The Greatest Show Off Earth

by Robert Rankin

  The smoke hung captive in the great big transparent and seemingly impenetrable dome that enclosed the better part of Raymond’s allotment patch. Raymond sat upon the half a bag of solid cement, on the little concrete rectangle where, until so recently, his nice wooden hut had been. Simon sat beside him. Both were growing somewhat short of breath.

  ‘I don’t want to be an alarmist,’ said Raymond, ‘but unless help comes really soon, I think we are going to die.’

  Simon glowered into the concrete. ‘This is all your fault. I should never have come here tonight.’

  ‘My fault? I like that. I was quietly digging my hole and minding my own business until you turned up. It is you that has brought this thing upon us. I’ll bet you have fallen out with Mr Hilsavise, whom many believe to be in league with the devil.’

  ‘I have not.’ Simon dabbed at his nose, which was starting to run. ‘I don’t want to die,’ he complained. ‘I am young and handsome and I paid a fortune for these teeth.’

  ‘You and your damned teeth,’ said Raymond.

  ‘Dental hygiene is very important. You’ll be all gums by the time you’re thirty.’

  ‘I shall never see twenty-four unless I get out of here. You couldn’t see your way clear to chewing our way out I suppose.’

  Simon rose to take a dizzy swing at Raymond. ‘You schmuck,’ said he, lapsing from consciousness.

  Raymond sat and hugged at his knees. This really was all too upsetting. The evening, which had started out so well for him, had turned into the stuff of nightmare. It looked as if he was actually going to die.

  Raymond had never given death so much as a second thought. And it now occurred to him that this might have been something of an oversight on his part. Had he stored up any riches in heaven? he wondered. Would the good Lord smile favourably upon him? Had he been a ‘good’ person? He was certain he’d never really been a bad person. But was that enough? Was it for him the choirs celestial or would he be dispatched to join the screaming sinners of Siberia? If he was, he would certainly keep his eyes open for any sign of a dangling microphone.

  Raymond’s head began to spin and his thoughts began to get all jumbled about. He climbed unsteadily to his feet and stumbled about clutching at his throat and gasping for air. And then he tripped over his spade and fell flat on his face.

  And then, in that final desperate moment. He had an idea.

  The sun was almost gone behind the fine old meadow oaks now and the moon was climbing up to take its place. The birds of the allotments called good night to one another, as they swung in wary arcs around the big grey smoke-filled dome that smelled of fish. And as silence fell with darkness and the stars began to light up, there came a stirring of the earth. A mole perhaps?

  Not a foot from the edge of the big grey smoke-filled dome, a clump of soil rose up and fell aside. And the polished head of Raymond’s spade broke the surface.

  There followed then a scrabbling and a struggling, a hand, an arm, a shoulder and a head. Raymond breathed in the good fresh air and dragged himself out to safety. His body left the hole with a sound not unlike that of a cork being drawn from a bottle. The night air rushed down his tunnel and flooded into the terrible dome. Raymond didn’t waste a lot of time.

  Minutes later he and Simon lay side by side staring up at freedom’s sky. Well, Raymond was staring up at it. Simon was still out for the count.

  ‘Phew,’ said Raymond, ‘Phew indeed.’ He shook Simon roughly by the shoulder. ‘Phew eh?’

  Simon stirred fitfully. ‘Unhand me, Mr Hilsavise,’ he mumbled. ‘It’s not what you think. I hardly know your daughter.’

  ‘Scoundrel,’ said Raymond cuffing his chum.

  ‘Aaah, oow . . . oh.’ Simon came awake. ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ said he. ‘You are saved,’ Raymond told him. ‘What do you think of that?’

  Simon threw up all over the place.

  ‘Some thanks,’ said Raymond.

  And then.

  ‘Congratulations, Earthman,’ came a voice from on high. ‘You have passed the test.’

  Raymond turned his eyes once more towards the heavens and, to his horror, saw that a goodly portion of the sky was now filled by something quite unsettling. An enormous star-shaped something. It was bulbous and bloated. Tiny coloured globes twinkled about five monstrous appendages. Light pulsed from an unwholesome middle section, all flesh-flaps and chewing mouthparts. A fishy fug, that would have challenged the fortitude of a seasoned Grimsby trawlerman, cloaked the allotment air in a healthless miasma.

