The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse

‘Well, I don’t have any parents,’ said Garth. ‘I was hewn by the toymaker. And well hewn too.’

  ‘He certainly is,’ said Chardonnay. ‘Hewn like a rolling pin. The toymaker stuffed me.’

  ‘I’m finishing where he left off,’ said Garth.

  ‘Well,’ said Miss Muffett, ‘it would appear that you two have the perfect relationship.’

  ‘We do,’ the pair agreed.

  ‘But,’ said Miss Muffett, ‘things are not always as they appear and after the commercial break that is coming right up, I’ll be introducing several other guests: a clockwork fireman who claims that for the last three years he has been having a gay relationship with Garth, and two dollies who have borne his children. And if that isn’t enough, we’ll be bringing on a straw dog who insists that Chardonnay is, as he puts it, his bitch. We’ll be back in a moment right after this.’ Miss Muffett smiled and the controller shouted ‘cut’, through one of his megaphones.

  Chardonnay turned upon Garth and began to set about him something wicked. Garth responded by butting her fiercely in the head.

  Rude crew pigs trotted forward and hustled Chardonnay and Garth from the stage.

  Miss Muffett arose from her Tuffet. She straightened down parts of her frock that really didn’t need straightening down and approached Jack and Eddie upon her preposterous heels.

  ‘You two,’ she said, when she had approached sufficiently. ‘You two have chatted throughout my first quarter. Are you both mad or just plain stupid?’

  Jack gawped at Miss Muffett. ‘We’re …’ he managed to say.

  ‘Yes, you gormster, what?’

  ‘We’re really enjoying the show,’ said Jack.

  ‘But you feel the need to talk all through it?’

  ‘Very sorry,’ said Jack.

  ‘Just shut it,’ said Miss Muffett. ‘Shut your stupid ignorant mouths. I’m a star. A big star. A famous star. You, you’re nothing. Do you understand? Less than nothing. Nobodies. Nonsuches. Nonentities. You just do what you’re told to. Laugh in the right places. Applaud in the right places. Then get out. Get out and go back to your meaningless little lives. Do you hear what I’m saying?’

  ‘All too loudly,’ said Jack.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We hear you, yes.’

  ‘Then shut up.’ Miss Muffett’s wonderfully wowser blue eyes glared pointy daggers at Jack.

  ‘Very sorry,’ said Jack once more. ‘We’ll be quiet. We were over-excited. That’s all.’

  ‘Yes, well, see that you do. Stupid trash.’ Miss Muffett turned upon her pointy heels and stalked back to the stage.

  Jack looked at Eddie.

  And Eddie looked at Jack.

  ‘What a most unwowserly woman,’ said Jack.

  Eddie said nothing at all.

  Then.

  ‘Three, two, one,’ bawled the controller, variously.

  The clockwork orchestra struck up once again.

  And part two of the show was on the go.

  Chardonnay and Garth were back on stage, but this time each was restrained within straitjackets. Various dubious-looking types, a rusty clockwork fireman, a manky straw dog and some barely dressed dollies were hustled into the spotlight to tell their tales of drunkenness and debauchery, point accusing fingers and paws. They soon took to striking one another.

  At length these too were hustled away, leaving Miss Muffett alone.

  ‘Trash,’ whispered Jack. ‘It’s all trash.’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ husked Missy, ‘dollies and gollies, clockworkers, woodeners, and all otherwises, it is now my very great pleasure to introduce you to a very dear friend of mine: a star amongst stars, making one of his rare live appearances right here on my little show. I am honoured to welcome the supper singer himself, your own, your very own, Little Tommy Tucker.’

  And the clockwork orchestra struck up once again, again.

  The controller did further bawlings for applause and for complicated lighting-work, but his bawlings were swallowed up by the orchestra’s stirring rendition of the Little Tommy Tucker theme and the audience’s obvious adulation.

  The applause was such as to have Eddie’s growler vibrating.

  ‘Grrrrrrrrr,’ went Eddie. ‘Pardon me.’

  And then He walked out onto the stage.

  He had the look of one who had partaken of the pleasures of the flesh in a manner that lacked for moderation or temperance. He had really partaken of them.

  He was indeed Toy City’s most perfectly wasted man.

  Jack ducked this way and that as clockwork cameramen once more got in his way, but when he finally spied Little Tommy, Jack felt cause to whistle.

