Not that I’ve ever really been an ‘option’ man, don’t get me wrong. I’m more your intuition and impulse kind of guy. I don’t stand on ceremony weighing things up. I go for broke.’ It’s the only way I know.
The Caddy was hard on my heels. There was nothing for it. I jumped off the roof-top in the nick of time.
‘Time.’ Rex leaned over the keyboard of the big bad bomb. ‘How much time do we have?’
‘Forty seconds,’ Chico replied. ‘No, make that thirty-nine, no, thirty-eight, no thirt-’
‘I get the picture. Not much then.’
‘Not much.’
‘Do you think that if I pressed Elvis’s birthday in reverse, we might get our seven hours back?’
‘Do you think you’d fancy spending your last thirty seconds wearing big floppy ears and a powder puff tail?’
Rex considered Laura. ‘Well,’ said he, ‘now that you mention it. . .’
‘This is Dick Adamski reporting live from the combat zone in the lobby of the Butcher Building. I’m holed up behind the reception desk where I’m talking to a pair of beautiful twins who tell me they represent the Children of the Revolution, is that right?’
‘It certainly is, Dick.’ Sharon fluttered her eyelashes. Alison primed a stun grenade and lobbed it across the lobby.
‘Now, you know the question everyone will be wanting me to ask. Do you actually have a copy of “Pewter Suitor”?’
Kevin leaped over the reception desk and dropped down amongst them.
‘The lifts are jammed. The fire’s spreading. This place is going down. We have to split.’
‘Hold it right there,’ Dick raised his mike, ‘ladies and gentlemen, I’ve just been joined by none other than Danny De Vito . . .’
Kevin drew out a pistol and shot Dick Adamski.
‘Mojo.’ The MTWTV station head made a grave face and switched off the TV monitor. ‘They got Dick. The lousy rotten no-good sons of . . .’ His face brightened. ‘So this is your chance, Mojo. You have to go into that building and get to Elvis. What d’ya say, boy?’
‘I say, who’s in charge around here?’ Balberith tore the side off the truck and climbed aboard.
‘He is!’ Mojo, Debbie, the driver, the accountants, yes men, contract specialists and camp followers all pointed with unwavering fingers towards the man with the big cigar.
Crawford’s creature-carrying Caddy passed above me. It screamed over my ducking head. I was clinging to the parapet by my fingernails praying for my fedora not to blow away.
The car shot forwards into the night sky like a great black shiny bug and I counted up to three beneath my breath. Because, believe it, or believe it not, I knew what was coming next.
I heard the sounds of gears being grornched, stops being pulled out, engines failing and then a brief, ever so brief moment of silence.
‘Shit shit shit shit shit!’ Crawford’s voice came loud and dear and not a little tearful. The Caddy hovered a moment in the air, the way some of them do, and then took that Long Plunge to Oblivion. ( A Hugo Rune Mystery.)
I dragged my aching body back on to the roof. It took sheer granite guts, true gritty grit, nerves of steel, an iron constitution, whipcord muscles and a genuine dislike of falling sixty-six floors to my certain death. I was back on that roof before you could say ‘Woodbine triumphs again’ - Crime Fiction Monthly. I straightened my tie, cocked my hat at a rakish angle, shook a ruffle or two from my trenchcoat hem and dug from my pocket a plastic bag containing some complicated mechanical gubbins. The air-car’s vertical drive system! I’d taken the liberty of liberating it when I removed the ignition keys. Pretty smart move, huh? I mean. If I hadn’t sealed it in the plastic bag like that I might easily have got engine oil on my pocket lining. And that can be a real blighter to get out. If you can get it out, which you can’t always. Sometimes the whole pocket lining has to be replaced and that can mean your trenchcoat being off at the menders for up to a week.
But not this time. This time I’d won through. Pulled off the exciting roof-top ending. Disposed of not one, but two super-villains and come out of it all with only minor trenchcoat smutting and absolutely no interior pocket besmirchment whatsoever. Pretty damn smart, if you ask me.
I checked my watch. All this and I still had fifteen seconds left.
Fifteen seconds to locate the Presley hoard, take shelter from the Big Bang and wait for Barry. Fifteen seconds. No, make that fourteen seconds . . . no, thirteen ... oh shit...
