Tank Girl
Page 10
Before we return to the action, there is one more tiny non-anecdote that I would like to relate to you. It happened only moments ago, just before you joined us on our approach to Chankers...
Me and Booga were zooming along, quite merrily, listening to Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, when Booga suddenly turned to me and said, “Y’know, some things actually do last for ever.”
“What do you mean?” I asked him.
“I’m not quite sure. It’s like all of that thinness stuff you were going on about and Zulu’s Sensational Evaporation Tank... that’s all about things that we use up and throw away and things changing all the time.”
“Wow,” I exclaimed, “I thought all of that stuff had gone straight over the top of your head. So what’s your point?”
“I don’t really know. It’s just that I’m sure, y’know, deep down, that there is something that never changes. There’s something that goes on and on, it outlasts life, death, mountains, planets, everything.”
“So what is it?”
Booga scratched his head and looked out of his side window. “Give me a couple of hours,” he replied, “I’ll have a think about it.”
Okay.
I’ve got it off my chest.
You know where I’m coming from, man.
I feel better now.
Let’s get back to it.
FORTY-FIVE
THE ONE WHERE THE COMPLETE CUNT GETS HIS FUCKING BRAINS BLOWN OUT
We come flying out of the church door at fifty-seventy billionteen miles an hour, the explosion chasing our butt and shrapnel pinging off of the tank’s heavily armoured shell like pea-shooters against a metal street sign.
Booga is winding down his window and turning up ‘Give Peace a Chance’ on the stereo.
“Where to next?” I ask, as I absentmindedly throw a primed handgrenade through a paint shop window.
“Let’s get after Fuckleberry,” he replies. “Try the town hall first. He’s probably in there right now, fucking up the lives of some poor, wretched family.”
I hang a lewy and take a short cut up an alley. We pop out at the end and turn right without indicating or checking our mirrors.
A punky guy across the road is waving at us. “Yo! Hey, look everybody! It’s Tank Girl!” he hollers, giving us the VW sign with his hand. “Hang-ten, babe! Radical! You’re the dude!”
“You know him?” I ask Booga.
“Ricky,” he replies. “He’s a complete cunt.”
“Blow his fuckin’ brains out.”
I wind down my window and Booga stretches his arm across me and points his gun at the dude.
“Y’know something, Dicky?” I shout. “Having green hair and a Sex Pistols T-shirt doesn’t stop you from being a moron.”
“Huh?!”
KABAMFF!
Booga plugs him right between his boss-eyes and his turd-like brain explodes out the back of his head, covering a passing granny with dark blood and grey matter.
“Stay there,” I tell Booga as we race on up the street. Up ahead I can see another familiar dick. It’s that early boyfriend I told you about, the one with GOD tattooed on his penis. I forgot to tell you that he came from Chankers too. He’s standing right by the roadside with his trousers around his ankles, waving his heavily lettered helmet at us. We can hear him calling, “Tank Girrrrrrrrrl! Remember me?”
“Who the fuck is that?” asks Booga, horrified at the spectacle.
I slow the tank down a notch. We’re close enough to read his cock.
“He’s got GOD tattooed on his helmet!” exclaims Booga. “And look, he’s got your name embellished on his scrotal sack!”
“Uh? So he has,” I observe. “Well, you know what you’ve got to do, don’t you?”
“Easy,” says Booga, “I used to bullseye ball-bags in my C5 back home.”
KAMBOOF!!
Booga’s shot is as true as his word, and the guy doubles over in agony.
“Where did you hit him?” I enquire.
“I got him right in the ‘K’,” smiles Booga.
“So who the fuck is ‘Tan Girl’ then?” I laugh.
“Some slack bitch from Bonzai Beach.”
FORTY-SIX
SKULLBUSTER
So now we’re belting back down the main road
the Town Hall only seconds away
a gun each pointing out of the side windows
firing shots off at random targets
blasting the cannon at the tops of buildings
dropping mines and grenades like exploding plop-plops behinds us
We’re ripping the heart out of this fuckin’ town
and it feels pretty fuckin’ good
Booga’s having a grand ol’ time
smashing shop windows with an AK-47
and hitting street vendors’ carts
with distress signals from an ex-military flare-gun
A magnificent display of random pyrotechnics
guts, blood, fire and gravy
an ear shattering racket
but all we are saying is Give Peace a Chance
And here’s the Town Hall
all dressed up in flags and bunting
for some crap celebration
of the day they stole this land from the Aborigines
What a beautiful sight
what a beautiful New Year’s Day
everyone’s having such a lovely party
let’s bring the fucker down
In through the huge, ornate doorway
no, we don’t want any postcards or keyrings
turn right at enquiries
straight ahead for the Inner Chamber
no time to knock
a blast from the cannon
and we’re slamming on the brakes
and squashing the fat ol’ Mayor
under his giant fat oak desk
and the other fuckers are running
stampeding out the door
but we can’t see no Fuckleberry
not a hairy little fucker in sight
so I’m slamming into reverse
and executing a brilliant two pointer
and we’re chasing the screaming bastards
up and down the corridors
and we’re blowing the place to smithereens
We’d better get the hell out
before the roof caves in
We’re rolling to a stop
out in the ol’ town square
underneath that big old statue
of Mr. Daniel Chankers
the man who we have to thank
for inventing this fucking town
Booga’s out of his door
and he’s standing proudly
defiantly
magnificently
facing straight towards the Town Hall
and he’s got his softball bat
and he’s swinging it like a maniac
at the people of the town
as they come running out of the building
’coz he’s seen them all before
he remembers each and every one
and how they jeered at him as a kid
and tortured him as a man
but they’re not fuckin’ laughing now
as he cracks their shit-filled retard skulls
with precision and with style
and a wicked little smile
FORTY-SEVEN
SOME DUCKS WITH SOME BOMBS ON
The music stops in the tank. I look at the computer screen to pick another apt tune, but I’m distracted by a flashing button on the weapons control marked S.D.W.S.B.O.
