled were they, what with the oil revenues and all.

  33. And Elvis did play ever to packed houses and many were the daughters of men who came in unto him.

  The Suburban Book of the Dead

  Your really classic science-fiction movie usually begins with the big pan across deep space. It’s a tradition or an old charter or something. The camera pans across all those stars and galaxies and lets the audience know that this is one big number. The audience, who have seen it all many times before, shift in their seats, chit chat and open bags of popcorn.

  Then the panning is done. And something swells into view. It might be a dirty great slab of stone, the Starship Enterprise, a big-game-hunting holiday craft with Predator on board, or even a free-falling sprout. On this particular occasion however, it is a nifty little flying saucer. One of those dome-topped affairs, circa 1958.

  The saucer whizzes overhead, the camera follows it and the next thing you see is its destination. Good old Planet Earth.

  The planet grows to fill the screen, the saucer glows as it passes into the atmosphere. Black becomes the blue o
f the sky. Seas and continents fall past. The saucer sweeps in lower. .Due to a now-realized continuity error, the blue sky turns to red, the sun goes down and the saucer flies on through the night.

  Ahead the lights of a great city appear on the horizon. A wondrous city, its high towers resembling the Jukeboxes of the Gods (A Lazlo Woodb….no it’s not!)

  The saucer drops between the towers, flies low over strangely deserted streets and comes suddenly to a grinding halt.

  Rex stared through the up-turned windscreen. ‘Cor,’ said he. ‘What’s that?’

  A blinding light filled the cab and a beam of raw blue energy pulsed down. Asmodeus stiffened as the beam engulfed him, let out a roar of disapproval and was promptly atomized.

  The cab crashed down on to the street and there was a bit of a hush.

  The head of Rex Mundi appeared above the dashboard of the cab. ‘Golly. Laura, are you all right?’

  Laura’s face peeped from the back. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Something.’ Rex craned his neck, but the saucer had gone. The cab’s engine burst into life. ‘I think we just had help from an unexpected quarter.’

  ‘Then let’s get out of here.’

  ‘Yes. Let’s do.’

  The Butcher Building was, as has been mentioned, constructed after the style of a sixty-six-storey jukebox. For those lovers of the nickelodeon, anxious to know exactly which model it was based upon, tough titty. I’ve only got the one book on jukeboxes and I’ve used up all the good ones. And let’s face it, as a running gag, it really wasn’t up to much. Like all that psychology nonsense. Dead pretentious.

  Bill’s cab skidded to a halt. ‘Is that it?

  Laura was fixing her hair and repairing her make-up. ‘Are you sure this is wise? Shouldn’t we go into hiding or something?’

  Rex adjusted himself in the driving mirror. ‘If I can find Elvis, then he and I can deal with this thing. We can put it right.’

  Laura laughed. ‘We get attacked by a monster, the monster gets zapped by a flying saucer and now you fancy a chat with God Almighty. Life’s never dull around you, is it?’

  Rex might have managed a smile. ‘Elvis and I can handle it.’

  ‘You talk like you’re old friends.’

  ‘We are.’ Rex got a smile on the go. ‘The very best. Come on.’

  The doorman of the Butcher Building looked suitably imposing. Rex turned a blind eye to the fact that he was obviously Officer Cecil, poorly disguised in false moustache, tailcoat and spats.

  ‘Just keep walking,’ whispered Rex, as he and Laura marched up the marble steps which led to the plaza before the great building.

  They were right at the top when doorman Cecil barred their way. ‘Watcha want?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m Rex Mundi.’ Rex explained. ‘The chap off the telly. I’ve come here to have my portrait taken by Mr Butcher. If you’ll be so kind as to tell him I’ve arrived.’

  ‘Oh. All right then.’ Doorman Cecil turned away. Laura passed Rex the gun and Rex bopped him on the head with it. Doorman Cecil made a slow and extremely unconvincing fall into unconsciousness. ‘Oh,’ he groaned from the deck. ‘I’ve been knocked out cold.’

  ‘Hmm,’ sighed Rex. ‘Let’s get this over with.’ He took Laura by the arm and guided her through the revolving doors.

  The reception area was about as broad as it was long. Which was very broad and equally long. The carpet was black. The walls were white. The pictures which adorned them were black and white. The celebrities, captured for posterity by the world’s leading photographer, all seemed singularly lacking in clothes.

  ‘He’s keen on a buff shot, this Butcher,’ Rex observed. ‘Say, Laura, isn’t that you over there?’

  ‘Well...’ Laura grew somewhat rosy about the perfect cheekbones. ‘I don’t remember him taking my picture when I was doing that.’

  ‘A small price to pay for a 600 Wurlitzer.’

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ The young woman behind the expansive chromium reception desk caught Rex’s attention. She was slim, svelte and sophisticated. Rex was no stranger to reception desk psychology.

  ‘Good evening Ms. My name is Rex Mundi. Chap off the telly. I have an informal invitation to see Mr Butcher. You won’t find it in the appointments book. Could you just ring up to old Si and let him know I’ve arrived?’

  ‘Mr Butcher’s having a session at the moment.’

  Rex shunned the obvious rejoinder. ‘If you’ll just tell him Rex is here. I’m expected.’

  ‘Well, I’ll see. But he’s very busy.’ She turned away to make the call. Rex handed Laura the gun. Laura bopped the receptionist on the head with it.

