Tank Girl
Page 1
TANK GIRL
ARMADILLO!
AND A BUSHEL OF
OTHER STORIES
ALAN C. MARTIN
TITAN BOOKS
TANK GIRL: ARMADILLO!
AND A BUSHEL OF OTHER STORIES
ISBN 9780857689528
Published by
Titan Books
A division of
Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark St
London
SE1 0UP
Tank Girl: Armadillo! And a Bushel of Other Stories © 2008 Alan C. Martin. All rights reserved. Tank Girl and all related characters © 2008 Alan C. Martin and Jamie Hewlett.
Cover illustration by Jamie Hewlett.
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, not be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
First edition March 2008
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Also available from Titan Books:
Tank Girl (ISBN-13: 9781840234350)
Tank Girl 2 (ISBN-13: 9781840234923)
Tank Girl 3 (ISBN-13: 9781840234930)
Tank Girl: The Odyssey (ISBN-13: 9781840234947)
Tank Girl: Apocalypse (ISBN-13: 9781840237252)
Tank Girl: The Gifting (UK only) (ISBN-13: 9781845761707)
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“Unreviewable.” –
The Wednesday Morning Review
“Martin repeatedly smashes your head into a brick wall of moronic humour... Vital.” –
Skinhead Monthly
“An encyclopaedia of rubbish.” –
Recycling Today
“Cutting hedge.” –
Gardening Yesterday
“Changed my life. But then, so did Easi-Grip denture cream.” –
The San Francisco Dental Journal
“I’m sorry... what is it supposed to be again?” –
The Amnesia Almanac
“A directory of dogshit.” –
canineviews.com
Other, less favourable reviews:
“The author is a pixilated, bovine pamphleteer and should not be encouraged to expel any further cerebral excrement.”
“Same crap joke – different wrapper.”
“14 million stupid ideas squashed into a cheap matchbox.”
“Starts off stupid, turns pseudo-intellectual, and ends up all stupid again.”
“If life really is a box of chocolates, then Mr. Martin has just sat on it.”
“A compendium of cobblers.”
“I realise that mindless violence and gratuitous swearing can be used as metaphor for revealing the heartlessness of our society, but this cunt has taken it too far and I’m going to have to smash his face in.”
“A bit tricky in places.”
“Self-indulgent art-school fandango.”
“A treasury of toffee.”
“A bum-bag of bright ideas.”
“Meaningless obscenities, countless innocent deaths, no discernible plot and a complete absence of any real point. Rounded of with a shit joke... classic Tank Girl.”
“A jamboree-bag of juvenilia.”
“...a low-brow reinvention of the format...”
“An anthology of arse.”
“Where do all of these crazy ideas come from? And do they give refunds?”
“A crock of shite.”
For my best friend Lou
A girl in no need of a tank
X
“We’ve got bastards to kill and shit to blow up...”
CONTENTS
PART ONE: ARMADILLO!
A personal message from Tank Girl
Preface to the Preface to the English Edition by Alan C. Martin
Preface to the English Edition by Alan C. Martin
One. Is This the Way to Armadillo?
Two. A Keen Interest in Local Landmarks
Three. No Jacket Potato Required
Four. Chicken Shit for the Soul
Five. Barney’s Army
Six. “I am not a Fucking Charity Shop”
Seven. Booga
Eight. Columbus was a Cunt
Nine. Blastin’ My Way Thru Hell
Ten. Taking out Tony THF115C
Eleven. Tony’s Hand
Twelve. Silver Sunshine
Thirteen. Breakfast at Stiffany’s
Fourteen. Let’s Build a Tank
Fifteen. The Profound Influence of Terence Hawkins
Sixteen. Nothing Farm
Seventeen. Fountain of Love
Eighteen. The Six Mill
Nineteen. A Pocketful of M16s
Twenty. The Savage Young Booga
Twenty-one. Getting Too Stoned with One Bird
Twenty-two. Guns Guns Guns
Twenty-three. Dobson’s at the Door
Twenty-four. Get Back Inside Me
Twenty-five. The Burger People
Twenty-six. Baby Let Your Mind Roll On
Twenty-seven. The Soft Centre
Twenty-eight. Cherry Island
Twenty-nine. Booga’s Masturbation Into Adulthood
Thirty. The Power of the Sausage Roll
Thirty-one. Some Cunt’s Brother
Thirty-two. Tank Girl vs. Even Stevens
Thirty-three. 1973
Thirty-four. Pub Quiz
Thirty-five. Slippin’ Away
Thirty-six. Zulu Dobson’s Amazing Sensory Saturation Tank
Thirty-seven. Dobson’s Automatic Giant Plastic Soldier Drinking Water Dirt and Ashes
Thirty-eight. Sally Forth
Thirty-nine. Nasty Thick Stew
Forty. The Nits of the Brown Table
Forty-one. I Dream of C86
Forty-two. The All-Day-Breakfast
Forty-three. In Tank
Forty-four. The Road to Chankers
Forty-five. The One Where the Complete Cunt Gets His Fucking Brains Blown Out
Forty-six. Skullbuster
Forty-seven. Some Ducks With Some Bombs On
Forty-eight. Brotherfucker
Forty-nine. “What the Fuck Happened?”
