Hooflandia

by Heide Goody

  “You have ten thousand copies of the Mona Lisa?” said Joan.

  “Copies? Don’t be a pleb. That’s ten thousand originals, you daft bitch.”

  “The original? The one original? You have ten thousand cop- that is, ten thousand of them?”

  “And I don’t even bloody like the painting. Every time I go down there, the damned impertinent woman is looking at me. The cellar is full.”

  “Maybe wish for an extended cellar?” suggested Rutspud.

  “For fuck’s sake!” Claymore hefted his rifle. “I’m going to put some bullets in this thing if you don’t start being useful!” Immediately, magically, there were a dozen rifle shells in his hand. “I wished for another cellar and when that was full, I wished for another. It goes down and down for… I can’t remember. It’s in triple figures. They’re all full!”

  “I see,” said Joan. “And you wouldn’t consider just getting rid of some of these riches.”

  “What? And let some nouveau riche bastard across the way come and steal them? No thank you. And Cynthia would never forgive me.”

  Joan looked around. “And is she about?”

  Claymore gave a bark of laughter except there wasn’t much laughter in it. On the balance of probability, it was just a bark really, with an added tinge of insanity. He led them slowly through the house, wading across diamond-filled rooms that resisted their progress like a vast and slightly-painful ball pool.

  In the kitchen, he waved his hand at a table laden with food.

  “Have some. Got some wagyu beef, finest sushi, black truffles, Beluga caviar, pate made from dodos’ livers and the world’s most expensive lobster.”

  “It looks lovely,” said Rutspud without taking any.

  Claymore shrugged indifferently. “I don’t think I actually like seafood,” he said, and yet tore aware a large chunk of soft lobster flesh and stuffed it in his mouth. He chewed it like he had been forced to eat his own hat.

  They approached a closed door.

  “You probably want to stand back,” said Claymore. He stood to the side of the door and knocked gingerly.

  A second later a hole the size of a football was blasted out of the door.

  “You can’t have it!” screeched Cynthia from the darkness within.

  “Nobody’s going to take it from you, you stupid cow!” Claymore shouted back at her.

  “Take what?” asked Joan.

  “I’ve got the crown jewels!” shouted Cynthia, sounding almost on the verge of tears. “All of them!”

  “Oh, that’s nice,” said Joan generously.

  “They’re mine!”

  “Okay.”

  “I look fucking beautiful!”

  “Of course you do, my stupid darling!” shouted Claymore. “You don’t need a crown to make you look beautiful.”

  There was the click of a shotgun being re-cocked and another shot which blew a second hole in the door.

  “You’re not having it!”

  “I’ve got the people here!” said Claymore. “I’m going to get them to fix things!”

  There was a sob from the darkened room.

  “I’m not happy here,” wailed Cynthia. “I don’t like it.”

  Joan, who considered these to be among some of the worst human beings she had met this side of Hell itself, was nonetheless touched by their despair.

  “You know, the angel Eltiel has unlocked the gates. You can leave if you want.”

  “We can?” said Claymore with a sudden and desperate tone of hope.

  “Really?” sobbed Cynthia.

  “Really,” said Joan. “If you come now, we will guide you back to the Celestial City.”

  Rutspud gave her a look like she had lost her marbles but Joan ignored him.

  “Come back to the Celestial City and just leave this all behind,” she said.

  “Hang on a second, sweet cheeks,” said Claymore. “Do you mean leave all this behind as in… emotionally? Or do you mean –” He gestured widely. “– leave all this behind?”

  “I don’t think we can really carry much of it,” said Joan. “But do you need to?”

  Claymore started feeding bullets into his rifle. In the darkness, there was the click of Cynthia cocking her shotgun once more.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  It was three days before the PrayPal list of sins was due to be made public and the news seemed to be full of nothing else. Clovenhoof hoped to steal some of that limelight with Hooflandia’s first wedding.

  The christenings had proved such an enormous success that he’d been performing back-to-back ceremonies and was in with a chance of setting a world record by sending fifty infants down the chute in half an hour. Adults were flocking to enjoy the same experience, so the engineers were working on a set of interchangeable chutes with varying thrill levels.