  ‘No one can be that thin,’ Jack said to Eddie.

  But Little Tommy could.

  There was very little of Little Tommy. He had the big face of the famous, but the little body was oh-so-little that it was a cause of pain to gaze upon. It was next to nothing. It was a wisp. A wistful whisper.

  A willowy wistful whisper.

  What little there was of it was encased in a truly spiffing triple-breasted blue silk Oh Boy! suit of the high fashion persuasion. He wore dapper little hyper-exclusive foolish-boy-skin shoes upon his dinky little feet. A nattily knotted pink velvet tie was threaded beneath the high collars of a pale lemon satin shirt. He had the remains of some very big hair piled high upon his head. A studio tan coloured his gauntly-featured face. His eyes were of the palest blue; his lips of the lushest red.

  ‘Hi there,’ crooned little Tommy, raising skeletal hands.

  The audience cheered and those amongst them possessed of hands clapped these wildly together.

  ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’ Little Tommy beamed all around and about. He exchanged air kisses with Little Miss Muffett and bowed several times to the audience. He stepped up to a microphone before the clockwork orchestra. ‘I’d like to sing a song that I know will be very lucky for me,’ he said into it. ‘Another chart topper.’

  Further wild applause issued from the audience.

  ‘Is he really that good?’ Jack shouted into Eddie’s ear.

  ‘No, he’s rubbish, and there’s no need to shout. We bears are greatly admired for our aural capacities.’

  ‘Urgh,’ went Jack.

  Eddie rolled his button eyes. ‘Aural,’ he said. ‘Oh, never mind.’

  ‘This song,’ continued Little Tommy, ‘is dedicated to a very dear friend of mine. I cannot speak his name aloud, but He knows who He is. The song is called “You’re a God to me, buddy”. It goes something like this.’ Little Tommy beamed over his slender shoulder towards the clockwork orchestra. ‘Gentlemen, please, if you will.’

  The clockwork conductor one two three’d it with his baton; the orchestra launched into the number.

  Jack’s head ducked this way and that, but the cameramen obscured his view. He could however hear the song. And as Jack listened to it, his jaw dropped low once more.

  It was …

  ‘Awful,’ whispered Jack to Eddie. ‘The song’s awful and he can’t even sing.’

  ‘It is my belief,’ Eddie whispered back, ‘that when Wheatley Porterman penned the original nursery rhyme that made Little Tommy famous, it was intended as a satire upon the poor quality of Toy City nightclub entertainers, Little Tommy in particular: that all his singing was worth was some brown bread and butter. Ironic the way things turned out, eh?’

  Jack nodded thoughtfully, curled his lip, screwed up his eyes and thrust his hands over his ears. ‘Tell me when he’s finished,’ he said to Eddie.

  Eddie did not reply to this. His paws were already over his ears.

  It did have to be said that even if Little Tommy wasn’t much of a singer, which indeed he was not, he did put his heart and indeed his very soul into his performance. Veins stood out upon his scrawny neck and upon his ample forehead. Tears sprang into his eyes. His spindly arms crooked themselves into all manner of unlikely positions; his long fingers snatched at the air as if clawing at the very ether
. Rivulets of sweat ran down his face, joining his tears to stripe his studio tan.

  The song itself was of the ballad persuasion, which, given Little Tommy’s rendition in the manner that made it all his own, had about it a quality which raised excruciation to an art form. Little Tommy trembled on his toes. At every high note, his lips quivered and his mouth became so wide that those in the upper seats who had particularly good eyesight were afforded a clear view right down his scrawny throat to see what he’d had for breakfast.

  The deafening applause that greeted the song’s conclusion was sufficient to arouse Jack and Eddie from the foetal positions they had adopted. Eddie put his paws together. ‘Bravo,’ he called.

  ‘Irony?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Eddie.

  ‘Bravo,’ called Jack, clapping too. ‘More. More.’

  ‘Let’s not overdo it.’

  ‘Quite so.’ Jack ceased his clapping.

  ‘What can I say?’ Little Miss Muffett rose from her central tuffet, clapping lightly and professionally. ‘One of the greats. If not the great. Join me up here, Little Tommy, come and sit with me please.’

  Little Tommy took another bow and joined Miss Muffett.

