Jet Girl brought out her NAAFI tea urn and as many drinking receptacles as she could lay her hands on – anything that could carry tea was sent out. It was like Dunkirk – except we had biscuits. Luckily some of the men had brought along their own cups that they were going to use as weapons in the ill-fated attack on Chankers.
The soldiers began to stir.
After she’d managed to un-glue her mouth, Barney informed me that when they were lined up and ready to lay siege to the town that they thought was Chankers, Booga had held up a toilet brush, shouted “Charge!” at the top of his voice, and steamed off in completely the wrong direction. That was the last they’d seen of him. She said that her men wanted to honour him as a war hero, in a sort of missing-in-action, unknown-soldier kind of way. I told her to tell her men to shut the fuck up – Booga doesn’t need that sort of encouragement, he’s daft enough already.
Sun Tzu stated in his ancient, but still relevant book The Art of War that “to win without fighting is best”. However, the fact that Booga had gone AWOL and was gallivanting around the outback on a pregnant donkey, waving a lav brush at passers by, was definitely not best. I had to find him.
My tank was at the valeting place; I got them to bring it round immediately. There were still several smashed-up cheesy-puffs down the back of the passenger seat that they hadn’t managed to vacuum up and bird shit on the little window, but I didn’t care – Booga had gone off on one of his little adventures and he had to be stopped before he ended up with a bullet-hole in his forehead.
I knew that Booga had his own vendetta against the people of Chankers, so the thought of him heading off into the wild blue yonder with a full head of steam and bloody murder on his mind filled me with dread. No one knows the twisted extremes of Booga’s lunacy.
Jet Girl jumped on board, saying that she fancied “a nice day out”.
I put the pedal to the metal, the hammer to the floor, and all of that C.B. radio shit – we had to cover a lot of ground before sun went down, good buddy.
Map reading has never been one of Jet Girl’s strong points, so I put her in charge of making tediously boring calls to tediously boring men – and one guy in particular, who she’d met on a guided tour of a condom factory a few months earlier and had been teasing ever since. That passed a few hours as we zigzagged across the county, looking into every eatery and booze-hole as we went.
By late afternoon we were pretty drunk and in no urgent need of dinner. I had lost the ability to keep both my eyes pointing in the same direction.
Jet Girl was still talking to the condom guy, so we set a course for where he was at, which just so happened to be another bar, conveniently situated on the road home.
We arrived minutes later and I parked the tank hard up against a lamppost. Inside, the scene was drab and dull. Jet Girl’s telephone lover turned out to be a cop who’d had one too many doughnuts. He stroked Jet Girl like she was a dog. He made my skin crawl. We stayed for a drink anyway and had a quick game of Crush the Crouton.
One of Sub Girl’s old flames turned up – an insincere, insignificant little tosser who called himself Tony THF113B. I reckon he was a George Lucas fan that couldn’t think of a better way of remembering his postcode. So he started buying us drinks and tried to put his hand down the back of my pants. For some stupid reason, Jet Girl gave him her address and told him to come around for cocktails one night. I took him to one side and told him not to bother, but he could buy me another large absinthe anyway.
The condom-cop got a call on his cop-radio-thing saying that there had been a bloodbath hold-up at the Town Hall, which was just down the street from us. We all piled out of the bar, eager to watch the action.
The cop positioned himself behind an ice-cream van and whipped out his loudhailer cone: “Listen you punks, I’ve got the place surrounded. If you put down your weapons and come out with your hands above your heads, I might think about not blowing your faces off with this really big gun I’ve got here.”
A male voice boomed back from one of the upstairs windows, “You’ll never take me alive, you retarded hick brotherfucker!”
Me and Jet Girl looked at each other in horror. “Brotherfucker?” we said in unison. Suddenly we knew where Booga had got to.
Booga threw a waste paper basket over the balcony of the secondstorey room and shouted, “I’ve killed your rotten council and I’m taking over this one-horse town!” He stuck his head out of the window and waved a blood-soaked bog brush at the cop: “C’mon, you fat twat, do your worst! Show me what you’ve got!”
