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

  ‘And that is my plan!’ screamed the evil Anti-Rex. ‘And I don’t care what you think of it.’

  I love it to death.’ Johnny Dee nodded enthusiastically. ‘It’s a real unholy stonker of a plan. With Rex and Woodchip out of the picture and the forces of darkness set loose upon the land, how can we fail? What do you think, Ed?’

  Ed pulled his fingers from his newly-refitted ears. ‘Pardon?’ said he.

  ‘And that’s my plan.’ Chico made smiles all round. I looked at Rex and Rex looked at me.

  ‘I like it,’ said I. ‘Especially the roof-top showdown. What about you, Rex?’

  ‘I like the bit where I get to go home at the end. You are sure it will all actually work?’

  ‘Trust me.’ Chico finished up his drink. ‘What could possibly go wrong?’

  ‘Well . . .’ said Rex Mundi.

  16

  65. And they were all as one and worshipped they one and the same. And worshipped they only Elvis for He is King.

  66. And Elvis said, ‘Aw shit!’

  The Suburban Book of the Dead

  Rex Mundi, Lazlo Woodbine and the two-headed offspring of a popular show-biz couple put up for the night in a room above the Tomorrowman Tavern. The barman had been most amenable, what with his new TV show coming up and everything. Laz had paid him handsomely with Chico’s magic money and he was sporting once more his new fedora.

  Rex pulled the bed covers in his direction and switched off the light.

  ‘Do you know,’ he whispered, as Harpo/Chico was sleeping. “This is the first time I’ve ever shared a bed with a two-headed baby and a twenty-fifth-century detective.’

  I pulled the covers back towards me. ‘You’ve never lived, fella. I remember one time back in ‘ninety-eight. I was on a case. I shared a sleeping bag with a male stripper from Delaware, a trained hound called Daniel and three members of the US Senate. That night cost me . . .’

  ‘Zzzzzzzzzz,’ went Rex Mundi.

  ‘My virginity,’ said I.

  His Satanic Unpleasantness the Anti-Rex, Lord of the Flies, King of the Shadow Realm, fallen angel, father of lies, Supreme Spirit of Evil and locker of Barry in a bucket, paced the floor of his top-secret room. His shoes were off and his cloven hooves showered sparks across the concrete floor. At intervals he stopped, raised clenched fists, belched brimstone and roared things such as: “This time I shall prevail!’ and ‘This time all will be mine!’ and ‘Today Earth, tomorrow the universe!’

  But for the most part he shouted, ‘How come if I’m the Devil Incarnate, I’ve spent half this book down here in this poxy little room?’

  Johnny Dee lifted the manhole cover and peered without enthusiasm into the depths beneath. ‘Down you go, then.’ He nudged Ed Kelley in the ribs.

  Ed leaned forwards and took a sniff. His ears might have been a bit wonky but his nose was working just fine.

  ‘Smells a mite niffy down there. Are you sure this is a good idea?’

  ‘Eddie, my pal. Have we not spent half the night listening to a plan of almost inconceivable fiendishness?’

  ‘Well, you have.’

  ‘And I told you all about it when his excellency had finished kicking you around.’

  ‘You did, yes.’

  ‘And, as Bill seems to have done a runner, is it not down to ourselves, as the very last of the First Hierarchy of Hell, to aid our evil master in his plan to unleash the forces of darkness upon this planet?’

  ‘It certainly is.’

  ‘Then down you go, then. I’ll keep a look out here.’

  Ed took another disdainful sniff. ‘There’s only one thing that puzzles me about all this.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘How come, if he’s the Devil Incarnate, does he spend half the book down there in that poxy little room? Aaaaaaaaaagh!’

  ‘Sorry Ed, I accidentally pushed you. Are you all right down there?’

  Other things were going bump in Presley City’s final night.

  Kevin and his revolutionaries carried out several daring raids upon government munition dumps, military vehicle compounds, hi-tech weapon factories and sweet shops.

  The barman at the Tomorrowman polished up his impersonations and looked forward to the day after tomorrow, when Rex had promised him his own show. He counted the night’s takings, swept the floor and then got really upset when he discovered that all his beer mats had been stolen.