Fifty. Gone Gone Gone
Fifty-one. Splashdown!
Fifty-two. The Deadman’s Hand Again
Fifty-three. Mine Mine Mine
Fifty-four. Tanktrouble
Fifty-five. The Battle of Armadillo
Fifty-six. Smoke Fast, Look Cool, Leave a Short Butt
Fifty-seven. Righteous & True
Fifty-eight. Oh Yeah
Fifty-nine. The One Thing That Never Changes
Bibliography, soundtrack etc.
PART TWO: THE BUSHEL:
A COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES AND TITTY-BITS
The Bushel. An Introduction
The Handlebars of My Racing Bike. A Booga Poem
‘The Organ Grinder’
Worthing
One. Marine Parade Looking East
Two. The Denton Gardens
Three. Marine Parade West
Four. The Beach
Tank Girl. Stinkhelmet (unfinished)
Tank Girl vs. The Priests of Destruction
Peter Pan
&
nbsp; Peter Craven
Black Tarot
Tank Girl in The Magic of Tank Girl
Resistence is Fertile
In the Wendy Room
The New Fuckers
Dig it Out With A Penknife
This is a Raid
Tank Girl in Dickyback Mountain
The End
PART ONE
TANK GIRL
ARMADILLO!
My Friend
(a personal message from Tank Girl...)
A left-footed, Tai Chi, back-flip, Kung-fu, knock-out, Samurai, round-house kick in the ball-bag is what I’ve got in store for you my friend.
PREFACE TO THE PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH EDITION
This novel was written a few years ago, so I just want to take this opportunity to point out that, because of the time that has passed, some of the jokes may appear a bit flat.
F’rinstance – the first chapter, entitled ‘Is This the Way to Armadillo?’ (clearly a rather dumb play on the Tony Christie UK number one hit from the early ’70s ‘Is This the Way to Amarillo?’), was written two years before the Christie single was brought out of retirement for use by Comic Relief (thus shooting it back to the top of the charts). I thought I was being wilfully obscure by using such a long-forgotten piece of pulpy pop history, prematurely congratulating myself on the hidden depths of my eclectic musical memory; but no, it was not to be, and now I don’t look quite so clever.
This is but one example; I won’t bore you by going into every little detail, but there have been many other similar twists of time that have served to blunt my razor-edged witticisms.
So, dear reader, please rest assured, this book was funny when I wrote it.
Alan C. Martin
Windmill Bastion
Berwick upon Tweed
Spring 2007
PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH EDITION
Here in Britain during the 1970s we had a half-hour TV comedy show called The Goodies. It starred a hairy scientist, a royalist and a hairy birdspotter, acting silly in a series of disjointed and barely-linear stories.
In one particular episode that I think was called (and I may well be wrong here) “Kitten Kong”, Graham, the hairy scientist one, had set up something resembling a kennel for rare and exotic species of pets. During a demonstration of why the animals needed special care and attention, he exposed the vulnerability of an armadillo. The insect-eating mammal (actually a rubber replica) was stood on a tabletop. “And what are you left with if you take away its armour?” asked Graham, grabbing a hold of the animal’s scaly shell and lifting it up in a sharp motion, revealing what looked like a long, pale, emaciated rat: “An illo.”
We live in an age of psychic bombardment; our beings are immersed in a constant flood of sensual stimulation. We are drowning. Our waking hours are filled with a ceaseless manipulative attack from televisions, computers, billboards, magazines and branded T-shirts. To combat this abuse we raise defensive barriers and develop methods of turning off sensory receptors; this in turn depletes our natural selves and blocks the flow of creativity, communication and positive energy. In this way the modern world refuses our right to be who we really are as it relentlessly plugs away at us with meaningless, throwaway ideologies and life-style choices.
We are all “illos”. Every one of us, without exception, has an Achilles heel, a soft centre, a moment of weakness, an “inner child”, all of that crap. Nobody is as hard as nails. We have all grown chunky armour to cover our little “illos” and, unfortunately, the make-up of that armour has been dictated by the quantity and quality of influence exerted upon us by the manmade world and its occupants.
Our armour is all that stands between us and the insanity that would prevail if we were all to actually believe every advert, every politician, every newspaper and every national conglomerate sponsored infomercial that is thrown at us.
We must take control of our armour if we are to survive. We cannot let it form solely as a reactive response to a fool’s ill-informed and greedy judgement.
This is where Tank Girl came in. Her armour is in plain view and woe betide any dopey salesman that tries to sell her a miracle carpet cleaner.
Illo is also an abbreviation for illustration, a word often used in graphic design circles. In this context, if you take the “illo” (or “illustration”) away from armadillo you are left with arma (or “armour”), which is also what you get when you take the illustrations away from comic strips.
This book is meant as new armour for the illos, as an extra layer of skin for the noncombatant boys, and as a tank for the girls.
Let’s fuckin’ ’ave some.