  Nerys would preside over the wedding ceremony in her familiar role of Archbishop, but Clovenhoof would be wearing a new hat for the job.

  “Time for our big entrance,” said Clovenhoof as he put on his train driver’s cap and hit the power.

  The train chugged out of the ‘Tunnel of Love’ as artfully-placed palm fronds waved aside to reveal the spectacle to the audience. Clovenhoof could see himself on the big screen and he grinned with pride. He was driving the Love Train and he looked the business. The couples behind him all waved and blew kisses as the audience roared with approval. Someone had brought an air horn, but Clovenhoof didn’t mind. His public adored him and only the sternest admonishment from Nerys, standing in what she called her ‘bossy goddess’ pose, would quieten the crowd so she could begin her performance. They had shortened the ceremony by replacing most of the words with confetti showers and ‘kiss the bride’ photo opportunities. Moments after the air horn ran out of gas, Nerys pronounced all six couples married.

  As they walked back to their suite of offices, Nerys and Clovenhoof exchanged a high five.

  “We killed it,” said Nerys. “Did you hear them when the train came out? But don’t think you can get away with upstaging me like that in the future.”

  “Upstage? Moi?”

  “You’re looking at the queen of upstaging and I’ve got something out back that will put your train to shame.”

  “Really?” he said, intrigued and was following her out when Florence walked over with two of her soldiers dragging a man between them. The man was bound and gagged.

  “Prisoner for processing, sir!” Florence shouted at Clovenhoof. “Does Hooflandia have a law against the unauthorised carrying of weapons?”

  Clovenhoof glanced at the soldiers, who were armed with a nerf gun and a Klingon bat’leth, and shrugged lightly. “What’s he got?”

  “House brick, sir,” said Florence, holding up the evidence.

  “Oh wow, check this out Nerys!” said Clovenhoof, taking the brick. “It’s one of the special commemorative bricks that I made for crowdfunding sponsors for the cathedral!”

  “Sir, it’s just a brick that’s been written on with a sharpie,” said Florence.

  “In my own fair hand,” said Clovenhoof.

  “I have been trying to tell these oafs that I am an investor,” said the man, as Florence released the gag. “Will you please tell them to let me go now?”

  Clovenhoof nodded to Florence who released his bonds.

  “I hope you’re pleased with your brick,” said Clovenhoof. “Is there something else I can do for you?”

  “I’ve come to claim my share of the privatised church,” said the man, straightening. “You must be making a fortune and it’s built using my money.”

  “But you’ve got your brick,” said Clovenhoof.

  “I gave you five hundred pounds!” said the man. “I’m owed more than a brick.”

  Clovenhoof smiled at him. “Sure. Now listen, I’m a reasonable man. Florence here will escort you out of Hooflandia with her capable army. On the way, I’d like you to select another brick from the builders’ supplies. You can choose your favourite and take it with my
compliments.” He shook the man’s hand and walked away. “A pleasure doing business with you.”

  With the man’s indignant disagreement echoing in his ears, Clovenhoof followed Nerys out to the car park directly behind the Hooflandian church. There was a new vehicle parked there, taking up five car parking spaces.

  Clovenhoof would have been hard-pressed to say for certain what it was meant to be. The chassis and body were those of a double decker bus, but the finish had some of the unmistakeable design hallmarks of Winnebago Kisskiss. The outside was entirely white, but the bumpers were covered in slightly kinky rubber spikes.

  “What is it?” he said.

  “My popemobile,” said Nerys and climbed on board.

  “Couple of problems with that,” he said, following her on.

  Nerys sat in the big cushioned driver’s seat and started the engine.

  “You’re not a pope,” Clovenhoof pointed out.

  “Pff. Ben can sort that out with his new Bible. I’d make a good pope.”

  “And isn’t a popemobile, by definition, a fairly small thing?”

  “Says who? My popemobile, my rules.”