  Simon took the opportunity to throw up once again.

  Raymond clamped his hands over his nose and did shallow-breathing exercises.

  ‘I am Abdullah,’ declared the star-shaped something. ‘I represent The Divine Council of Cosmic Superfolk. And I am pleased to tell you that you have passed the initiative test set by his magnificence, The Sultan of Uranus.’

  ‘I’ve chucked up all down my front.’ Simon plucked at his shirt. ‘That smell. That voice. What is all this?’

  ‘Spacemen’ said Raymond through his fingers. ‘From Uranus.’

  ‘Uranus? Bugger that!’ Simon jumped to his feet with a quite impressive display of agility, considering his sorry condition, took to his heels and fled the allotments.

  Raymond watched sadly as his friend vanished away into the darkness. ‘Some thanks,’ he said, for the second time in a single evening.

  Abdullah the flying starfish waggled his monstrous appendages. ‘Nice teeth your mate,’ spake he. ‘No bottle though.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Not like you.’ The unwholesome middle section pulsed and throbbed. ‘You’re heroic.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Raymond struggled to his feet, a firm hold on his hooter.

  ‘So,’ said Abdullah, ‘as you have now passed the initiative test, you are entitled to a seat at The Grand Interplanetary Convention. It’s on Venus.’

  ‘Venus?’

  ‘Venus. So, what do you say?’

  Raymond wasn’t at all sure just what he should say. It was all so, well, so unexpected really. ‘Could I have a few minutes to think about this?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Abdullah. ‘You can’t.’

  ‘Oh. Well, then I suppose it’s yes. All right.’

  ‘Good man.’ Abdullah’s unenticing middle section bulged alarmingly and extruded an obscene-looking tentacle with a big pink suction pad on the end. This fastened itself onto the top of Raymond’s head. Certain chemicals passed from it, entered him.

  Raymond was aware of a popping in the ears and a metallic taste in his mouth. His eyes crossed, his sphincter tightened. Oblivion overtook him.

  When he awoke, it was to find that he was no longer on the allotments. And, as his head began to clear and his senses to return, that he was no longer on the planet of his birth. Perspective seemed all wrong and the colour of the sky was a muddy green. It was cold too. Raymond rubbed at his arms. Then he glanced down at his arms. And his legs. He wasn’t wearing any clothes. He was naked.

  He tried to stand, but bumped his head and sat back down. He was all sealed up again, but this time inside a hollow sphere. He had a little seat to sit on. And what was this?

  Raymond turned up a label that hung on a string about his neck. He read aloud the words that were printed upon it.

  GRAND INTERPLANETARY CONVENTION

  CHARITY AUCTION.

  LOT 23, SPECIMEN OF EARTH LIFE. MALE.

  ‘So,’ said Raymond. ‘That is the meaning of the word “schmuck”.’

  2

  Simon lay a goodly while in the long grass beneath the fine old meadow oaks that bordered the allotments. He’d witnessed the entire affair. Overheard Raymond’s conversation with Abdullah, and watched in wonder as his chum was sucked into the bowels of the flying starfish and whisked away to outer space.

  And now here he was, all on his own, wondering just what he should do next. He hadn’t really meant to run off like that. Not without first saying thanks to Raymo
nd for saving his life and everything. But he really hadn’t had any choice in the matter. Simon had read once in a medical magazine about this special chemical that you had inside your brain. And how, in times of grave personal crisis, such as the threat of physical violence, this special chemical weighed up the pros and cons and as quick as a flash decided whether you stood your ground and fought your corner, or clenched your buttocks and ran for your life. In Simon’s case the special chemical unerringly chose the latter of the two decisions.

  So, it wasn’t as if he was a coward or anything like that. Oh no. It was the special chemical. Simon felt sure that Raymond wouldn’t hold it against him once he’d returned in glory from Venus.

  ‘I hope he brings me back a present,’ said Simon to himself. ‘I wonder what they drink on Venus.’