‘Have you seen Laz, chief? I was supposed to meet him here.’
‘Barry! Do something!’
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘The bomb! The Bomb!’ Rex pointed desperately. ‘Disarm it.’
‘And get a move on,’ Chico suggested.
‘I want me mum!’ wailed Harpo.
‘What an ugly little sucker,’ Barry observed.
‘No!’ Rex waved his arms about. ‘Don’t say that. Too late . . .’
Barry the bunny looked up with a puzzled expression.
‘Nice one, Chico.’ Rex sank on to his bum and buried his face in his hands. ‘That would be our last hope gone then.’
The explosion was devastating. A mushroom cloud, all boiling flame and very bad news, rose above Presley City.
‘Cor, that was loud.’ Harpo shook his head. ‘I wonder what it was.’
‘Crawford’s air-car hitting the car park, I shouldn’t wonder.’ Chico winked. ‘Very messy. Very final.’
Rex smiled up from the floor. ‘Oh good, that’s pleased me no end. I shall spend my final few seconds gloating, if you have no objections.’
‘You might at least push a few more buttons,’ Chico suggested. ‘It’s now or never.’
‘It’s now or ever, actually,’ said Barry the bunny. ‘I programmed it in for Elvis myself. Pretty clever, we thought.’
IT’S NOW OR EVER
Rex’s fingers flew over the keyboard. But the seconds were going
3
2
1
Z
I stood on the roof-top. Tall, erect and precisely detailed. I’d played my part. Done my bit. I’d come out of it all bathed in glory. Head held high. If now was the time for me to meet my maker, so be it. I could look the big guy square in the eye and say. Mister, the name’s Woodbine, Lazlo Woodbine, but you can call me Laz.
E
Sam Maggott staggered around in the big smoking crater, which had, shortly before, been the car park of the ButcherBuilding. His face was blackened and his clothes were all in tatters. But he was otherwise unhurt. The incidental music went WAB-WAAAH.
Sam was having the mother of all rough ones. ‘Officer Cecil!’ he shouted.
R
Officer Cecil sat in the Tomorrowman Tavern. A pint at his elbow, an unconscious barman at his feet and a typewriter on his lap. He typed:
“What was otherwise a complete no-hoper, carelessly constructed, lacking in direction, run of the mill, uninspired, derivative and above all, unfunny, relying on cheap gags, gross obscenity, sexual perversion and mindless violence, was saved for me by the touching and deeply felt portrayal of Cecil. It is to be hoped that some publisher of merit will seize the opportunity and commission a writer of talent to develop this wonderfully charismatic young star . . .”
O
‘Uh uh uh uh uh uh uh,’ went Barry the bunny.
‘Yes, yes, yes!’ went Laura. ‘Give it to me, big fella. Oh yes, oh yes . . .’
0
0.1
0.2
0.3
The lad in the foetal position opened his eyes. ‘It’s stopped.
‘It’s stopped!
‘ITS STOPPED! We did it! Barry, we did it! We stopped the bomb. We stopped the bomb, Barry. Barry? Barry, you dirty little sod. Stop that at once.’
0.4
The towers of Presley City glowed with an inner light.
Within their mighty jukebox domes, huge records, the size of Wiltshire crop circles began to turn and gre
at needle-bearing arms descended upon them.
The music began to play. And Elvis said, ‘Let there be Rock ‘n’ Roll.’ And Rock ‘n’ Roll there was.
20
Hari BAH-REAH
Hari BAH-REAH
BAH-REAH BAH-REAH
Hari Hari
The surviving members of the cast were gathered in the Tomorrowman Tavern, swigging cheap champagne.
On the counter-top stood two tall temple candles burning brightly. Between these was a comfy velvet cushion. And lording it there upon sat Barry the Wonder Sprout.
Laura Lynch stood to the right of him wearing a very satisfied expression. Kevin, Jason, Reg, Alison and Sharon knelt with their heads bowed to the floor. Barry was explaining things to Rex.