  ‘Thanks,’ Rex said. ‘Striking women always goes against the grain with me.’

  ‘That’s funny,’ Laura replied. ‘I really get off on it.’

  ‘Hmm,’ went Rex once more. ‘Which way do you think?’

  ‘Floor sixty-six. Come on, I’ll lead the way.’

  I watched the lift as it rode up the side of the building. I didn’t know who the guy riding it was, but through my police issue 200x6000 macroscopic laser-prism binoculars I could see he was the same guy who had just bopped the doorman in the head.

  I didn’t know what he was up to and I guess I didn’t care. But you can imagine my surprise when I angled said state-of-the-art bins to the street, watched the long black car as it rolled up and saw the self-same guy step out of it.

  Laz, I said to myself, Laz, something pretty weird’s going on here, and if you don’t get on to your agent and negotiate for the use of another couple of sets, you’re gonna be standing in this Goddamn alleyway for the rest of the book.

  The little light filled the number sixty-six and the little bell went ping. Rex dropped down from the ceiling.

  ‘Fast lift,’ said he.

  ‘Bum gag,’ said Laura. ‘Come on this way.’ The doors opened and she strode forth. She made off along a long marble-floored corridor. Rex walked close behind, appreciating every swish of her stockings.

  Laura sighed. ‘Walk with me, or I’ll charge for every swish.’

  ‘Quite so. Where’s the studio?’

  ‘Right here.’

  The door had one of those big printed signs which shout NO ENTRY at everybody. Rex didn’t listen to it. He said, ‘Give me the gun,’ and Laura grudgingly parted with it.

  ‘Now stand back.’ Rex took the gun in one hand, turned the handle with the other, kicked open the door and leapt dramatically into the studio.

  The scene revealed was not without its points of interest. The studio was large, low ceilinged and about as broad as it was long. It was very brightly lit. But there was no sign of any photographic equipment about. A large portion of the large room was taken up with a large number of very large men. And these held very large weapons which were all trained upon Rex and Laura.

  And beyond all these, seated behind a nice black-topped desk with chromium legs, was a diminutive, boyish figure in a smart grey business suit. He waved gaily.

  ‘Hello Rex. I’ve been waiting for you. Do throw the weapon away, you are somewhat outgunned.’

  ‘Jonathan.’ Rex tossed Laura’s pistol aside. ‘How very unpleasant to see you again.’

  The other Rex stepped over the fallen doorman. He spoke into a handset. ‘Someone has bopped the doorman on the head. Immediate assistance required.’

  ‘Jonathan, what are you doing here?’

  ‘What is all this Jonathan crap?’ Laura asked. ‘This is Simon Butcher.’

  ‘Oh great.’ Rex turned his eyes to Heaven. ‘You couldn’t have mentioned this when I took a shot at him in the alleyway.’

  ‘I didn’t see him in the alleyway. You were being the big hero with the gun, if you remember.’

  ‘Children, children.’ Jonathan put up his hands and stepped from behind his desk. ‘Let’s have no acrimony here. We’re all friends, after all.’

  ‘Still the short-arsed little git that ever you were,’ Rex commented.

  ‘
That’s quite enough of that. How’s the jukebox running, Laura?’

  ‘It’s banjoed, as it happens. Only plays Richie Valens records.’

  ‘Tell Laura I love her,’ sang Jonathan, painfully off-key.

  ‘Are you going to have me shot?’ Laura ran her fingers through her hair and raised her breasts.

  Jonathan gazed up at them. ‘No no, not you. I deplore needless waste. And I have a spiffing Regency mahogany Canterbury with fitted drawer and baluster supports, probably by Gillows. It would look very handsome in your apartment.’

  ‘Where does this leave me?’ Rex asked.

  ‘I have a little job for you.’

  ‘Oh yes? Eel-handler’s mate, is it?’

  Jonathan’s face fell. He gawped at Laura. ‘You told him about . . .’

  ‘Sorry. It just slipped out.’

  ‘Just slipped out, that’s a good’n ... ah.’ Rex suddenly sobered to the rifle butt which struck him between the shoulder blades.

  ‘I won’t be made mock of.’ Jonathan waggled his finger at the fallen hero. ‘You will speak to me politely or I will split my men here into two football teams with you as the ball. Do I make myself quite dear?’

  Rex nodded bitterly and climbed to his feet.

  ‘Good. As long as we understand each other. Now, about this little job-’

  A siren sounded and the room lights began to flash on and off. ‘Oh dear. What is it now?’ Jonathan returned to his desk and tinkered at a console. The siren ceased, the lighting stabilized and a large image sprang up on the wall behind him.

  It showed the other Rex, who was standing on the plaza before the building waving his arms about. Lots of darkly-clad figures were moving around him. They looked equally as well armed as the large lads on floor sixty-six. And there were more of them.

  ‘Well, well, well. This puts an entirely new complexion on things. I hadn’t been expecting him quite so soon. What do you think we should do about him, Rex?’

  ‘Why ask me?’

  ‘Well, he is you, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s not me, he’s . . .’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ Jonathan shook his little head. ‘He’s you, all right. You in another reality. A parallel reality. This reality. He’s the Rex you might have become. The big bad bogeyman himself. And there’s not enough room for the two of you here. One has to go. Seems like he’s made up his mind which one.’