The cop got up and started a slow run at the building, his doughnutted belly wobbling like a blancmange with every short, heavy step. “Okay! I’m coming in!” he yelled, blasting his pistol off indiscriminately into the sky and almost braining Booga in the process.
Incidentally, I’ve never understood why cops always shout things like “Okay! We’re coming in!” when doing a raid. Surely it would be best to keep the element of surprise as a surprise and also not sound like a complete cunt?
Anyway, I digress. Jet Girl pointed out to me that Booga was armed with only a toilet brush and would indeed be killed if we did not intervene. So we shot the cop from behind, in the shoulders, lots, and he made a really nice thuddy-squelchy sound.
Jet Girl said, “Wow, your gun doesn’t make any noise at all!”
I said, “I know, I’ve got a silencer.”
She said, “Well it certainly shut him up!”
I sent her back down the street to get the tank while I nipped inside to sort out Booga.
I found him sitting on the stairs, looking pretty sheepish. I couldn’t help myself from laying straight into him. “Booga, what the fuck did you think you were doing? Taking on a whole fuckin’ town by yourself? You can’t just walk into a place, kill everybody, claim it as your own, and then expect everyone to treat you like a hero. The world doesn’t work that way.”
“Doesn’t it?” he retorted, giving me his smarmy bastard look. “I could mention several colourful characters from history who’ve pulled that one off and then managed to enjoy centuries of folklore popularity into the bargain. As a youth, those people were my role models.” He turned his face a fraction and lifted his chin up in an indignant, holier-thanthou gesture.
“Bullshit. And how did you manage to kill the whole council with a toilet brush anyway?” I asked angrily.
“Easy. They were very... old.”
The sound of sirens.
Time to go.
NINE
BLASTIN’ MY WAY THRU HELL
Okay, so we shot down a cop in cold blood. So fuckin’ what? He was a creep. His eyes were too far apart. I didn’t like the way he touched Jet Girl. He smelt of stale doughnuts. He looked at me funny. How many excuses do you want?
Passing a couple of simple tests and being given a metal badge and a gun doesn’t make you Jesus.
You’ve got to remember that while most cops are decent, upright wardens of the peace – keeping crime off of the streets and operating with a strong moral code – there are a few who are depraved, evilsmelling, neo-nazi, doughnut-eating brotherfuckers. There has to be. It’s the law of averages. There’s no way of keeping them out of the force (or any other position of responsibility and authority). And if you are allowed to judge me for pumping that bastard’s hunched back full of bullets, then that gives me the divine right to be judge, jury and executioner over his sorry white butt.
You think I’m in the wrong? Okay then, but when judgement day finally comes and this planet turns into a living hell and you find yourself being buggered by a rabid boy-in-blue, whilst a one-eyed, leatherclad dwarf vicar with a wooden penis whips you into a senseless stupor, don’t come crying to me.
That’s also my excuse for all of the other stuff I’m gonna do that you might think is bang out of order. Just fill in the blanks, it’s all the same shit to me.
TEN
TAKING OUT TONY THF115C
I had a thought that Tony, Sub Girl’
s pathetic ex-boyfriend, had seen us commit bloody murder and get away with it. He had Jet Girl’s address. Surely there would’ve been a reward out for our scalps? A little weasel like Tony would’ve turned us in without a second’s thought – or worse still, he might’ve even blackmailed us for sexual flavours.
It was late evening at Jet Girl’s house. I didn’t say anything to anyone – they were all too engrossed in their game of Cluedo. I slipped out of the back door unnoticed. The tank was in fine tune and it started almost silently. I rolled it down the tarmac drive at an imperceptibly low speed, taking nearly ten minutes to reach the garden gate. The further I got away from the house, the more speed I allowed myself to gain. Before very long I was at 90mph.
