The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse

  They wandered back to Bill Winkie’s office, assuring each other, as if assurance were required, that they were ‘bestest friends’.

  Jack threw up in the bathroom. Eddie strung himself up on the Venetian blind. Jack collapsed onto the floor.

  The night passed without further incident.

  In the morning the big smiley sun arose above the roofscape of Toy City and beamed down its blessings upon each and all without due favour or prejudice.

  The soundly snoring detectives awoke, Jack nursing a hangover to stagger the senses of the Gods and Eddie as fresh as the proverbial daisy that was never actually mentioned in a proverb.

  ‘Feeling rough?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘As rough as,’ said Jack.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Eddie.

  ‘Perfect?’ said Jack.

  ‘Bill Winkie was always hungovered,’ said Eddie. ‘That anti-hangover lotion never worked too well.’

  ‘What?’ said Jack. ‘But you …’

  ‘And I had to top you up with a hypodermic full of happy juice. But all that is behind us. You keep the hangover, Jack. It will help you to function as a proper private eye. We’re professionals now.’

  Jack groaned. ‘Breakfast?’ he suggested. ‘Then we find out what this Maguffin’s for.’ He turned the Maguffin over on his palm. Considering the lightness of its shade, it was quite dark in colour. ‘Right?’

  ‘Wrong,’ said Eddie. ‘We review the situation. That is what we do. Try to gain a detached overview.’

  ‘Right.’ Jack rubbed at his throbbing forehead and returned the Maguffin to his trenchcoat pocket. ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘Impress me.’

  Eddie climbed onto the wreckage of Bill Winkie’s desk. ‘Now,’ said he, ‘my train of thought runs in this direction. I—’ But Eddie’s train of thought was suddenly derailed by the sounds of frantic knocking at the office door.

  Jack looked at Eddie.

  And Eddie looked at Jack.

  ‘Expecting a visitor?’ Jack whispered.

  Eddie shook his head. ‘It might be a client,’ he whispered back to Jack.

  Jack made a doubtful face.

  ‘Well, it might.’

  ‘Go and answer it, then.’

  Eddie made a face more doubtful than Jack’s. ‘Perhaps you should go,’ he suggested.

  ‘Did Bill leave a spare gun around anywhere?’

  Eddie shook his head once more.

  Jack took up a broken-off desk leg, brandished it in a truncheon-like fashion and cautiously approached the office door. ‘Who is it?’ he called.

  ‘Toy City Express,’ a voice called back.

  Jack glanced towards Eddie. ‘I think it’s another train,’ said he.

  ‘Toy City Express Deliveries,’ said Eddie. ‘It’s Randolph the delivery boy; put down the desk leg and open the door, Jack.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Jack put down the desk leg and opened the door.

  A golly in a dapper red uniform, with matching cap worn in the ever-popular peak-to-the-rear manner, grinned up at Jack. ‘Yo Popper,’ said he.

  ‘Yo Popper?’ said Jack.

  ‘Yo, popper humbug,’ said the delivery boy. ‘Tootin’ here a seam-rippin’ hot pack for my bear Eddie, you wise?’

  ‘What?’ said Jack.

  ‘Don’t jazz me up meat-brother. Head me to the bear.’

  ‘What?’ said Jack once more.

  ‘The popular patois of the Golly ghetto,’ said Eddie, poking his head out from between Jack’s knees. ‘It’s a delivery for me. Hey Randolph, how’s it hanging?’

  ‘Like a python wid de mumps. Yo, popper Eddie boy. Here’s de pack, ink my page and it’s all done yours.’

  The golly passed a clipboard with a dangling pen on a string to Eddie. Eddie placed the clipboard on the floor, took the pen between both paws and signed his name. He returned the clipboard to the golly and availed himself of the package.

  ‘Give Randolph a tip,’ said Eddie to Jack.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Jack. ‘Always take care when dealing with farmers, Randolph.’

  ‘I meant money,’ said Eddie.

  ‘Fair enough. Never spend more than you earn.’

  ‘I meant give him some money. Tip him with money.’

  ‘I know exactly what you meant. But I don’t have any money, and anyway, it’s your package.’

  ‘Sorry, Randolph,’ said Eddie. ‘We’re both broke at present. I’ll buy you a beer in Tinto’s some time.’