  The interior of the popemobile was carpeted throughout in a thick shagpile carpet. There were comfy recliners, television screens and a bar. Nerys swivelled her chair around from the gigantic driver’s console.

  “What’s your opinion then?”

  “It’s vulgar and excessive. You couldn’t ignore it if you tried. It’s the absolute embodiment of you,” said Clovenhoof.

  “Why thank you,” said Nerys with a saccharine smile. “Check this out.”

  She pressed a button above her head, and something like an ice cream van chimes could be heard, loudly playing Jerusalem.

  “I’m planning a tour,” she said. “I’ve had quite a lot of requests. Twenty branches of the Women’s Institute have asked me along as a motivational speaker. Five others have informally requested that I be removed from office until I dress more appropriately.”

  Clovenhoof nodded. “Your family?”

  “At least one of them, yeah. Anyway, I thought a tour would be fun. The bar converts into a little altar for emergency communions.”

  “Sweet! You could do with a driver for the bus, so you can spend more time, you know, officiating at the bar.”

  “Tina’s doing an intensive course, so she can be my driver as well as wardrobe assistant,” said Nerys.

  “Well played Nerys. The old saying about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer is something you’d recommend then?”

  “It all becomes workable when you set clear pay-related objectives,” said Nerys. “Tina has an objective that my outfits must generate headlines on at least a weekly basis. Nobody could do a better job than someone who hates me as much as Tina does. She has some others as well to keep her from causing me actual harm, but so far it’s working well.”

  Clovenhoof nodded in admiration. As always, Nerys seemed almost as if she’d been Hell-trained from birth, but then again, he’d met her mother.

  Two demons and a saint continued towards the Celestial City, alone.

  The angels standing at the gates to the Celestial City looked sceptically at the two demons, but one look from St Joan of Arc (even a St Joan of Arc who felt she had been dragged through a hedge backwards and who had been liberally painted with high velocity lime greens and pinks) made them comply and open up.

  They variously walked and trundled over to the Heavenly Moral Records Centre. Joan hadn’t expected a hero’s welcome or a victory parade but had at least expected a delegation to meet them. Instead, they found the records centre looking exceptionally busy, and not in a good way.

  In the impossibly huge hall, entire shelves of books were being systematically emptied. Records centre employees were being corralled at a set of tables and taken off one by one by stern-faced angels. In the centre of the hall, the Archangel Gabriel and St Thomas Aquinas conferred in grim whispers with various underlings while Mother Theresa checked off items on a scroll.

  Thomas caught sight of the saint and two demons, tapped Gabriel’s arm for attention and strode over.

  “We need a word with you,” he said.

  “And hello to you too,” said Joan. “What’s going on here?”

  “We are still trying to get to the bottom of that,” said Gabriel. “But it’s not good, not good at all. And I think you two can help us with our enquiries.”

  “Us?” said Rutspud.

  “Where’s St Hubertus?” said Belphegor.

  “The former director of the Heavenly Moral Records Centre is in his office, doing what he does best.”

  Gabriel led the way downstairs into Hubertus’s hi-tech office from which an awful and almost human wailing could be heard. The sound was coming from a corner of the office where the patron saint of hunters, accountants and more besides lounged in the company of his deer.

  Hubertus sat at the cushioned end of a chaise longue with Hirsch the holy deer laid out with its head in his lap. A sticky mess of drinks bottles and shot glasses were laid across a nearby table and Hubertus swung his current glass around as he part-sung, part-sobbed his way through a sorrowful song.

  “Wie du weinst, wie du weinst, dass I wandere muss, wandere muss.”

  Joan walked over (with Thomas Aquinas following with suspicious closeness). She couldn’t tell if the deer was awake, dead drunk or sleeping. She rarely had need to assess the inebriation levels of ruminants.

  “What’s happened?” she said.

  “Friends!” declared Hubertus, seeing them for the first time, blinking through teary bloodshot eyes. “Friends! They’ve taken it from me.”

  “You did this to yourself,” said Thomas.

  “Taken it!” wailed the drunk saint. “The HMRC! My baby! They’re auditing us. Us! The official records office of official office records. Us!” He reached out to Belphegor with sticky fingers. “Belphegor! They want to pin this on us!”