  And wondering what they drank on Venus, made Simon remember what they drank on Earth. And how, if he just hurried, he could catch a pint or two of it at The Jolly Gardeners before closing.

  ‘Boom Shanka,’ said the lad with the teeth, rising from his grassy nest and saluting the night sky. ‘Nice one, Raymond, and hope to see you soon then.’

  And with that said, Simon made off for a quick change of shirt and the pub.

  Now in every village, as in every town, there are pubs and there are pubs. These span the saloon-bar spectrum ‘twixt the spit and sawdust and the slick and Spritzered.

  Down at the infra-red end, there are great beer-bellied blackguards, who maintain a turbulent dominion over smoke-wreathed drinking dens, where the devotees of rival sportswear cults have at one another with billiard cues, while Faith No More play on the jukebox.

  While up in the ultra violet, you have the gentile ‘we’re more a traveller’s rest than a public house really, dear’ kind of establishment. Here, short, middle-aged, well-kept ladies, with tall hair and lip-gloss, divide their time between working out at the gym and artistically arranging beer-mats. They hold court from tall bar stools, while husbands named Keith or Trevor ogle the teenage barmaids, as they constantly empty the ashtrays and worry at the tabletops with fragrant J-Cloths. A tape of ‘background music’, that the landlady brought back from her holiday in Benidorm, nags at the nerves from secret speakers.

  The Jolly Gardeners occupied a mellow middle-ground between these heady extremes. Andy the landlord served a clear pint of ample measure at an honest price, smiled upon all of his patrons and said ‘jolly good’, whenever he thought it appropriate. With little more than a voice of quiet authority, he had won the respect of his regulars. In fact, he had engendered such a spirit of camaraderie amongst them, that on the single occasion when violence actually erupted, the perpetrator was made instantly aware, by the appalled looks of those around him, that he had committed a most grievous social faux pas, and slunk from the pub, never to return.

  Under Andy’s benign rule, The Jolly Gardeners was finally starting to flourish. For the first time in its long and colourful history, it was actually running at a profit.

  The previous landlord, gone upon a midnight clear, hailed, according to local opinion, from a long line of well poisoners. And met eventually, according to local legend, with a sad accident involving cement and deep water.

  The brewery had confidence in Andy. He had their trust. He did not intend to betray it.

  Now, it must be said, however, that for all the excellence of its present management, The Jolly Gardeners, as a building, was not a thing of beauty and a joy Forever Amber.

  Oh no no no.

  To those who hold to the unfashionable conviction that some things are better than other things, and to some people capable of making the distinction, the golden age of public house design apparently died with Queen Victoria.

  Among the many books that will never see publication, there is one called Great Pubs of the Twentieth Century. This will be written by a man who has a thing about ‘mock Tudor’.

  Mock Tudor!

  It was definitely the death of Queen Victoria that did it. History proves to us that inadequate architects, when faced with an uncertain present, inevitably take refuge in a pipedream of the past. Those of the Edwardian era, employed by the breweries certainly did.

  Mock Tudor!

  The Jolly Gardeners was a mock-Tudor bar. It had been given a face-lift shortly after the First World War.

  This consisted of gutting out all the mahogany and etched-glass partition work and beaming the place around and about and up and down with tarred railway sleepers. There had even been talk of renaming the place, The Dick Turpin.

  But that was all very long ago now. And few there were still living, who could recall the pub in its previous incarnation. The regulars merely accepted it for the thing it was, a haven of good ale, good companionship, merry converse and no music whatsoever. That was quite enough really. They didn’t give a toss about the aesthetics.

  Simon was a regular at The Jolly Gardeners and he certainly didn’t give a toss about the aesthetics. He emerged from the alleyway which lead from the allotments and his house, crossed over King Neptune’s Road and approached the pub in question.

  Tarred railway sleepers, peely-painted stucco, knackered old coachlamps and a pub sign with only one hinge.

  ‘Home sweet home,’ said Simon.

  He entered through the saloon-bar door, ducked his head beneath the-beam-that-strangers-bash-their-skulls-upon and sidled up to the bar.