  Randolph replied with phrases of popular Golly ghetto patois, which, although their specific meaning was lost upon Jack, their general gist was not. Jack closed the door upon Randolph.

  ‘So what have you got?’ Jack asked Eddie.

  The package was a large envelope. Eddie passed it up to Jack. ‘You open it,’ he said. ‘Envelopes are tricky when you don’t have opposable thumbs.’

  Jack took the envelope, opened it and emptied out its contents. ‘Tickets,’ he said. ‘Two tickets to a TV show.’

  ‘Wibbly,’ said Eddie. ‘Good old Wibbly.’

  ‘But Wibbly is … well … you know.’

  ‘I know,’ said Eddie. ‘But when we were at his place, I asked him for a couple of favours. To use his contacts and get us these tickets. He obviously came through for us before he was, well, you know.’

  ‘Why do we want tickets for a TV show?’

  ‘It’s not just any old TV show. It’s Miss Muffett’s TV show. The Tuffet. It’s a talk show. Little Tommy Tucker is making a guest appearance on it today.’

  ‘And this is relevant to the case?’

  ‘Is there anything else there, or just the tickets?’

  ‘There’s a letter,’ said Jack.

  ‘Then read it.’

  Jack read it. ‘Dear Eddie,’ he read, ‘here are the tickets you wanted. I had to call in a lot of favours to get them, so you owe me big time. Regarding the advance money paid out to Bill that you asked me to check on, I called in a few favours there too, for which you also owe me big time. The money came, as you suspected, from a joint trust fund held by the prominent PPPs.’

  ‘Preadolescent Poetic Personalities, before you ask,’ said Eddie.

  ‘I wasn’t going to ask; might I continue?’

  ‘Please do.’

  Jack continued. ‘It seems that Little Tommy Tucker drew out the cash and seeing as the guy is a recluse, then you’re probably right in thinking that the only chance you’ll have to question him about it is if you can corner him at the TV studios. I wish you luck. I’m having this sent to you via Toy City Express because I think I’m being followed. See you when I see you. And don’t forget that when you do that, you owe me big time. Your friend, Wibbly.’

  ‘Good old Wibbly,’ said Eddie. ‘A friend indeed.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Jack. ‘Well, I suppose that explains the tickets.’

  ‘Ever been to a TV show before, Jack?’

  ‘No,’ said Jack. ‘What about you?’

  ‘No,’ said Eddie. ‘So I’m really excited. How about you?’

  ‘It’s no big deal.’ Jack shrugged in a nonchalant fashion. ‘I’m not particularly bothered.’

  ‘You liar,’ said Eddie. ‘You are too.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Jack. ‘I am. I’m really excited.’

  Happily, the studios of Toy City TV were not too far distant from Bill Winkie’s office. A pleasant saunter, or stroll. A pleasant saunter, or stroll, does tend to work up an appetite though, or in the case of Jack and Eddie, even more of an appetite. And this particular saunter, or stroll, took two famished detectives past several breakfasting places, all of which breathed tempting breakfast smells at them.

  Jack gave his pulsating forehead further rubbings.

  ‘I’m really hungry now,’ he said.

  ‘Me too,’ said Eddie. ‘But the show’s being recorded at ten o’clock. So even if we had the cash, we still wouldn’t have time for the breakfast.’

  ‘Perhaps there’ll be food laid on at the stud
ios.’

  ‘Bound to be,’ said Eddie. ‘And fizzy wine too, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Let’s walk faster then.’

  ‘I’m walking as fast as I can.’

  ‘Do you want me to give you a carry?’

  ‘In broad daylight? I may be hungry, but I still have my dignity.’

  The two pressed on past further breakfasting places and finally reached the Toy City TV studios – or, at least, the queue.

  ‘What’s all this?’ asked Jack, viewing the long line of chattering toys.

  ‘It’s the queue for the show,’ said Eddie. ‘What did you think it was?’

  ‘I can’t be having with queues,’ said Jack. ‘I don’t like queues at all.’

  ‘They don’t bother me,’ said Eddie. ‘Waiting around is second nature to teddies.’

  ‘Well I’m not having it; let’s push to the front.’