So I press it.
Three robotic ducks, with dynamite strapped to their backs and detonators ticking, hop out the back of the tank and waddle off into the main entrance of the Town Hall.
Dobson, I’m thinking, you’re a fuckin’ genius.
I stick my head out the window. “Booga! Get back in the tank! The Town Hall’s about to blow!”
; He takes one last bash at a goofy guy that he must’ve really hated, knocking his head clean off of his shoulders and right out of the stadium for a home run.
FORTY-EIGHT
BROTHERFUCKER
Booga’s running back to the tank.
He’s an arm’s length away from his door.
Now Jet Girl is out there.
Where the hell did she come from?
She’s got something in her hand.
“Booga! Look out!” she shouts.
She throws something – something dark and nasty.
It hits Booga by mistake.
There’s a bang.
It didn’t come from my gun.
Booga’s eyes fog over.
He stumbles.
A spot of blood appears on the chest of his jacket and grows rapidly in size.
I lean across and fling his door open.
Jet Girl bundles him headfirst into his seat and falls in on top of him.
Behind them stands Fuckleberry, a smoking pistol in his hand.
He points the gun at me.
I fix him with a stare that says YOU ARE A FUCKIN’ DEAD MAN.
I floor the accelerator as he blasts away at us.
We’re gone.
There’s a massive explosion.
The ducks have done their work.
I check out the fire in my rear-view mirror.
I hope to hell that Fuckleberry is frying alive.
FORTY-NINE
“WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?”
I’m screaming, “What the fuck happened?”
Jet Girl is trying to untangle herself from Booga. It’s a tight squeeze in a single passenger seat. There’s blood everywhere.
“Tank Girl,” she says solemnly, “it’s over. He’s dead. Booga’s dead.”
I put my hand under his head; he feels cold and heavy. I raise his face up and take a look at his eyes; the life has gone out of them.
Jet Girl is fuckin’ right.
Booga is dead.
“This isn’t right,” I rant. “This can’t be. It wasn’t meant to happen like this.”
FIFTY
GONE GONE GONE
Booga
He’s gone
Gone
Gone
Gone
Ripped away from me
Feels like
I’m dead
Feels like
I’ve lost a limb
Or two
Sawn off with a rusty bow-saw
Pulled off like an over-cooked chicken wing
And taken away at a million miles an hour
Gone
What did I do?
What have I done wrong?
Why Booga?
He was really starting to get somewhere
Starting to come alive
Really trying hard to be the best he could be
And now he’s gone
Gone
Gone
Gone
FIFTY-ONE
SPLASHDOWN!
We’re heading out of town down the main street. I can hear a whole flock of cop cars coming up behind me, their sirens wailing like deathknell banshees. I’m past giving a fuck.
“What do we do, Jet Girl?” I ask quietly. My voice fades away to nothing.
“Booga’s dead.”
“Look,” she says, pointing up ahead a few hundred metres, “it’s Zulu. He’s beckoning us into that lock-up.”
I slow down and pull into the large garage that Dobson seems so eager for us to enter. He immediately shuts the doors behind us. Sub Girl is inside; she’s got a fucking great big gun, which she’s stuck through a peephole by the door.
Dobson takes Jet Girl softly by the arm.
“Booga’s dead,” she says to him, barely holding back her tears.
“I know,” replies Dobson in a low, comforting tone. “Take it easy. Get Tank Girl in that seat over there.”
I’m just wandering around in a complete fuckin’ daze. I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing. The shock is kicking in and I’ve turned into a total zombie.
Jet Girl takes a firm hold of me and guides me to a reclining seat. I sit. She pushes me back; I’m as stiff as a fuckin’ board.
“Hey, Jet Girl,” asks Dobson, “what happened to Even Stevens? I thought that you two were meant to be pairing up.”
“I don’t know,” replies Jet Girl, “the bastard disappeared as soon as we hit town. He turned out be a real streak of yellow piss.”
