“Absolutely fucking mental,” I enthused. “So what happened?”
“Although I experienced something close to euphoria,” explained Dobson seriously, “time travel never occurred. The nostalgic assault on my senses did bring back some unnaturally vivid memories and for a while I slipped into a state of shallow unconsciousness, during which I managed to do some automatic writing. But the detachment from the present that I was hoping for was beyond my grasp.”
“Time travel?” I repeated in utter astonishment. “Fuckin’ time travel?”
“Yeah baby,” replied Dobson coolly, “fuckin’ time travel. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
“And what about me?” I asked. “I thought you needed me for the experiment.”
“That,” he said, with one of his saucy winks, “will come later.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
DOBSON’S AUTOMATIC GIANT PLASTIC SOLDIER
DRINKING WATER DIRT AND ASHES
Orange tent
Free
Football field
Free gift
Snap together Ferrari
Cereal
Breakfast
Milk milk lemonade
White
White’s lemonade
Matches
Smoke
Curtains
Fire
Next door’s on fire
Uncle Malcolm your house is on fire
Bubblegum cards they’re mine grey card waxed paper cowboy gun paper caps bamboo cane cheap printed cotton tee-pee I’ll tell my mum painted hair and detailed military uniform broken water pistol in a vinyl paddling pool Dr. Mopp drowning in a cheap vinyl paddling pool black and white TV set Thunderbird 2 buried in the rose garden Andrew’s drinking a pint of petrol that’s the house where the witch lives I’ll race you giant plastic soldier drinking water dirt and ashes
Dirt
Ashes
Ashes
The ashes The ashes The ashes
The ashes
THIRTY–EIGHT
SALLY FORTH
Later that night, after we’d checked out Dobson’s Saturation Tank and he’d shown us his totally irrelevant automatic writing, we all gathered outside the front of the house to discuss the problem of Booga. He’d been gone for a few days by then and it was becoming obvious that he wasn’t going to find his own way back.
After much deliberation, we decided upon an extreme course of action – Sub Girl and Zulu Dobson (because they were unknowns in Chankers) would sally forth to the town, ingratiate themselves with some of the more likely looking locals, and worm their way into the dirty underbelly of the town’s society. We waved them off as they trundled away in Dobson’s crappy old pick-up truck. I saw a tinge of jealousy on Jet Girl’s face as she waved her hanky and cooed, “Take care, come back soon. Don’t forget Booga.”
Jet Girl had begun to straighten herself out since our trip to Cherry Island and her lust for blood and action was starting to swell up again. But I couldn’t risk sending her on the sally, someone might have already clocked her on our little bicycling escapade and her cover may have been blown. Still, it was good to know that she was up for a rumble again; she’s a strong team player when she’s got her head screwed on, and I was getting the feeling that I was gonna need her talents very soon.
THIRTY-NINE
NASTY THICK STEW
The rest of us went inside and waited.
I spent the night silently reading my copy of Titus Andronicus, in an attempt to clear my mind of desperate thoughts. It didn’t work. All of that running backwards and forwards to Chankers was starting to piss me off. I mean, I fucking hated the place, so why should we be paying so much attention to such a squalid little shit-hole? I started off just having problems with one or two of the citizens there, but I was accumulating a passionate dislike for the whole town. As I mulled it over in my head, I felt like committing townicide (if there is such a word).
Morning came.
I was getting pretty darn angry.
I wanted my boyfriend back.
Then I wanted to get me some revenge.
I started stewing. Nasty thoughts came thick and fast.
Jet Girl looked across the table at me; she seemed to be wide-awake for a change. I knew what she was thinking and she knew what I was thinking. We nodded to each other.
Then we nodded again.
Then we nodded a few more times and started to grin.
Barney sat down and looked from me to Jet Girl and back again, like she was watching a game of nod-tennis. I think she understood what was happening and started nodding silently with us. After a while we began making faint “yeah” and “uh huh” type sounds. There was something quite primordial about the whole scene. I loved it.
Jet Girl started booting the leg of the table and growled through the mess of hair that had fallen across her face.
Barney started slapping her palms on the table-top and chanted “fuck fuck fuck” under her breath.
I was hyperventilating and I let the whites of my eyes roll up so that I looked like a crazy person.
Even Stevens burst in through the door and stopped us dead.
“They’re here!” he exclaimed joyously. “They’re comin’ up the road right now. I think that Booga’s with them – there’s a funny looking bloke standing in the back of the pick-up, hanging onto the roll-bar.”
I snapped out of my trance and dashed outside, just in time to see Dobson’s truck pull up in a triumphant dusty skid.
Booga jumped down from the truck and flung his arms around me, I flung my arms around him and we all joined together in a glorious armflinging reunion hug.
We took a step back and checked each other out.
“Why didn’t you come and rescue me?” asked Booga mournfully.
“I did, but I came back with the Sheriff instead,” I answered, nodding towards Stevens. “And anyway,” I continued bullishly, “how comes you stole the fuckin’ sub and left us stranded on Cherry Island?”
