Hooflandia

by Heide Goody

  Little Boris reached out, snatched a spear from the grip of an astonished angel and used the blunt end to smash the angel’s nose.

  Boris laughed. This time, it was much more like a real laugh and, yes, Boris’s features had found greater definition still, no longer a child’s attempts to fashion a human but, at worst, a C-grade effort from an art college student.

  “Is that all you have?” said Boris in a baritone voice that was at once mellifluous, malevolent and a shade Shakespearean. “Is that the best you can do?”

  Rutspud helped Thomas Aquinas to his feet.

  “I don’t think this will end well,” said the demon.

  “Not well at all,” agreed the saint, fearfully.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Morning dawned on Archbishop Nerys’s popemobile and the Clovenhoof-bashing of the night had definitely not blown over. It had now turned into a televisual parade of pundits and pious celebrities taking it in turns to have a go at Clovenhoof, Archbishop Nerys and the whole beautiful Hooflandian nation. Not only that but people were clearly enjoying sticking the knife in.

  “It’s disgusting!” said Clovenhoof. “Laughing at other people’s misfortunes!”

  Nerys grunted. She was in that late-drunk stage where she felt compelled to just keep on drinking because the hangover that would surely come when she stopped would be worse than death itself. Ben had curled up under one of the cushioned seats and fallen into a fretful sleep. He twitched intermittently like a dog dreaming of chasing rabbits or, more likely, like a rabbit dreaming of being chased by dogs.

  On the television, one by one, every villain and scumbag popped up to air their pointless and unfounded grievances about the church.

  A man appeared, waving a brick with Clovenhoof’s signature on it. “This is evidence that Mr Clovenhoof has entered into a formal contract with the sponsors and owes each of us a ten percent share in the Church’s profits. Twenty of us have launched a class action lawsuit against Mr Clovenhoof and his company, demanding two hundred percent of the Church’s profits to date and in perpetuity.”

  Narinda Shah, that one-time trusted tax advisor, was on the screen. “Although the HMRC does not comment on individual cases to the media, it is worth reminding all employers that they must meet their commitment to pay into their employees’ National Insurance, not to mention offering a workplace pension, paying business rates and any tax owed on company profits and capital gains.”

  “Et tu, Narinda?” said Clovenhoof bitterly, reached for a fresh bottle of Lambrini, shook eight bottles until he realised they were all empty and turned instead to an unopened bottle of that cider piss Ben enjoyed so much.

  “Pardon?” said Narinda, in response to a question off-screen. “No, I first met Mr Clovenhoof to discuss the tax settlement for his cat cremation business. That’s right. Cat.”

  The camera cut to another studio and another discussion already underway.

  “- and you don’t think Archbishop Nerys is a positive role model for women?” asked the presenter.

  “Her clothing choices are only reinforcing the sexual objectification of women,” said a freckled commentator. “Women are already the oppressed sex and these outfits she wears, which are nothing short of pornographic, are only harming the political cause of women everywhere.”

  “Wuz that bitch talking about?” slurred Nerys.

  “Don’t think she likes your go-go boots and crop top robes of office,” said Clovenhoof.

  “Do you not regard Archbishop Nerys as the very symbol of a powerful woman?” asked the presenter. “She is the head of a worldwide organisation and has the conviction to dress as she likes.”

  The commentator sneered. “She sits at the top of a patriarchal and misogynist church and dresses like some fetishist’s private fantasy. She has all the glitz of power but she wears chains of gold.”

  “Chains of gold,” murmured Nerys. “I could rock that look. Golden handcuffs. What do you reckon?”

  Clovenhoof fumbled for the remote. Maybe there was some better news on the next channel.

  “He told me he had cremated Mister Fuzzkin and gave me a tub of ashes,” said an old dear to a roving reporter. “Next week, I heard he’d sold my pussy to an unlicensed taxidermist.” She held up a stuffed animal with bulging eyes that pointed in wildly different directions. “I mean, it doesn’t even look like him anymore!”

  “Jeez,” said Clovenhoof and flicked onward.