  Laura and Jonathan engaged in certain forbidden acts of love. These included such classics as, bow-stringing, shouting at the wolf, doing the Rapids City roll, French whispering, taking tea with the parson and grooving on the inner plane. Any one of which could get you either hospitalized or excommunicated. Except for the last one, which is a track on a Robyn Hitchcock LP.

  Police Chief Sam Maggott was having a ‘rough one’. At Police Headquarters alarm bells rang in from government munition dumps, military vehicle compounds, hi-tech weapon factories and sweet shops. Sam dispatched all the men he could spare and paced the floor for several hours, the bells jangling around him. When he could stand it no longer he put out an ‘all points’ to demand progress reports. The drunken voice of Officer Cecil informed him that he and his fellows were taking the calls one at a time. And as soon as they’d finished questioning the Tomorrowman’s barman about the beer mat heist, they’d get around to the rest.

  ‘You should see his impersonation of Ray Bradbury,’ Cecil added.

  In the bucket in the cupboard Barry the Time Sprout woke suddenly to find he was in the wrong chapter. ‘And that is my plan,’ he said.

  I woke suddenly with my hand on my piece.

  Rex and Harpo/Chico were all nuzzled up in the land of nod, so I took myself over to the window to watch the sun rise over Presley City.

  Now stirs the earth before the water’s run.

  And watch our dust rise to the restoring sun.

  A new sunrise always brings out the poet in me, even here in this God-awful town. I guess that if I hadn’t taken up the trenchcoat and fedora to walk the alleyways of history as the greatest detective of them all, I might well have become a poet.

  Or an estate agent.

  Or a bank clerk.

  It’s all the same when you get right down to it. A job with a suit. Except for the poet, of course. Or the detective. Although you can wear a suit as a detective if you want to. Not that I ever wanted to. I figure that wearing a suit makes you look like an estate agent or a bank clerk. And the thing I don’t like about poets is, they never wear really decent hats. Except for John Betjeman, that is. That guy had more hats than Gary Glitter’s had come-back concerts. So I guess I had no choice in the matter really. When fate marks you down for immortality you’d just better bite the bullet and lace your boots up tight. Because only a logomachist weaves a rope of sand when the saints go marching in. If you catch my drift. And I very much hope you do.

  The sun had got his hat on, so I took time out from the deep and meaningful stuff and studied my reflection in the glass.

  ‘Laz,’ it said to me, ‘you are one handsome sucker.’ And on this we both agreed. ‘But you ain’t had a shave, changed your kecks, nor been to the bathroom since this whole fiasco began. Perhaps now might be the time.’

  And perhaps it would. Because it was now precisely twelve hours from the big bang. And counting down.

  11.59

  High upon the roof of the Butcher Building the boy Jonathan was up and about. He was up and about and shouting at all and sundry. Above him vast silver dirigibles moved in the morning sky, great black crates strung beneath them. These were being lowered to the roof-top, where Repo Men guided them on to powered sleds and steered them into the lift.

  ‘Careful, careful,’ the lad ordered. ‘This stuff is worth a fortune. Don’t knock it about.’

  High upon another roof-top, not so far distant, stood a tall dramatic-looking figure robed in black. He studied the dirigibles through a pair of those really amazing computerized binoculars that you see in movies.
The ones with infra-red night-sights, little flashing digital displays, electric zooms and whatnots. The ones that you waste your time describing to the blank-faced school-leaver behind the counter in Comet . The ones that a friend of mine who was once in the TA has been promising to get me for three years now.

  ‘Just as I suspected.’ The man in black lowered his binoculars to reveal that he was none other than the Anti-Rex himself. ‘Big black crates arriving. If I’m not very much mistaken, they would be for packing up the Presley hoard in.’

  He was very much mistaken, of course. But at least he was out of his top-secret room and getting a bit of fresh air for a change.

  High upon Old Bedwetter and barbiturates, Sam Maggott lazed back in his office chair and smiled placidly upon the bleary-eyed officer now lounging in his doorway. ‘Anything to report?’ he asked.

  Officer Cecil grinned inanely. ‘Not much, sir.’