  ‘Lead on, big boy.’

  Jack led on. He and Eddie reached the front of the queue. The front of the queue was at the front door of the studios. Jack looked up at the studios’ front parts.

  The studios’ front parts were impressive. They fairly soared. Rising pilasters of frosted rainbow glass swept upwards to support glittering multi-mirrored arches. Within these, intricately tiled mosaics, of every colour and hue, arranged in elaborate geometric patterns, glimmered in the morning sunlight. The overall effect was of a jewelled palace or fantastic temple.

  It was a real mind-boggler.

  ‘Amazing,’ said Jack.

  ‘Ghastly,’ said Eddie.

  ‘Shall we go inside?’

  ‘You have the tickets and the status; push right in.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Jack, and made to push right in, but his passage was barred by several large and burly fellows, sporting dark suits, mirrored sunglasses and little earpiece jobbies with mouth mic attachments.

  ‘And where do you think you’re going?’ one of them asked.

  ‘I’m Bill Winkie, Private Eye,’ said Jack, flashing his tickets. ‘Here on a case; stand aside if you will.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said the burly fellow. ‘This is a secure area; you will have to be frisked.’

  ‘Outrageous,’ said Jack.

  ‘Please yourself,’ said the burly fellow. ‘Goodbye then and leave me with your tickets, I can always sell them on.’

  ‘Frisk away then, if you must,’ said Jack. ‘But no funny business around my trouser regions.’

  The big burly fellow commenced with the frisking of Jack. He did a very thorough job of frisking – far too thorough, in Jack’s opinion. Especially about the trouser regions. He turned all of Jack’s pockets inside out, then finally said, ‘All right. Go through.’

  Jack went through.

  The burly fellow frisked Eddie too.

  Then Eddie followed Jack.

  Once within the studio lobby area, Jack began frantically patting at himself.

  ‘What are you up too?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘The Maguffin,’ said Jack. ‘Where’s the Maguffin?’

  Eddie produced the Maguffin. ‘I have it here,’ he said.

  ‘But how?’

  ‘I thought it might arouse suspicion, so I lifted it from your pocket.’

  ‘But once again, how?’

  ‘It’s a knack. Here, stick it back in your pocket.’

  Jack took the Maguffin from Eddie’s paws. ‘But he frisked you too,’ said Jack. ‘Where did you hide it?’

  ‘You really don’t want to know.’

  ‘No,’ said Jack, pocketing the Maguffin. ‘I don’t think I do.’

  The studio’s lobby was a swank affair. Its walls and ceiling and floor were all patterned with colourful mosaics. Jack wondered at the craftsmanship, and wondered what it all must have cost. It must have cost plenty, was his conclusion.

  The colourful walls were further coloured by numerous painted portraits. Jack rightly assumed these to be of prominent Toy City TV personalities. He perused them with interest. Many were of impossibly glamorous dollies with preposterously inflated bosoms and very big hair.

  So big, in fact, as to be veritable jungles.

  The faces which peeped forth amidst all this big hair had the looks about them of jungle clearings, which kept the encroaching follicular foliage at bay only through the medium of extreme cosmetic cultivation. As studies in the overuse of make-up, these were nonpareil.

  Jack found the faces fascinating. These were idealised images of supposed feminine beauty. Features were exaggerated, increased or diminished; the eyes and mouths were much too large, the noses all far too small.

  But for the dolly portraits, no other toys were pictured. All the rest were of Jack’s race: men.

  These either struck noble poses or grinned winningly, according to the public image they wished to project.

  Eddie looked up at Jack, then further up at the portraits, then once more at Jack. ‘Your thoughts?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘Probably much the same as yours,’ said Jack. ‘And would I be right in assuming that there are no teddy stars on Toy City TV?’

  ‘No,’ said the bear. ‘Just men and dollies. And look at those dollies, Jack. Disgusting.’

  ‘Disgusting?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Well, you don’t think that those are their real bosoms, do you?’ Eddie beckoned Jack and Jack leaned down to Eddie.

  ‘Fake,’ Eddie whispered into Jack’s ear. ‘They’re made of rubber.’

  Jack straightened up and shook his head. He had no comment to make.