  There was a familiar face on the next news channel.

  “That’s right,” said Detective Inspector Gough of the West Midlands Police Fraud Office. “We are investigating rumours that this ‘Jeremy Clovenhoof’ is an alias and that the head of the Hooflandia Church is, in fact, one Mr William Calhoun. We are working on the hypothesis that Mr Calhoun faked his own death some years ago, for reasons as yet unknown in order to start a number of fraudulent businesses including child-farming, cat-napping and the founding of a bogus worldwide religion. It’s basically the whole Scientology thing all over again.”

  There was a rap on the popemobile door. Clovenhoof turned off the television and threw the remote as far away as he could before stumbling to the door. It was Florence, the head of the Hooflandian army.

  “Morning, sir,” said Florence. “I’ve come to escort you inside.”

  Clovenhoof screwed his face up at the morning light and the lurid brightness of his general’s uniform.

  “It’s not time for the morning service yet, is it? I didn’t think we had the Christening Splash Fun Hour until ten.”

  “It’s not that, sir, no.”

  “Oh, good. Because I wanted to talk to Lennox about sticking some more chairs in the ‘splash zone’ and charging extra for them. Get Milo to rustle us up some breakfast if you can. Or is he still locked in the kitchen? Is that what you came to tell me?”

  “No, sir. It’s the angry mob outside our borders.”

  “Whazzat?” called Nerys.

  “We’ve got an angry mob outside,” Clovenhoof called back to her.

  “What? Another one? That’s like the second this month?”

  “I’ve drawn a graph,” mumbled Ben, waking up. “We average six a year. I don’t know how many angry mobs most people get.”

  “You know,” said Nerys, stood on one foot to put on a shoe and fell over. “I think the average person doesn’t get any angry mobs.”

  “Fuck off,” said Clovenhoof.

  “No. S’true.”

  “Anyway,” continued Florence. “Apparently, your flock are of the opinion that you’re some sort of con artist and chancer and I think you’d be safer inside the presidential home.”

  Clovenhoof sniffed loudly and blinked to clear the tiredness from his eyes.

  “No. You know what. Fuck it. Invite them in.” He stretched. “Nerys, Your Ladyshipness. Let’s go meet our public. Ben. Is that new Bible hot to trot?”

  “Just about,” said Ben, sitting up.

  “Good. Let’s show them what we’ve got.”

  The angelic attack force had almost gained the tactical upper hand against Boris but the creation of Little Boris from the beast’s severed hand added one element too many to the confusion and they were suddenly thrown into disarray. While Little Boris ran round, whacking anyone and anything with the wrong end of his confiscated spear, Big Boris extended more of his essence into forming a new hand and set about doing his assailants some serious damage.

  “We can’t kill it,” Belphegor whispered tersely to Rutspud. “No more than you can kill an idea.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  “Containment is the only option. The storage tank is ruptured but it’s just a scaled-up version of the sin detection equipment. I might be able to jury-rig one of the detectors into a sort of vacuum cleaner.”

  “You’re going to need a big bag on the end of it,” said Rutspud.

  “One problem at a time,” said Belphegor and zoomed from the room.

  The sight of Belphegor apparently fleeing w
as a momentary distraction to Boris, time enough for Joan to come in again and slice him open from groin to sternum. Boris roared. Oily black ichor-blood sprayed her from head to toe. She tumbled aside, her sword clattering to the floor. Rutspud scuttled forward to help her.

  Joan spluttered and rubbed at the mess on her face, staggering woozily for a few long moments.

  “Wuuurgh,” she declared.

  “Um. What?”

  Joan growled, her head snapping up. “Waargh!” she added, for further clarity.

  Rutspud backed away as Joan shook her fists and roared at the ceiling.

  “I will destroy! Waaah! So much terrible food! Fried breakfasts and cremated steaks!” Joan howled, her face distorted in a grimace of extreme distaste.

  “Are you all right?” Rutspud asked and wondered what made such idiotic things come out of his mouth. His body had got the message well ahead of his brain.