‘And so you see, Elvis never wanted to get involved in any of this. He was never a fictional character, he was the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll. So when he found he’d got lumbered with appearing in a third book he had this revelation. He decided to go right back to the first chapter of Genesis and change everything. Prevent the Antichrist ever being born. And it almost worked. Trouble was, we knew Old Demdike had escaped at the end of They Came and Ate Us, so there was bound to be one Antichrist that had slipped through the net. So Elvis set out to destroy him by luring him to this time and blowing him up. You see, when Elvis and I got here and discovered Crawford stuck in his time-loop, it was the ideal set- up. The Antichrist got stuck in Crawford’s game and he couldn’t get any further. Elvis primed the bomb. I returned him to the twentieth century and he died his unnatural death. He never committed suicide. Or perhaps he did. We’ll never know for sure.
‘But it’s all finished now. Crawford is dead. The Devil is defeated. The Presley hoard is gone forever. Elvis is memory. And when you return to your own continuum we can all live happily ever after.’
‘Hmm.’ Rex scratched his head. ‘If you’ll pardon me, I don’t think all this ties up. Why exactly did the Antichrist, or Anti-Elvis, or whatever, take my form?’
‘Simple, chief. To fool me. He wanted me to get him away from here before the Big Bang. How else could he escape?’
‘He could have used the Volvo. It brought Dee and Kelley here from the future.’
‘You mean the Volvo that said, “We thank you for travelling in the cause of Ultimate Truth”?’
‘It was you. You powered the Volvo.’
‘Of course it was me, chief. Cars can’t travel through time. Who ever heard of such an absurd idea?’
‘All right then. What about the statue? If this is a separate continuum, caused by Elvis changing history, how could a statue of him, carved by Michelangelo, be buried in my back garden?’
‘Ah,’ said Barry. ‘I’m afraid Elvis and I put it there.’
‘You?’
‘Well, be fair, chief. We didn’t have a lot of choice. If we hadn’t buried the statue and I hadn’t guided Dee and Kelley to it, and you hadn’t jumped into the back of the car . . . you wouldn’t have been in the plot at all. Apart from digging a septic tank, that is.’
Rex was speechless. When he found his voice it said, ‘I’ve been had!’
‘Come off it, chief. You saved the world, well, part of it.’
‘And what about this world? What about Laura and Laz and all this lot?’
‘We go on,’ said Chico. ‘I relay these cosmic truths to the world. Fictitious or not. We build the New Tomorrow.’
‘And we go back to mum,’ said Harpo. ‘We do, don’t we Chico?’
Chico put on a worried expression. He felt quite certain that Mojo and Debbie had been blown up in the carpark. Unless, of course, they had made a very lucky escape before Crawford’s car hit the MTWTV truck.
‘Well . . .’ said Chico.
The door flew open and in flew Mojo and Debbie. ‘My baby,’ cried Debbie.
Chico glanced over to Barry. ‘Nice one,’ he said.
‘Don’t mention it, Chico. We could hardly leave you without a happy ending, could we?’
‘So, is that it?’ Rex asked.
‘Pretty much so. You want I should drop you home?’
‘Very much indeed. Might I just say goodbye to Laura first? In private?’
‘Sure thing, chief.’
Rex took Laura in his arms. ‘I suppose it’s goodbye,’ he said in a soft and romantic tone.
‘I suppose so.’ Laura wriggled free. ‘No need to get so physical.’
‘Laura, please. You meant, well, how can I say this? You meant so much to me.’
‘Did I?’ Laura straightened her hair.
‘Well, no, not really. You were great in bed, though.’
‘You weren’t.’
‘Hmm.’ Rex put on a brave face. ‘So what are you going to do now?’
Laura had a glazed expression. ‘BAH-REAH came unto me in the shape of the bunny god. He planted his sacred seed within my womb. I’m to be the mother of the New Mankind. The Bride of BAH-REAH.’
‘Ah.’ Rex felt that now was definitely the time for the off.
He rejoined Barry at the bar. ‘Right,’ said he. ‘No point in hanging about.’
‘Don’t you want to say goodbye to Laz, chief?
‘Nah,’ Rex shook his head. ‘The man’s a prat. Imagine him thinking he was the hero of this book.’
‘Yeah, chief. Imagine that.’