Alan C. Martin
Barrels Alehouse
Berwick upon Tweed
Summer 2003
ONE
IS THIS THE WAY TO ARMADILLO?
My tank is small, sleek, smooth and low – about the same size and shape as the re-modelled Mini Cooper. Two super-grip tank tracks mean that I can drive up a near vertical wall if I get a good run up. A short, stumpy cannon protrudes just beyond the front of the bonnet and its loading hatch sits obstructively between me and my shotgun partner. A range of tiny halogen, neon and L.E.D. lights on the overhead display help me to keep a tight check on the engine and brake systems.
I’m wearing an all-in-one brown buckskin jumpsuit. No underwear. My zipper is open down past the bottom of my knockers. Cleavage is good in fights with blokes – good for distraction. I have a cream crash helmet with a dark red visor and black and white check trim. Check trim is good for giving the impression that you are going faster when you are actually moving at the same speed.
My name is Tank Girl.
Booga, my co-pilot, is wearing a stylish camouflage jacket, brown corduroy trousers, old trainers and hi-tech cyclist’s sunglasses. He has a boy-racer moustache and a well-groomed side parting. He looks the nuts.
Booga is a kangaroo.
We have both given up smoking as a New Year’s resolution. It is now 1.30pm, January 1st.
Nerves are fraying, adrenaline is pumping and Booga is fidgeting. I seem to have chewed away the entire inside of my left cheek.
The scenery outside is grey and nondescript; we could be anywhere. The fact is we are nowhere.
I flick down my visor.
Booga coolly braces himself with one foot on the dashboard and an arm behind his headrest.
With a barely visible movement, I crank the tank up into turbo. The sports car behind me is hailed with ripped-up tarmac as my tracks fight for grip on the road surface.
Start shitting in your pants.
We are coming.
TWO
A KEEN INTEREST IN LOCAL LANDMARKS
The town ahead is called Chankers. We can’t see it yet, but the signs are letting us know: CHANKERS 10km.
The desert horizon is rippling in the heat of the midday sun. Slowly the spire of the town church rises into view as we steam closer. Now we can see a spread of one and two storey buildings. The poxy size of the town we are about to ransack is becoming laughably apparent.
“Booga, how is it?” I ask sweetly.
“Still sore.”
I throw him a cheeky little sideways glance. I know that he’s got a lot of bad memories from this place, but these issues must be dealt with if we are to move on in our lives. “Ready to vent your spleen?”
Booga fills the clip on his old revolver, staring obsessively at the bullets as he spins them around. “Yeah, I’m ready to vent my spleen.” He looks up and smiles for the first time in days. “Then I’m gonna vent all of their spleens... with a fuckin’ pickaxe.”
“I’m right with ya, baby. Anyone that screws with my favourite boy is setting themselves up for a lot of visits to the dentist... in big dark sunglasses... with their arm in splints... and their neck in a brace... riding in a wheelchair... with a puncture.”
Booga holsters his six-shooter and relaxes back into his seat, arms flopped limply by his sides. “Okay,” he says, letting out a long, hissy
sigh, “let’s ’ave some.”
Nitrous oxide injection – it’s like pressing the forward scan button on a video recorder. The town may still be a mile away, but at this rate we’ll be there in ten seconds.
“Are they a religious bunch here?” I ask, hoping the answer will be in the positive.
“Fanatical,” says Booga grimacing, obviously recalling some horrific, anti-pagan memory.
“Church first, then?”
He smiles intently. “Yeah. Let’s fuck it up.”
I nudge the tank a couple of degrees to the left and we careen towards the church, caterpillar-tracks screaming with the force from the overworked engine. Booga takes a hold of the weapon controls and aims the cannon straight up.
We enter the town at full pelt, clipping the sign – WELCOME TO CHANKERS.
Down the main street, not bothering to stop for lunch at the Spud-O-Matic, across the town square, up a couple of steps and we blast in through the ol’ church door, its heavy wood cracking like a shotgun and spraying splinters across the scattering congregation.
Booga blows me a kiss as we head on up the aisle. He lets rip with round after round of mortar fire, straight up, ninety degrees, shattering and buckling the apex of the church roof like the spine of a crippled stunt cyclist.
I pull a nifty skid and do a U-turn in front of the chancel, smashing my rear-end into the altar and squashing a few choirboys. I look up through the brown tinted sunroof; we are right underneath the ancient spire. “Booga man, do ya wanna ding the bell?”
Booga is looking happier by the second. He arms a warhead and smirks sexily, “I do.” I floor the accelerator as he pushes his favourite red button and sends the nuke screaming skywards.
FUUUUCKOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM-A-DONGGGG!!!!
The wretched steeple explodes like a cheap ice-cream cone in the fist of an overweight child. The heavy, wrought iron weathervane cockerel that has been the spire’s crowning glory for over two hundred years is propelled towards heaven at a thousand miles an hour. Hot metal and ash shower down on the town like the fire and brimstone of archaic prophecy.
We have arrived.
Happy fuckin’ New Year, Chankers.