“Oh yeah, there is that I suppose,” he admitted.
“And you gave me your solemn bullshitty promise, too.” I drew closer to him and gave him a good sniffing; he stank of herb. “What’s that smell? You’ve been smoking fuckin’ weed, haven’t you?”
“Well no... er... yes... er... it was only a small one-skin on the way back,” he argued. “It was for medicinal purposes only. I didn’t even enjoy it. Dobson made me do it.”
“You bastard. You promised me,” I huffed, genuinely gutted.
“I’m sorry,” said Booga helplessly. “I couldn’t help it, I really needed it. You don’t understand what they did to me back there.”
I took a good long look at him. Yes, I was really pissed off with him for going back on his word, but boy was I glad to have him back in my lovin’ arms.
“Okay,” I said, finally letting him off the hook, “one last chance. Just one more. That’s it. If you cock this one up then I’m off to have sex with some other idiot.”
I could see a look of helplessness behind his eyes. He swallowed a lump in his throat and slowly straightened his sorry hunched-up back. The helplessness faded away. Total resolve and manic obsession took its place.
I turned to Sub Girl and Dobson. “So what happened in town? Did you kill the bastards?”
“I killed one bastard,” replied Sub Girl, “don’t know who he was though.”
“Let’s go inside,” I ordered. “I’m calling a council of war. It’s payback time.”
“Great,” said Sub Girl, “Barney can pay back that fiver I lent her.”
Booga caught me by the arm as we were going inside. “There’s another thing that I haven’t told you yet,” he said with a worried smile.
“What’s that then?” I asked sternly.
“They took something from me,” he explained. “They’ve got our old copy of MAD Magazine.”
“You mean the one with the rules to 43-Man Squamish in it?” I gasped.
“Yeah. That one.
”
“Right,” I spat. That was it. The fuckers had stepped way over the line and my blood had gone from simmer to boil.
FORTY
THE NITS OF THE BROWN TABLE
We gathered around Jet Girl’s rotund, shit-brown kitchen table and took our seats.
There was Jet Girl, Sub Girl, Even Stevens, Zulu Dobson, Booga, Barney and me.
“I’m giving you twenty-four hours’ notice,” I announced. “We’re gonna go and bash up Chankers good and proper. No fucking about this time, I want to raze that fuckin’ crap-heap to the ground.”
“Here-here,” cheered Booga.
“Count me in,” said Sub Girl.
“Me too,” echoed Jet Girl. “I’m itching for a bundle.”
“Are we all in agreement then?” I asked.
The group mumbled and jeered in positive tones.
“Then it is settled,” I said, standing purposefully. “Tomorrow – which I probably need to remind you is New Year’s Day – we will ride into Chankers, catch everyone with their pants down and hideous hangovers setting in, and we will have ourselves some messy revenge. Do what you gotta do to prepare yourselves. I suggest we pair up and attack in couples, it will give us more strength. Booga – you’re gonna ride with me. The rest of you – just get on with. The next time we all meet will be in Chankers town square at lunchtime tomorrow. Don’t forget your sandwiches.”
I went outside and lit up a cigarette. Booga came and stood behind me. The atmosphere around the house was quiet and depressed, but somehow we all knew that the sword of righteousness was on our side and we could not lose.
Booga put his arms around me from behind. “This is a dangerous thing we’re about to do, the odds are stacked against us,” he whispered in my ear.
“No, Booga, it ain’t dangerous,” I replied, “it’s just stupid. Dangerous would be me catching you smoking a doobie again.”
“I thought we’d ironed that one out,” he guffed.
“We have, my dear, but the proof of the puddin’ is in the eatin’.”
“Are we having pudding?” he asked eagerly.
“No Booga,” I sighed. “You’re the only puddin’ around here.”
I wandered over to my tank, leaving Booga all forlorn and confused. Fuck him, I thought, I had to bang the lesson home somehow. He certainly wasn’t gonna do it by himself.
I sat in the tank and pissed around with the buttons and switches. I found some good films in the files and reclined back to watch Noel Coward’s This Happy Breed, The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, and a very young and cool Ray Brooks in The Knack. That kept me going for most of the afternoon and evening.
Booga crept in and sat down next to me halfway through the last film. We didn’t say anything to each other. Time is a great healer.
I put on some Laurel and Hardy and we both started laughing.
Booga lit two cigarettes and we smoked them with little enjoyment.
“I’m giving these up,” I said.
“Me too,” agreed Booga.
Eventually the sun went down and I closed the doors. Booga put his head on my shoulder and we fell asleep.