‘Bye lads.’ Rex called out to Harpo/Chico, who was being seriously cuddled by his (or their, it’s anyone’s guess) mum.
‘Goodbye Rex. Good luck.’
‘Goodbye all.’ Rex waved to the crowd.
Grunt grunt grunt, they went, not giving a monkey’s.
I returned from the bog. All spruced up and looking pretty chipper. Spruced and chipper. That was about the strength of it. And some strength.
‘Hey, guys’ I hailed Harpo/Chico. ‘Where’s Rex?’
‘Had to go.’ Chico called over his mum’s left shoulder.
‘He sent his regards.’ Harpo called over the right. ‘He said to tell you thanks. He’ll be forever in your debt.’
‘Well, how about that. And I thought the guy was a prat.’
I knew the kid was lying of course. Just trying to give me a happy-ever-after. But that was okay. In my line of business you don’t expect too much gratitude. You do the job because it’s there to be done. It’s a dirty game but someone has to play it. I stepped over to the bar. ‘Old Bedwetter,’ said I. ‘Make it a double and on the rocks.’
‘We’re closed.’ The barman gave me the kind of smirk you could dip a sheep in. ‘Piss off, Woodbran.’
I pulled out the trusty Smith and We’ll-meet-again and show him the end with the hole in it. ‘Bring the bottle,’ said I with more finality than a fan dancer in a fuse-box factory. ‘And barman.’
‘Yes, sir?’
“The name’s Woodbine. Lazo Woodbine. Some call me Laz.’
Rex and Barry flew through time.
‘Could I ask a small favour, Barry?’
‘Ask on, chief.’
‘Could we go back and say goodbye to Elvis?’
‘Chief, we can’t do that. He won’t know who we are. He went back to his world. We don’t exist for him. Never did. Never will.’
‘Aw, come on, Barry. You owe me this at least. What harm can it do?
‘He won’t know you, chief. It’s a bad idea. Bad.’
It was the King’s final performance. He’d run through his repertoire, given the crowd what they wanted to hear, forgotten his words and retired from the stage to thunderous applause. The fans didn’t know that it was all finished. But he did.
In the six-star changing suite Elvis raised a fat hand and dismissed the hoards of hangers-on, security men, hopeful nymphets, Memphis Mafia and good-time Charlies. He wanted to be alone.
The quilted door closed and the suite was silent. Elvis gazed at his reflection in the long make-up mirror.
His thoughts were all his own.
There came a sudden rustling behind the ten-foot rack of diamante-studded
jumpsuits. A face poked out.
‘Elvis,’ it said.
The fat man turned. ‘Who the Hell are you? How did you get past security?’
‘Elvis. It’s me, Rex. I just wanted to say . . . thanks.’
‘He don’t know you, chief.’
‘Who said that? Who else is there?’
‘It’s Barry.’
‘I don’t know no Barry. Listen buddy, if you’re a fan, then, hi, good to know you, get lost. If you’re some kind of crazy, watch out, I know karate.’
‘It’s me ... Rex.’ Rex waved foolishly. ‘And Barry, look.’ He held out the sprout.
‘Shit. A grenade. I’m reaching for the house phone, buddy.’
‘I told you, chief. He doesn’t know us, let’s get.’
‘You’d better,’ said Elvis.
‘Okay. Goodbye Elvis. And thanks again. For everything.’
‘Yeah, goodbye, chief. Good luck.’
The jumpsuits twitched. The apparition faded and was gone. Elvis was once more alone. He shook his head, wiped sweat from his ample brow and turned once more to the mirror.
A tear rose in his left eye and trickled down his bloated cheek. ‘Goodbye, green buddy,’ he said.
‘Home,’ said Rex. ‘Take me back.’
‘Back it is, chief.’ There was a crash, a bang and a wallop, and Rex was right back where he started out. In his ghastly apartment in the north-west corner of Odeon Towers. Right back at the beginning of Armageddon: The Musical.
Rex sat in his homemade armchair facing the flickering TV screen. A tiny doodad, concealed in the chair’s back, sang happy awakenings into his cerebral cortex. Rex awoke with a start. He took in his surroundings.