  ‘Not much, sir. I see. And would it be impolite of me to enquire exactly where you and the other officers have been for the last eight hours?’

  ‘No sir. We have been following up leads.’

  ‘Following up leads. Jolly good. And what leads might these be?’

  ‘Well sir, we figured that the beer mats might have been stolen by some rival bar-owner. So we’ve been systematically checking out all the other bars in the city.’

  ‘I see.’ Sam popped several coloured capsules into his mouth and washed them down with another slug of red-neck’s firewater. ‘And regarding the break-ins at the government munition dumps, military vehicle compounds and hi-tech weapon factories. Any thoughts on those?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Cecil gazed about the office as if in search of inspiration. His gaze fell upon the alarm board. ‘I notice all the bells have stopped ringing,’ he said brightly.

  Sam rose shakily to his feet and pointed a fat finger at the grinning buffoon. ‘They’ve stopped ringing because I pulled the bloody wires out of the wall. You useless, no good, drunken-’

  But he never got to finish that particular line. His words were lost in the sudden explosion which took the front off Police Headquarters.

  11.29

  High upon life, I returned from the bathroom. Cleanly shaven, smelling good and feeling better than a basketeer at a codpiece competition. The room was just as I’d left it, except that it was different. Nothing major and it took me a minute or two before I could make out what it was. And what it was, was that Rex and Harpo/Chico had gone.

  ‘Fellas?’ I gave the place a twice-over. ‘Fellas?’ The bed was made and I noticed a large handwritten note lying upon the pillow. A clue? I checked it out.

  Dear Mr Woodbonn (it began)

  There has been a last-minute change of plan and your services are no longer required.

  All the very best.

  Yours sincerely,

  Harpo/Chico Nixon

  ‘What?’ said I.

  P.S. I really hate to mention this, but if you take a look around you, I think you’ll notice that you’ve blown your four-set clause.

  ‘What? What?’ said I.

  P.P.S. The magic with the beermats will be wearing off around now. I’d head for an alleyway if I were you.

  ‘What? What? What?’ said I.

  ‘Open up in there!’ It’s the voice of the barman and it’s not a happy voice. ‘Open up in there, you lousy crook, or I’ll bust the door down.’

  Not high upon anything much, Rex Mundi lifted Harpo/Chico up to the payphone across the street from the Tomorrowman Tavern. ‘That was a bit mean on Laz,’ said Rex.

  ‘The man is a complete prat.’ Chico lifted the receiver.

  ‘But he saved my life.’

  ‘People are always saving your life. I saved your life.’

  ‘But Laz and I were partners.’

  ‘Well, we’re partners now.’

  ‘Yes, but. . .’

  ‘Listen Rex, I’m sure this Woodworm is a very nice chap-’

  ‘Woodbine. The name’s Lazlo Woodbine. Some call him Laz.’

  ‘Woodbine then. Nice chap, fine. But we have a lot to do. We really don’t have time for all the trenchcoat humour, the meaningless catchphrases, the phoney reminiscences, the lame gags about the trusty Smith and Wee Wee, the-’

  ‘The working in the “first person”.’ Rex put in. ‘Got right up my nose, that. And he thought he was the hero.’

  ‘There then. So what do you say?’

  ‘The man’s a complete prat,’ said Rex Mundi.

  ‘Okay. Then put the coin in the slot, please Rex, and we’ll get on with the new plan.’

  ‘New plan? I don’t remember actually being told the old plan.’

  ‘Put the coin in, Rex.’

  Rex put the coin in. Chico spoke into the receiver.

  ‘Hello operator. Could you put me through to MTWTV? Thank you . . . MTWTV? Newsroom, please. . . Newsroom? Ah, hello. This is Chico Nixon here . . . that’s right, of Harpo/Chico fame. I’m in a spot of trouble so I can’t talk for long. I am being held captive by Simon Butcher, the society photographer. He intends to perform unspeakable medical experiments on me ... will I what? ... World exclusive with MTWTV? Yes, of course. That’s exactly what I had in mind. I’ll have to go now, I think he’s coming back. Get the cameras over here fast.’ Chico replaced the receiver.