  ‘So,’ said Jack. ‘What do we do now? Do you want me to bluff and bluster my way into Little Tommy Tucker’s dressing room, so you can have a few words with him?’

  ‘Let’s do it after the show.’

  ‘Why after? Why not before?’

  ‘I was thinking that perhaps he might not be too keen to speak to us. It might even be necessary for you to rough him up a bit.’

  ‘What?’ said Jack.

  ‘We need information,’ said Eddie. ‘Any information. So we might have to, you know, lean on him a little. And things might get ugly and he might call for his security men and we might get thrown out of the building. And then we’d not get to see the show.’

  ‘Makes perfect sense,’ said Jack. ‘Let’s push into the studio and get a seat at the front.’ Jack’s stomach rumbled. ‘What about some food?’ he asked.

  ‘Exert a little self-control,’ said Eddie. ‘We’re professionals, aren’t we?’

  ‘We certainly are.’

  It is a fact well known to those who know it well, and indeed to anyone else who has ever been dumb enough to apply for tickets to a TV show, that the interior of TV studios, the very interior, the sanctum sanctorum, the heart of hearts, the belly of the beast, the studio proper, is a real disappointment, when you’ve finished queuing up and finally get to see it.

  It’s rubbish.

  The audience seating is rubbish. It’s Spartan, it’s uncomfortable, it’s crummy. The stage set is rubbish. It’s cardboard and plywood and not well painted at all. And there’re wires everywhere. And there are cameras that get in your way so you can’t see properly. And there are rude crew persons who behave like pigs and herd you in and bully you about and who won’t let you get up during the show, even if you desperately need the toilet. And it always smells rough in there too, as if some orgy or other has just been going on – which tends to make the disappointment you feel even worse, because you know you must have just missed it.

  And the other thing is that the show is never the way you see it on TV. The show always goes wrong and there has to be take after take after take. And although for the audience this does have a certain novelty value to begin with, by the tenth retake the novelty has well and truly worn off.

  There is nothing glamorous about TV studios. Absolutely nothing glamorous at all. They’re rubbish. They are. Rubbish.

  ‘Isn’t this brilliant?’ said Eddie.

  ‘Certainly is,’ said Jack.

  As th
ey were the first into the studio, they were ‘escorted’ to the very front seats by one of the ‘crew’.

  A crew pig in fact. All bendy rubber and portly and scowling, he had the word CREW painted in large letters across his belly. He huffed and puffed in a bad-tempered manner and jostled Jack and Eddie along.

  ‘Sit there,’ he ordered.

  Jack and Eddie hastened to oblige. The seating was toy-sized and Jack found his knees once again up around his shoulders. But he didn’t care. He was loving it all.

  Jack sniffed the air. ‘You can even smell the glamour,’ he said.

  ‘I can definitely smell something,’ said Eddie.

  More rude crew pigs were now herding the rest of the audience in.

  Jack looked all around and about. Overhead hung many stage lights. To the rear of each was attached a sort of half-bicycle affair: the rear half, with pedals, chain wheel and seat. And upon each seat sat a clockwork cyclist, whose job it was to pedal away like fury to power up the light and move it this way and that when required so to.

  The instructions for the requiring so to do were issued from a booth set directly above the stage: the controller’s box. The controller already sat in his seat of control. Evidently purpose-built for this role, he was undoubtedly the most remarkable toy Jack had so far seen. He was big and broad and constructed from bendy rubber. His wide, flat face had six separate mouths set into a horizontal row. From his ample torso sprouted six separate arms, each hand of which held a megaphone. As Jack looked on in awe, the controller bawled separate instructions through four different megaphones. Clockwork cyclists to the right and left and the above of Jack pedalled furiously away and swung their lights here and there at the controller’s directing.

  The lights swept over the low stage beneath the controller’s box.

  The stage set resembled a woodland arbour, painted plywood trees, a blue sky daubed to the rear, with the words Tuff it on the Tuffet painted upon it in large and glittering golden letters. The floor of the stage was carpeted with fake grass, on which stood a number of stools fashioned to resemble tuffets and arranged in a semi-circle. To the right of the stage was a small clockwork orchestra.

  ‘I’m really enjoying this,’ said Jack, ‘and it hasn’t even started yet.’