  ‘Thank you, Missy,’ he said, seating himself down upon the vacant tuffet next to Missy.

  Jack’s empty stomach made terrible grumbling sounds. ‘I really have had enough,’ he whispered to Eddie.

  ‘We might as well stick it out to the end,’ said the bear. ‘You never know, it might get really interesting.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Jack. ‘They’re just going to luvvy each other.’

  And that, of course, was exactly what Miss Muffett and Little Tommy were going to do: luvvy each other big time.

  ‘Little Tommy,’ husked the Missy, ‘beautiful song, beautiful lyrics, beautiful rendition.’

  ‘I just love your dress,’ crooned Little Tommy.

  ‘And you’re looking so well.’

  ‘And you so young.’

  ‘It’s wonderful to have you here.’

  ‘It’s wonderful to be here on your wonderful show.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ husked Missy. ‘But tell me, Little Tommy, I know you make very very few public appearances.’

  ‘Very few,’ Tommy agreed.

  ‘But why this?’

  ‘Well, Missy,’ said Little Tommy, crossing his spindly legs, ‘I just don’t have the time. The way I see it, it is the duty of a superstar such as myself to maintain the appropriate lifestyle: a lifestyle to which the less fortunate amongst us, your audience for instance, can only aspire to in their most exalted, and dare I say, perverted dreams.’

  ‘You might certainly dare,’ said Missy. ‘In fact you have.’

  ‘Take it to excess,’ said Little Tommy. ‘Such is expected of someone like myself. It is my duty.’

  ‘And you certainly have taken it to excess.’ Miss Muffett smiled big smiles upon Little Tommy. ‘Your squanderings and indulgences are of legend.’

  ‘Well, thank you very much.’

  ‘And you’ve just come out of detox, I understand.’

  ‘Detox, rehab, it’s a weekly thing with me. They say, “If you’ve got it, flaunt it.” I say, “If you’ve got it, use it up, wear it out, get it flushed and start again on Monday.” ’

  ‘What a thoroughly unpleasant individual,’ said Jack.

  ‘Everyone misbehaves,’ said Eddie. ‘That’s nature. Everyone gets away with as much as they can get away with. And the more they can get away with, the more they will.’

  ‘That’s a somewhat cynical view of life.’

  ‘You know that I’m telling the truth.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean that I want to admit it.’

  Eddie grinned. ‘You’re a good lad, Jack,’ said he.

  ‘But he isn’t.’

  ‘No, he’s an absolute stinker.’

  ‘Drugs?’ said Little Tommy, in an answer to a question from Miss Muffett that Jack and Eddie hadn’t heard. ‘Well, yes, all right, I must admit that I am no stranger to drugs. Not that I’m advocating them to others, don’t get me wrong, I’m not. Only for me. To me, an unhealthy cocktail of alcohol and narcotics spices things up for a bit of hot groupie action.’

  ‘There have been reports in the Toy City Press regarding the, how shall I put it, tender ages of some of your groupies.’

  ‘If they’re old enough to walk on their own,’ said Little Tommy, ‘then they’re up for it.’

  ‘What?’ went Jack.

  Miss Muffett tittered. ‘You’re a very naughty boy,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ said Little Tommy. ‘But you can’t help liking me, can you?’

  ‘I hate him,’ said Jack. ‘Hate her, hate him. I’m exhibiting no preferences, you notice.’

  ‘Very democratic,’ said Eddie.

  ‘He needs a smack,’ said Jack. ‘So does she.’

  ‘Well,’ said Little Miss Muffett, ‘it’s been an absolute pleasure to have you here on the show, Little Tommy. I think the audience would agree with me on this.’ Missy smiled towards the audience. The audience gave out with further wild applause. ‘So I think we should finish this interview on a high note. Would you honour us, Little Tommy, by giving us another of your marvellous high notes one more time?’

  ‘It would be my pleasure, Missy.’ Little Tommy threw back his head, opened his mouth as widely as widely could be and gave vent to a crackling high note of such appalling awfulness that Jack’s hands and Eddie’s paws rushed upwards once more towards their respective ears.

  It was a long high note.

  A prolonged high note.

  An elongated high note.

  And there’s no telling for how protracted a period this particular long, prolonged, elongated high note might have continued for had it not been suddenly cut short.