FORTY-ONE
I DREAM OF C86
I dream of C86
and where I came from
where my roots are
where I was born
A cute, freckly girl
with Tescos scrawled in biro
on a cheap cotton T-shirt
across my pert young breasts
A pile of scratched records at the head of my mattress
all in the wrong sleeves
indie, when it actually meant something
spinning on a 1960s Dansette record player
First time away from home
living on next to nothing
drinking myself to oblivion and back
and laughing all the way
And I really did lose my Pastels badge
at a club called The Sunshine Playroom
or was it at the The Zap
I don’t know, I was pissed
Start-rite teenagers
spotty grebos
cardigan clad Smiths fans
psychedelic shoegazers
and tiny bowl-cut angels
get out of my dream
because you’ve all become adults
and I can never have you back
FORTY-TWO
THE ALL-DAY-BREAKFAST
“I could eat this shit all day,” I enthused, as I chewed away on a mouthful of my huge vegetarian special breakfast.
Me and Booga had been in Fred’s Café since sun-up and we were now on our third breakfast. Booga farted in agreement. We had sorted out our differences and were in perfect harmony.
“More tea, vicar?” I asked, waving the teapot around to reinvigorate the leaves.
“Fill her up baby,” said Booga, pushing his cup across the table. “We’ve got a long, hard day ahead of us. Tea is of paramount importance.”
“So fill me in on the facts, Booga. What exactly did those bastards do to you at Chankers?”
“Well,” he replied, coughing nervously to clear his throat, “first of all they strapped me into a chair and gave me a good slapping. Then they wired me up to this lie machine thing that gave me an electric shock every time I didn’t tell the truth.”
“What sort of things did they ask you?” I probed.
Booga took a big slurp of tea. “They started off just pissing around. They asked me about my folks and when I lost my virginity... that kind of shit.”
“Then what?”
He looked solemnly down at his plate. “Then Fuckleberry came in and they started asking me loads of questions about you and Barney and Jet Girl – where you live, what you do, all of that.”
“And what did you tell them?” I asked seriously.
Booga rolled up his sleeves to reveal three large, round burn marks on his inner arms, then he pulled down his jacket collar to show me five more similar marks on his neck and shoulders. “Nothing,” he said quietly.
“Oh shit,” I said. I was genuinely gob-smacked. “I’m really, really sorry, Booga... I thought that they were love bites – that’s why I’ve been acting like such a horrible bitch to you. Shit. I take it all back. From now on you can smoke weed. You can smoke a whole fuckin’ mountain-sized lump of dope and I won’t give a shit.”
“But I don’t want to,” he replied helplessly, “dope makes me so fuckin’ numb and useless. I want to be proper. I want to be in control. I want to be at the steering-wheel of my own bus, y’know? I want to make a fuckin’ difference.”
I looked across the table at my Booga and reached out to hold his hands. We gazed at each other for a moment. A little tear gathered in the corner of his eye and ran away down his hairy cheek as a dozy, lovelorn fog descended upon us.
We were rudely awoken by a rather loud waitress delivering a pile of pancakes that should’ve gone to someone else’s table. We ate them anyway; I said that Booga deserved a special treat. And that was gonna be the first of many.
After breakfast, I continued grilling Booga about his experiences in Chankers.
“They took me to the church and made me confess my sins while some kids beat the shit of me with some big sticks,” he said, with an entirely out-of-place tinge of humour. “Then they chloroformed me. God knows what happened after that, but I found riding a bike a rather painful experience for the next few days.”
I smiled at him. I was amazed by his good nature about the whole affair. “So I guess you didn’t make many new friends on that trip then?”
Booga leaned forward and fixed me with a business-like stare. “Believe me when I say that there is not one single person in that town that should not be touched by the wrath of our merciless redress. They are an unwholesome, noxious breed of pious, unforgiving, narrowminded, corporate-butt-sniffing, racist brotherfuckers, and they are entirely representational of everything that is wrong with this planet.”
“So, shou
ld I take it that you don’t like them very much?”
“Correct.”
“More tea, vicar?” I asked again, swinging the teapot around.
“Correct.”
FORTY-THREE
IN TANK
I’m in my tank
this ain’t no fuckin’ prank
get out of my way
get out of the road
get off the fuckin’ planet
’cos I’m gonna run you down
gonna squash you flat
and blow you up
you stupid twat
I’m gonna get you
and smash you
and squash you
and stretch you
and wreck your fuckin’ life
for what you’ve done
to me and my kind
I’m a creative soul
but you’ve made me destructive
and you’ve ruined my mind
and my flow is disrupted
so I’m driving off course
just to take out your town
I’m gonna smack your big ol’ butt
gonna pull your trousers down
gonna shoot out your teeth and brains
with arrows and with darts
gonna sit on your ugly face
and fill your head with stinkin’ farts
FORTY-FOUR
THE ROAD TO CHANKERS
So that just about brings us up to date.
Now you know why we’re on this kill-fest.
Not that I feel that I have to justify myself to you or anybody else. I’ve kind of explained the whole matter for my own benefit, because sometimes I forget why I’m doing things – I get lost in the passion of the moment and I lose touch with my motivating factors. But now I fully remember why these people are for the chop. They’re a special breed of cunt.
Tank Girl Page 9