  ‘There,’ said he. ‘That should start the ball rolling. Now if you’ll just tuck me back into your jacket, I think we should go and have some breakfast.’

  Sam Maggott’s head rose from the debris of his office. ‘We’re under attack Break out the weapons. The big ones. Cecil, fetch the assault cannon from the armoury. We’re at war here.’

  ‘Yes sir.’ Cecil dusted down his uniform and sloped off.

  ‘Attention Police Headquarters.’ Kevin’s amplified tones boomed from the public address system mounted on the roof of the recently-commandeered military vehicle. This vehicle was chock-a-block with government munitions, hi-tech weapon systems, bags of sweets and Children of the Revolution.

  ‘Now hear this,’ Kevin stuck a gobstopper into his mouth, ‘grmmm mmmph mmmph mmm.’ He spat out the gobstopper. ‘Excuse me. Release all your prisoners and come out with your hands up. Or we will destroy the building.’

  Sam crawled over to a shrapnel hole and peeped out. ‘I feel a rough one coming on,’ quoth he, digging in his pockets for further pharmaceuticals. ‘Cecil!’

  I could have lost my rudder, burnt my boats, turned turtle in a sea of heartbreak or gone down with all hands. But I didn’t. A lesser detective might have. Or possibly a merchant seaman. But not me. Sure, my partner had taken off with the two-headed bankroll. Sure, I was standing here with a hole the size of an elephant’s nose guard in my four-set clause. Sure, there was a barman with a problem trying to bust down the door. Sure! But who are we dealing with? This is Woodbine. The doyen of dicks. That trench amongst trenchcoats. That man with the wherewithal and the know how to do. Come on now.

  I took the fedora from the hat peg and perched it over my brow. Snapped my piece into my shoulder holster. Slipped into my coat and belted up. Then I took a walk past my chair, desk and watercooler and over to my office door.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said I, turning the handle. ‘And how might I help you?’ The barman burst past me like salt in the suntan lotion.

  ‘I got a cash drawer full of beer mats you lousy low-down no-good rotten-’ He paused in mid rant, took a look around and made with the befuddlement. ‘How did you do that?’ said he.

  ‘How did I do what?’ asked I.

  ‘This room, that watercooler, the desk, and that . . .’ He points a finger at my unspeakable carpet, which had escaped mention for many chapters and would continue to do so for those remaining. ‘And what have you done with my spare bed?’

  ‘Spare bed?’ I enquired, with more dignity than a bandy-legged clog dancer at a Star Trek convention. ‘I never have a bed in my office, fella. I’m not that kind of detective.’

  ‘Your office? What is all t
his? Where’s my bed?’

  I sniffed the air. Sniff, sniff, and then I said, ‘Do I detect the twang of the brewer’s craft about your laughing gear?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘You been drinking? You appear somewhat red of face and pink of eye. Perhaps you’ve got the DTs.’

  ‘I. . . er . . .’

  ‘What was it you were saying? Spare beds in my office and beer mats in your cash drawer? I’d ease up on the hard stuff if I were you. Or take a little water with it.’

  ‘No I ... I mean . . . how did you do that? How . . . er . . .’

  ‘Sure like to chew the fat with you, fella, but I got a busy day on. Call back tomorrow, eh?’ I steered the boggled barman right out through the door that bears my name etched into its glass and slam it shut upon him.

  ‘Pull one over on Woodbine. Some chance.’ I took myself to my desk. Parked my butt upon my chair. Pulled the bottle of Old Bedwetter from my drawer. Uncorked it, took a king-sized slug and stared up at my ceiling fan.

  ‘How the bloody Hell did I do that?’ I asked it.

  ‘You didn’t, chief,’ said a small green voice coming from my top pocket. ‘I did.’

  11.15

  Jonathan was hard at work. The top-floor studio of the Butcher Building was now crowded with electronic apparatus. Banks of TV monitors, mixing desks and technical wizardry of a high order. The lad tinkered happily with a multi-pronged screwdriver that couldn’t possibly work in real life. He called to Laura, who was lolling in the kind of leather teddy, which I for one, would dearly like to see in real life. ‘Open the case over there, would you?’