The night was still and warm. I headed due west, right into a spectacular sunset of cotton wool clouds painted moody pink and orange. An expanse of bright stars spread across the dark blue sky through the hatch above me. I put The Pastels’ ‘Sittin’ Pretty’ on the stereo and lit a cigar. A perfect moment. I held on to it for as long as I could.
The tank was moving fast. Time was moving slow. I felt comforted and adrenalized, kind of how you might feel if you were to take a bath right before going to see a show by your favourite band.
My mission was set out before me, there was nothing I could do to change it. The fucker would not live out the night. There was no question about it. I relaxed back into my seat, fully accepting the task that lay ahead. Nothing to do but enjoy the ride.
I started thinking about a holiday we once had, all of us together: me, Booga, Jet Girl, Barney, and Sub Girl. Three weeks spent camping on a beach. It was a long, long time ago, long before things started to spiral out of control. We just turned up there one day – with no food, no nothing – and built a camp in the mouth of a cave. Booga caught fresh fish every day with a hook made from a safety pin attached to the end of a long piece of knicker elastic. We ate sumptuous lunches with wild rice and bananas. Barney managed to distil some kind of moonshine from coconut milk and we spent the evenings playing drunken games of softball. We kept a fire blazing on the beach for the whole three weeks; it didn’t go out once.
I don’t remember one upset or one argument; we had it all and it felt like it could last forever.
That’s why Tony TVP23VD had to die.
I knew that I could never go back to that time – we’d all gained a lot of baggage and problems in the interim period – but I had to save what I had left. The thought of my friends back at Jet Girl’s house, playing games, farting, laughing and drinking, that was all that was holding my brain together.
I had to nail that fucker – and nail him fast.
I could see the town dead ahead, the place where the whole mess had started, a place that had narrowly missed being re-christened Boogasville. It looked quiet, which was hardly surprising after the death-fest we’d just had there.
I turned off my lights and let the stars illuminate the road for me. I shut down my engines one block away from the bar and cruised up to the front door to nothing but the sound of the tank’s cooling system, humming like a hairdryer.
A few moments of contemplation and meditation, a quick weapons check, and I was ready to go in.
It was a warm night in town and the bar door was wide open. I could sense the atmosphere from outside – close, sweaty, loud, beery, and sausagey. This didn’t deter me. I unfastened the laces on my desert boots, wrapped Booga’s greatcoat around me and nonchalantly walked in.
The whole place instantly fell silent. All eyes turned to me. Some guy in the corner whispered, “That’s her, let’s get the fuck out of here while we’ve still got legs.”
“I’m looking for Tony BBC2ITV. Is he here?” I asked calmly.
Tony stepped out of the crowd. “Yeah, I’m here. I’m always here. I’m part of the goddamn furniture. What do you want?”
“Gimme just one second, Tony, I’ve got to do up my shoe laces,” I replied, kneeling to the floor. As I went down I pushed the folds of greatcoat away from my legs, revealing thirteen assorted handguns and Saturday-night specials that I had strapped to my leather-trousered calves with velcro.
The barmaid almost choked on her sausage-roll, screaming, “Fuck around, she’s got pistols and shit!”
The crowd backed away from Tony, leaving him standing alone.
Tony shouted “Gun!” as he raised his hand into the air.
Someone behind the bar obliged and tossed him a six-shooter. But I was too quick for those suckers, I’d already pulled out an automatic and let off seven rounds that ripped into their target, completely severing Tony’s raised hand from his arm. The six-shooter flew through the space where his hand used to be and cracked him, butt first, in the front of his skull, knocking him senseless. He fell to the floor, his arm spraying a fountain of blood across the recoiling crowd.
I sensed that his friends were none too happy with my little performance, so I did a quick about face and made to walk out of the door before tripping over my untied shoelaces and landing flat on my face. Blood gushed out of my nostrils. I felt a hundred angry hands grab a hold of me and lift me up from the shitty bar floor. Then I saw the big front-of-house window coming at me real fast. The rest is a bit of a blur – there was a smash, lots of blood, swearing, people throwing heavy objects at me and spitting in my face.