  “Sunday carveries! Wuuurgh! Plates piled high with stinking overboiled vegetables and the dreaded roast beef. Merde, all of it! Waargh!”

  “Okay, it’s not going well here,” said Rutspud. Joan had clearly been infected with a sin leakage and, as best as he could tell, she was set to avenge the crimes against food that she’d seen in England.

  He tried slapping her across the face to snap her out of it. The only consequence of this was the gauntleted punch to the chops he received in reply.

  “Ow!” he yelled. “Not going well at all!”

  Boris roared with laughter.

  “What hope do you stand against me? I am the evillest being in creation. I am every vile deed rolled into one. I am every toxic spill and every genocide. I am the credit crunch and Chernobyl – every dirty banker, every serial killer, every dictator, every sleazy politician. I’ll sell your crippled grandmother to the highest bidder and eat your children for supper.”

  Rutspud, who had heard boastful shrieks of false bravado from a thousand damned souls, returned his attention to the sin-infected Joan of Arc.

  But Gabriel rose to the bait. The archangel lunged at the creature, slashing at it with his flaming sword.

  “We’ve fought worse than you before!” he grimaced.

  Boris spat. “Worse? Impossible!”

  “We defeated Satan!” Gabriel retorted.

  Rutspud’s mind leapt ahead. “Ah, no. Wait. Let’s not go down that line…”

  Boris swept an angel aside, flinging it headlong into a wall. Little Boris leapt on top of it, spear ready, just in case it hadn’t yet given up the fight.

  “And where is this Satan?” demanded Boris.

  “Gabriel…” called Rutspud and tried to reach for the archangel only to find an angry French saint holding him firmly by the shoulder.

  “We cast him down!” said Gabriel. “And then we cast him out!”

  “Out?”

  Boris looked round. Little Boris was already running for the shunter controls.

  “There can only be one master of all evil,” said Boris. “Only one Prince of Darkness.”

  “Well, that’s just torn it,” said Rutspud.

  Boris turned, pulled open the door to the shunting chamber and poured his enormous frame into the pressurised tin can.

  “Stop him!” Rutspud yelled.

  “Let him run. Let him hide,” replied Gabriel.

  “He’s not hiding, you idiot!”

  With a grim fatalism, Rutspud saw it was far too late to do anything. Boris was in the shunter. The door was closing. Little Boris, symbiotic off-shoot off the sin-monster, punched control buttons and span wheels.

  “He’s going to earth!” said Rutspud.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  The angry mob were cordially invited into Hooflandia and politely directed by soldiers to the church. The angry mob didn’t really know what to do about that. Angry mobs generally expected, even wanted, to meet some sort of resistance. An angry mob being treated with generosity and assistance was as perplexed as a person trying to punch the wind. They stormed politely into the church. Some of them kicked chairs over and then righted them so they could sit while they waited. The boiling rage of a crowd who felt they had been lied to became a low simmer of muttering.

  And then Clovenhoof, Nerys and Ben took the stage and the congregation abruptly remembered what they were angry about.

  “Liars!”

  “Charlatans!”

  “Whore!”

  Nerys squinted at the crowd. “That’s bloody Okra Boddington,” she seethed. “Some people just can’t take being dumped.”

  Clovenhoof patted her arm to calm her and addressed the crowd. The cameras were on. Good. The world needed to see this and hear this.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls! Brothers, sisters and Hoofanistas! How nice to see you all here!”

  This was met with jeers, screams and several thrown objects.

  “No, that was my brick,” complained someone from the crowd.

  “Archbishop Nerys, Vice Lord Baronet Kitchen and myself want to talk to you in response to some of the accusations we’ve heard in the past few hours.”

  “You stole our church from us!”

  “You owe me money!”

  “You made us look stupid!”

  “You stuffed my pussy!”

  “You dress like a prostitute!”

  Nerys pushed in front of Clovenhoof.