Sub Girl calls across from her lookout position. “Whatever you’re planning on doing, guys, I suggest you get on with it. There’s about a million people outside, some of them are cops, some of them are hillbillies, and most of them are really pissed off.”
Jet Girl runs to the wall to back her up, they’re both firing like buggery into the crowd outside.
“Hey! Check it out! Look who’s here!” shouts Jet Girl. “It’s Fuckleberry!”
I’m struggling to get up but Dobson is holding me down.
“Hey Fuckleberry!” shouts Jet Girl through the peephole. “Not so fuckin’ hairy now, are ya? Huh? Ya fuckin’ singed twat!”
Dobson yells out, “Okay girls, listen up, when I say ‘now’, I want a ten second cease fire. Understood?”
“Gotcha boss-man,” shouts Jet Girl, blasting away ferociously.
Dobson wheels a TV in front of me and sticks a pair of old headphones on my head.
This must be my sensory-whatsname-do-dah-tank thing.
I’m sobbing and saying, “What the fuck? Not now Dobson, now is definitely not the right time.”
He’s buzzing around like a hospital orderly saying, “Yeah. Now is the right time. Now is the only time.”
Dobson looks me straight in the face and says bluntly, “When you get there, you’ll get one chance. Pick your moment carefully. Don’t get distracted by nostalgia. There’ll be plenty of cosy and lovely places that you’ll want to visit, and they’ll all be looking real attractive to you right now, but there’s only one place that you’ve gotta go to. Remember – one chance and one chance only.”
“NOW!” he shouts loud and clear, high above the sound of the shooting.
The girls stop firing.
Dobson pinches my nose and pours half a cup of liquid into my mouth. I swallow it down involuntarily.
He lets go of my nose and wafts an old-fashioned bottle of smelling salts (just like the one my granny used to have) under my nose. I’m almost gagging on the fumes.
Now the taste of the liquid hits me... Splashdown! ...a green, citrus flavoured drink that came powdered in a sachet, just add to water. I haven’t tasted that since I was five. Where the hell did he get that from?
Dobson slaps a glob of original Slime in my hand and I squidge it, trying to throw it away. It sticks between my fingers.
If there’s one person on this planet who can surprise me with blasts from my past then it’s gonna be Dobson. He knows everything about my young life and he’s got a very sharp and eclectic memory.
The TV comes on and the soundtrack comes through on the headphones.
Oh my God...
It’s Every Day’s a Holiday.
It’s my favourite bit from the end of the film, Freddie and the fuckin’ Dreamers.
He starts to sing... “What’s cookin’? Everybody seems to say...”
They start doing their funny dance.
It’s so beautiful...
Everything...
The smell, the taste, the touch, the sight and sound...
So, so beautiful...
It’s been so long...
It’s too much...
It’s overwhelming...
And I’m falling.
I’m falling backwards out of my body.
I’m tumbling through time.
The whole world is rushing away from me and time is standing perfectly still.
And I’m a little kid and I’m a drunken teenager and I’m joining the Army...
&n
bsp; And I’m doing all of these things at the same time.
Everything I’ve ever done, encapsulated in one moment.
I can feel myself wanting to pull into one of those moments, like a telephoto lens zooming into a scene from miles away. I know I can do it with ease, whenever I want.
I’m scanning the whole lot, over and over... it was so colourful back then, so rich, comfortable, so easy...
I remember Zulu’s words. “Pick your moment carefully... only one chance.” I know what he means. I know what I’ve got to do.
I can see Booga, swatting those bastards with his softball bat. I can see myself too, pushing the button to unleash the three ducks.
I’ve got to go there.
Booga.
Three ducks.
I’m willing myself.
And it’s happening.
I’m moving.
I’m pulling away
I’m getting there...
It’s breaking up... I can’t quite make it out anymore... I’m disintegrating... breaking into a billion particles... I’m washing away... I’m...
FIFTY-TWO
THE DEAD MAN’S HAND AGAIN
Booga’s running back to the tank.
He’s an arm’s length away from his door.
Now Jet Girl’s out there.
Where the hell did she come from?
She’s got something in her hand.
“Booga! Duck!” I shout.
Booga turns to see the three dynamite-ducks waddling towards the Town Hall.
“Oh yeah,” he says, “duck.”
Jet Girl throws something – something dark and nasty.
I can just make it out as it spins through the air, narrowly missing Booga as he watches the ducks.
It’s Tony’s hand, the one that got stuck to my coat.
“Jet Girl,” I shout, “where the hell did you get that from? You fucking mad bitch!”
Fuckleberry is standing behind Booga
A gun in his hand.
Tony’s black, dead, severed hand smacks Fuckleberry across the cheek.
There’s a bang.
It came from my gun.
Fuckleberry’s eyes fog over.
He stumbles.
A spot of blood appears on the chest of his jacket and grows rapidly in size.
I lean across and fling Booga’s door open.