  The cause of its cut-shortedness was not viewed by Jack as a clockwork cameraman was once more obscuring his view. Eddie saw it clearly, though.

  Something dropped down from above.

  From above the controller’s control booth.

  From above the clockwork lighting-pedallers.

  From the very ceiling of the studio.

  Through a hole that had been drilled through this very ceiling.

  Whatever this something was, and it was very soon to be apparent exactly what this something was, it dropped through this hole and fell directly down and into Little Tommy Tucker’s open mouth and onward further still until it reached the area inside him where rested his breakfast.

  ‘Gulp!’ went Little Tommy, suddenly foreshortening his high note. ‘What was that?’

  ‘What was what?’ Miss Muffett asked.

  ‘Something.’ Little Tommy clutched at his throat and then at his diminutive stomach regions. ‘Something fell into my mouth.’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.’ Miss Muffett tittered some more.

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t like this. Oooh.’

  ‘Oooh?’ questioned Miss Muffett.

  ‘Yes, Oooh, something is going on in my guts.’

  ‘Well, upon that high note, we have to take another commercial break. But we’ll be right back after it with a love triangle which turned out to be more of a pentangle. We’ll say goodbye. Please put your hands together for my very special guest, Little Tommy, and I know that you’ll all be going out to purchase his latest hit. What was the name of that song again, Tommy?’

  ‘Oooh,’ went Tommy. ‘Aaaargh!’

  Jack looked at Eddie.

  And Eddie looked at Jack.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Jack asked. ‘I can’t see.’

  ‘Something bad,’ said Eddie. ‘Something very bad.’

  ‘Oooh!’ went Little Tommy once again. And ‘Aaaargh’ again also. He clutched at himself and leapt from his tuffet.

  And then all kinds of terrible things happened.

  20

  Little Tommy, arisen from his tuffet, was now clutching all over himself and howling in evident ang
uish.

  The audience members, under the mistaken belief that this was just part of the show – albeit a somewhat bizarre part – rocked with laughter and clapped together what hands they possessed.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Jack shouted to Eddie.

  ‘Up there,’ Eddie shouted back. ‘Above the controller’s box. Hole in the ceiling. Something dropped through it into Tommy’s mouth.’

  ‘It’s the serial killer again.’ Jack jumped to his feet. ‘Call an ambulance,’ he shouted, pushing aside a clockwork cameraman and toppling his clockwork camera.

  Little Tommy lurched about the stage. Something horrible was happening inside him. He jerked upwards as if being lifted physically from his feet and then slammed down onto the floor.

  Jack rushed to offer what assistance he could, although he knew little of first aid. Rude crew pigs came snorting down the aisles; the audience continued with its laughter and applause, although it was dawning upon its brighter members that something was altogether amiss.

  As Jack reached the now-prone supper singer, a most horrible occurrence occurred: as if by the agency of some invisible force, Little Tommy swung upright.

  He hung, suspended in the air, his tiny feet dangling twelve inches above the stage. He stared at Jack face-to-face with pleading eyes and open mouth.

  ‘We’ll get you help,’ said Jack, but he could clearly see that help would be too late. Little Tommy began to vibrate and rattle about. Great tremors ran up and down his slender body. Steam began to issue from his ears.

  ‘Oh no,’ croaked Jack, taking several sharp steps back-aways. ‘He’s going to blow. Take cover, everyone.’

  Whistling sounds came from Tommy, rising and rising in volume and pitch. Buttons popped from his triple-breasted suit, strange lumps bulged from his forehead and his shoulders began to expand. The laughter and applause in the audience died away. Horror and panic refilled the momentary void.

  As Jack fell back from the stage the horde of rude crew pigs fell upon Jack. ‘We’ll teach you some manners,’ snorted the one that Jack had recently sent packing.

  And oh so quickly, as it always does, chaos reigned supreme.

  The audience arose from their uncomfortable seats and made the traditional mad dash for the exits. The controller bawled instructions to the lighting pedallers, but the lighting pedallers were now dismounting and abseiling down ropes, eager to make their escape. Miss Muffett was being rapidly escorted from the stage by burly men in dark suits and mirrored sunglasses who all sported tiny earphones with mouth mic attachments. And as Jack vanished beneath a maelstrom of trotters, Little Tommy Tucker exploded.