  “How we dress is one of the most powerful ways that we can express who we are!” said Nerys. “And I make no apology for who I am. Why would I? I’m brilliant. What puzzles me more is that there are people out there in twenty-first century Britain who think it’s acceptable to complain about the clothes that a woman chooses to wear. Seriously, that is not cool. I will be the person that I want to be, and I support everyone else being the person they want to be as well.” Nerys lowered her voice and softly added, “Unless they want to be a cock, obviously.”

  “He’s the cock!” shouted a sharp-eared individual in the front row, pointing at Clovenhoof.

  “Why?” demanded Nerys. “What? Because he sold the world an app that promised confidential absolution from sins and then, when those sins were leaked, his church reaped the rewards of a suddenly shamefaced public?”

  The sharp-eared individual thought for a second.

  “Yes! That!”

  “Let me tell you all,” said Nerys, sweeping her bishop’s crook round to take in everyone present, “I applaud his actions! It’s time that we all took a long hard look at ourselves and spotted the rampant hypocrisy. Seriously, if you’re only prepared to commit a sin if nobody ever finds out about it, then I don’t want to know you. Either take the consequences on the chin or don’t do it in the first place.”

  The crowd considered this and Clovenhoof took the opportunity to step forward once more.

  “It’s true!” he said.

  “Yes,” nodded Nerys.

  “I am a cock!”

  “Yes,” nodded Ben emphatically.

  “I did all those things you accused me of,” he told the crowd. “I’ve done terrible and wicked things. I have made blood sausage from embalming leftovers, I formed a rock band to satisfy my overblown ego, I stole a baby for several weeks, I unleashed an elephant into a huge crowd and I spawned a hellish beast from my toenail clippings.” Clovenhoof took a big breath. “I did all those things. I confess. Publicly. To you.”

  “And you expect us to forgive you?” shouted a mocking voice.

  “Fuck no!” shouted Clovenhoof and there was laughter throughout the crowd, partly nervous, partly shocked. “I don’t want forgiveness! If I’ve done something wrong, you can’t just make it go away with words!”

  “No, you can’t!” shouted someone.

  “You can’t pay a priest to wash your soul.”

  “No, you can’t!”

  “If you do something wrong, you need to learn from it and make sure you don’t do it again!”

  “Yes!”

  “And if you don’t intend to learn from it, you need to own what
you’ve done! Live with it!”

  “Yes!”

  “And maybe I needed some help and some guidance from time to time! Hell, I didn’t even know how to look after a baby, but SCUM showed me what to do. Maybe I need friends who will accept me for the cock I am and show me how to be less of a cock!”

  “Yes!”

  “Maybe I need someone to teach me how to live!”

  “Yes!”

  “To tell me what to do!”

  “Yes!” yelled the crowd.

  “What must we do?” cried out a woman.

  Clovenhoof flung out a hand to Ben and invited him to speak. Ben clearly wasn’t expecting this and goggled in alarm.

  “Come on,” Clovenhoof urged him. “Tell them about the Dawkins Bible.”

  Ben wobbled. “I’m not ready. It’s not…”

  “This is the moment,” said Clovenhoof. “Seriously, they’re either going to rip us limb from limb or worship us as gods. And I’m not sure which way it’s going to go.”

  Nerys pulled a face. “I’m still going with limb from limb.”

  Ben came forward nervously. He had a fat cardboard box tucked under his arm.

  “Hi,” he said to the crowd, almost inaudible. Clovenhoof slapped a mic piece on his ear. “Um, Hi!” said Ben and his voice rang to the rafters.

  “What must we do?” cried out the same woman, either because she thought Ben might have forgotten the question or because she had found her one niche in life and was, as Clovenhoof had instructed, owning it.

  “Er, well,” said Ben, his voice filled with hesitation, “I was tasked with… well, my group was tasked with re-editing the holy books of… well, I suppose I suggested it because I was sorting through the rules and…”

  “What have you got for us?” someone yelled out.

  Ben swallowed hard. “I was just going to keep it as the Bible and then some people called it the Dawkins Bible and then when we were story editing we thought we were going to call it the Third Testament but really in the end…”