  Regulars, engaged in merry converse, broke off momentarily to savour Simon’s sidling. And having savoured same and found it pleasing, returned to their discourses, with words to the effect that, though his teeth were sound, his stride was shifty. And a shifty stride on one so young was not, of truth, a good thing to behold.

  Simon ceased his sidling and perched himself upon his favourite bar stool. Andy smiled at Simon and the lad smiled at the landlord in reply.

  Andy was of medium height, whatever that may be. Smart turn-out, ironed shirt, trouser creases. The head of an old Greek god atop the body of a young British businessman. A lot of unanswered questions. And a beard.

  ‘Evening, Simon,’ said Andy. ‘New hat?’

  ‘No thanks. Just a pint of the usual, please.’

  ‘Pint of the usual. Good idea.’ Andy gazed along the row of pump handles. ‘Pint of the usual, you said?’

  ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘Now, let me just clarify this. Would that be the usual you usually order when first you come in? The more-expensive-usual that you order when someone else is buying a round? Or the cheap “Death-by-Cider” usual that you have at the end of the evening, when your money’s running low?’

  ‘The usual that I usually order when first I come in.’

  ‘But you don’t usually come in this late.’

  Simon stroked his manly chin. ‘I see what you mean. Then tell you what, I think I’ll go for the more-expensive-usual that I usually order when someone else is buying a round.’

  ‘Quite sure?’ Andy arched an eyebrow.

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘That one’s off, I’m afraid,’ said Andy

  ‘Cheap “Death-by-Cider” usual then.’

  ‘That’s off also.’

  ‘What about the usual that I usually order when first I come in?’

  ‘That one’s on.’

  ‘A pint of that then please.’

  ‘Jolly good.’ Andy placed a glass beneath the spout of a nearby beer engine and drew off a fine full measure. ‘Seen Raymond tonight?’ he asked Simon.

  ‘No, not tonight.’ As Simon spoke the lie he peeped at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Just to see if his teeth were sidling. They weren’t.

  ‘Shame.’ Andy presented Simon with his pint. ‘Only a parcel arrived here this morning for him by mistake. I wondered if you’d pass it on.’

  ‘I’d be pleased to.’ Simon took out a five-pound note.

  Andy plucked it from his fingers. ‘Good man. You see my wife accepted the delivery and there were no stamps on it and she had to pay the postman.
I’ll take the cost out of this and you can get it from Raymond when you give him the parcel. Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Simon sipped at his pint. ‘I don’t usually drink this,’ he said.

  Andy returned from the cash register with a few small coins. ‘Something wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Simon, ‘everything’s just fine.’

  ‘Jolly good.’ Andy sank away beneath the counter.

  ‘Evening, Simon.’ The voice came down the bar from the lips of Dick Godolphin. ‘New hat?’

  ‘I refer you to the answer I gave a moment ago,’ said Simon, in a prime-ministerial tone.

  Andy rose again, a large parcel in his hands. He placed it on the counter next to Simon’s pint. ‘There you go,’ said he.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Simon once more.

  ‘I have often wondered,’ Andy said, ‘why is it that members of the opposition party always waste half of Prime Minister’s question time asking the PM what his appointments are for the day.’

  ‘Ah.’ Simon brought his teeth into play. ‘I have a theory about that. I reckon they think that if they keep on asking him again and again, then one day he’ll simply crack and say something like, “This morning I had meetings with Cabinet colleagues and others and at lunchtime I had a naked Filipino lass lowered onto my honourable member in a revolving split-cane basket. Oh damn, now what have I said? I resign.”’

  ‘You think that might be it?’

  ‘Definitely.’ Simon finished his pint.

  ‘Same again?’ Andy asked.

  ‘I would seem to be without funds,’ said Simon. ‘Does Raymond still have an account here?’

  ‘Certainly does. All paid up since last night. A twenty-five-pound credit line. This is the only pub hereabouts that still affords him the privilege. A privilege he has not as yet been foolish enough to abuse.’

  ‘Nor would he ever. I’ll have a pint on his account then.’

  ‘You certainly will not.’ The landlord shook his old grey beard in a professional manner. “The door to trust swings both ways you know.’