  Belphegor, poker-faced, spun his chair to face Gabriel. “Perhaps you would care to explain what is happening here, Gabriel. Or what you think is happening here.”

  “Careful how you speak, demon,” said the archangel. “You came as a guest last time. You might not be treated so kindly this time.”

  “Why?” said Rutspud. “What’s happened?”

  “Discrepancies,” said St Thomas curtly. “Monstrous discrepancies.”

  “Look at this,” said Gabriel and tapped one of the screens. It did nothing. He tapped it again. “Blasted thing. It was working earlier. I’m not much of a techno-geek.” He tapped it again and then slapped it a few times. “Curse you! I’m the Archangel Gabriel and when I want things to work, they work! Don’t make me get out my horn and show you who’s boss.”

  Rutspud rolled his eyes. “The number of times I’ve heard that line,” he muttered but it seemed to do the trick. The screen sprang into life.

  “Now if we look here,” said Gabriel, pointing to the graph. “This is the current level of sin in the cosmos. Twenty-seven mega-thingies per second.”

  “Megapeccados,” slurred Hubertus.

  Joan could see it had bounced right up from the figure it had been previously. “That’s great!”

  Thomas Aquinas fixed her with a steely gaze.

  “Well, obviously not good,” she said. “That’s a lot of sinning. But it’s a normal level of sinning.”

  Thomas’s gaze did not waver.

  “I’m not saying any sinning is ‘normal,’” she continued, “but it’s a level that’s… expected. No one’s using PrayPal anymore. Souls aren’t being unjustly forgiven. Balance is restored.”

  “But it’s not,” said Gabriel. “Look! It doesn’t add up!”

  Joan approached the screen, Rutspud beside her.

  “Here’s the sin being generated…” she said.

  “Take away those bits erased by forgiveness…” said Rutspud.

  “Minus the cleansing effect of purgatory for those entitled to it…”
she added.

  Rutspud was muttering sums to himself. “And you’re left with a ton of sin unaccounted for. Approximately thirteen megapeccados per second.”

  “Exactly!” said Gabriel. “Where has it gone?”

  “Hell, one assumes,” said Rutspud and looked to Belphegor for confirmation. The great purple demon gave him a tight-lipped look and said nothing. “Or not?” ventured Rutspud.

  “But where did it go from there?” said Thomas. “The demon lord here said they couldn’t allow it to slosh about Hell, clogging things up. The sin has to go somewhere.”

  “Ah!” said Rutspud. “But that’s where Satan comes in, right? Right? All the sin goes to him.”

  “Be quiet, Rutspud,” said Belphegor.

  “But he just gathers it, doesn’t he? All the sins of the world pour into him, don’t they?”

  “Be quiet!” barked Belphegor.

  Rutspud immediately adopted the pose of a person who had clearly spoken about things he had no knowledge of and was going to shut up at once.

  “But he’s right!” said Joan. “That was what happened. Sin in Hell flew to Satan. And we’ve met him on earth and he’s not a very nice man, not really.”

  Gabriel gave her a reproachful look. “Really, Joan? That man you met, Jeremy Clovenhoof. Would you say he’s evil personified? We’ve been watching. Selling cheap funerals? Committing acts of petty fraud? Parading around on stage and pretending to be the lord of the manor? Are those the acts of evil personified?”

  “I would say they’re fairly evil,” she countered weakly.

  “When we first banished him to earth, he was evil. He was willing to commit vile abuses of power. He even founded a heavy metal band and through the power of his followers alone tried to punch a hole through creation and back to Hell. He was powerful and he was evil. But now? Be honest.”

  Joan thought honestly. “He’s more of a disgusting and grumpy old man.”

  “A man,” nodded Gabriel wisely. “Jeremy Clovenhoof has shed the sins of a thousand generations, burned them up. Sin no longer gathers round him. The only sins he generates are his own. And, yes, now he is nothing but a disgusting and contrary old man. A pathetic creature.”