I regained consciousness the next morning in the middle of the main street. I may well have been run over a few times; I had several breakages and fractures. My clothes were stuck to my skin with dried blood and someone had let their dog shit on me. There was a squashed sausage-roll down the back of my shirt and Dijon mustard all over my arse.
It must’ve been really early; the place was deserted and the sun was just coming up over the horizon. I dragged my sorry carcass over to the tank and got the fuck out of there.
ELEVEN
TONY’S HAND
When I got back to Jet Girl’s, everybody had crashed out. I crawled into a snuggly gap between Booga and Barney and fell asleep.
That was probably the most uncomfortable kip I’ve ever had.
When I woke up, about twelve hours later, they had stretched me out on the kitchen table and stripped me naked. My body was covered in black and blue bruises and felt all busted up inside. Those bastards had given me a right good kicking.
Barney was buzzing around like a nurse on speed and Booga was splashing witch hazel about like it was aftershave.
They propped up my head and shoulders and gave me a medicinal drink. Booga covered me with a soft blanket and gently stroked my hair.
Jet Girl came in holding up my coat. It was covered in shit. “I think you’ve got some serious explaining to do, young lady,” she said in a stern, maternal tone. “Where did you get to last night, you dirty little stop-out? Why didn’t you phone? We were up all night, worried sick. We called all of your friends’ parents. We were about to telephone the police.” She flipped the coat around so that I could see the back. “And how do you explain this?”
There, on the back, stuck to the fabric with clotted blood, was Tony’s fuckin’ hand.
I screamed.
Jet Girl screamed too and flicked the coat like a whip. The hand flew off and slapped me across the cheek.
I freaked. I tried to jump up, but the excruciating pain of my wounds knocked me straight back down again. The back of my head hit the thick, round wooden table with a thunk.
Sleep.
Deep sleep.
In a cocoon of blood encrusted bed sheets, lying on the kitchen table.
Emptiness.
Barren dreams of dark, murky vistas, bottomless black rivers, and empty conversations with the dead.
My lights were out.
There was nobody in for days.
TWELVE
SILVER SUNSHINE
Light
disappearing
into the darkness
milk
spiralling
down the plug-hole
of a matt-black sin
k
Spirit
sucked out of me
fluid from my spine
and nothing
but dust
to replace it
Darkness
overcoming me
taking my energy
and blocking the source
What is this
this witchcraft?
The touch of a hand
eternal sleep
the drain of life
Forever
falling backwards
hitting my head
never getting up
no force from behind
just moving backwards
slowly
forever
But hold on
Silver sunshine
a new metallic day
dew on my lips
a liquid mercury sphere
spreading crystal clear daylight
that I’ve never seen before
illuminating my world
clarifying my thoughts
sharpening my wits
Blasting like dynamite through the dusty curtains of my mind
THIRTEEN
BREAKFAST AT STIFFANY’S
Okay.
So I was up.
I felt fine.
Fine.
No time left for fucking around.
The kitchen was deserted and my back hurt like fuck. I rotated my head ninety degrees to the right and the sound of my neck snapping back into place was like a cricket bat slapping against the arse of a naughty public schoolboy.
I got onto my wobbly legs and wobbled around the room, trying not to trip up on the trailing lengths of blood-soaked bedsheet that were still attached to me. I made several pitiful attempts to boil the kettle and fry an egg.
Eventually I sat down with a mess of breakfast in front of me. I ate it all up in record time and then started on the cornflakes. They were good too, so I finished them off. Then I ploughed my way through a whole loaf of toast with Seville orange marmalade (I’ve often wondered where Jimmy Seville finds the time to make so many delicious spreadables, what with all the charity work and everything), all washed down with two large pots of Assam and Kenyan tea.
Tank Girl Page 3
