Laugh Out Dead

by Rupert Harker

  He handed me a printed text document.

  ‘4th Atman/ Vierten Atman/ Fourth Atman

  16 Chuffnell Mews/ Sixteen, Chuffnell Mews

  Auferstehung der Vierten Reich/ Resurrection of the Fourth Reich

  Fairfax Urban-Smith

  Der Apfel von Eden/ The Apple of Eden

  Reichsarchiv/ The Reich’s Archive

  Sebastian Schwarzkröte’

  “That’s the full list?” I passed the paper back to Urban-Smith. “It’s rather short.”

  “As you search for more keywords and phrases, there is an exponential increase in the resources required to process the information. For example, if I were to ask you to stand on the corner of Balcombe Street and Marylebone Road and count how many blue cars passed in an hour, you would have little difficulty. If I asked you to keep tabs of red cars and blue cars, the task becomes rather more difficult. To note the colour of every car that passed would be impossible; and so it is with Echelon software. Clearly these particular phrases are of critical importance to The Fervent Fist.”

  “They seem very interested in you, Fairfax.”

  “Indeed. I have become quite a spanner in the works.”

  “What about all this 4th Reich and 4th Atman and so forth?”

  Urban-Smith stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I am not sure, but I think that Kenneth Badgerton may be able to shed some light; there is no man in London that has a greater knowledge of contemporary conspiracy theory. I am off to see him at eight. Would you care to join me?”

  “Indeed I would.”

  “You know, Rupert, this new telephone app is the most downloaded software in history. Eight million downloads in twenty-four hours.”

  “One has to admire Schwarzkröte’s plan,” I said. “He seems to have read both media and public like a book.”

  “I should not afford him my admiration,” huffed Urban-Smith, “but there is no denying The Fervent Fist’s efficiency in bringing about the desired outcome. Can you imagine our elected government trying to organise such an endeavour? The words, ‘booze-up’ and, ‘brewery’ spring to mind.”

  “Well, I shall be voting for the FF come the next election.”

  “I shouldn’t joke about it,” warned Urban-Smith. “They probably stand more chance than the Lib Dems.

  *

  Urban-Smith’s associate, Kenneth Badgerton, lived just a few miles away at Cricklewood, in an old Victorian terraced with his wife, Thelma, and their terrier, Vesuvius. Thelma and Vesuvius greeted us at the door, and while Urban-Smith received a peck on the cheek from Thelma, I received a nip on the ankle.

  “Ouch!” I responded.

  “Oh, don’t mind Vesuvius,” said Thelma. “He’s just being affectionate.”

  “Grrrrrrrrrr!” said Vesuvius, baring his teeth. I edged cautiously past, following Urban-Smith into the living room, where Kenneth awaited.

  “Fairfax! Rupert!” bellowed Kenneth. “Come in, come in.”

  Kenneth had been a history teacher, but since retiring in his late fifties, he had developed a keen interest in all things conspiratorial. According to Urban-Smith, Kenneth was one of the nation’s leading experts on such matters. Now in his early seventies, he seemed able-bodied and alert.

  Thelma, clearly some years younger than her husband, retired to the kitchen to make tea while we three menfolk made ourselves comfortable on the sofa.

  “So, what have you brought me, Fairfax?” asked Kenneth, rubbing his hands. “You seemed a little reluctant to elaborate on the telephone.”

  “Well, Kenneth, I have reason to believe that my calls are being monitored by The Fervent Fist.”

  “The little tinkers!”

  Urban-Smith explained about the telephone app and its hidden Echelon function. He produced the keyword list from a pocket and handed it to Kenneth.

  “Half a mo,” said Kenneth, rising from his chair. “Have to find my reading glasses.”

  Thelma arrived with tea and biscuits, and we slurped and munched while Kenneth ransacked the room, cursing and swearing.

  “Where are the blessed things?” he moaned.

  “If you are looking for your reading glasses,” said Thelma, “they’re in the kitchen, on the worktop.”

  She rolled her eyes as Kenneth charged past her to retrieve the item, returning moments later clutching the glasses triumphantly. Thelma began circulating, replacing the items that Kenneth had dislodged in his quest, soon reviving the room to its former pristine glory.

  “So, tell us, Kenneth. Are the Illuminati hoping to resurrect the 4th Reich?”

  “It seems unlikely.” Kenneth peered at us over his glasses. “The Illuminati engineered the 3rd Reich to galvanise the rest of Europe against Germany. After this, they instructed Roosevelt to provoke the Japanese (through a series of tough economic sanctions) into attacking the U.S. This enabled Roosevelt to justify America’s entry into World War II, despite his election promises to keep the country out of any European conflicts. It was always the Illuminati’s intention to ensure that the Nazis lost the war, so bringing about the rise of the 4th Reich seems rather counterproductive.”

  “I’m sorry,” I interjected. “You’re saying that the Illuminati created the 3rd Reich to start the war and then destroyed it to end the war? For what purpose?”

  “The creation of NATO, of course.” Kenneth removed his glasses and set them aside. “The formation of NATO and the European Union was planned as far back as the late eighteen hundreds, but it took several decades and two world wars to bring it to fruition. Now the Illuminati are working on the unification of South America and the development of an African Economic Partnership. Eventually, these transcontinental power structures will be amalgamated into a single centralised government, which is crucial to the establishment of a New World Order. It makes the control and manipulation of the many by the few that much easier.”

  “So,” said Urban-Smith, “we think that The Fervent Fist have no interest in resurrecting the 4th Reich. What do you know of the Reich’s Archive or the Apple of Eden?”

  “They are one and the same thing.” Kenneth excused himself, returning a few moments later with a folder labelled with the number twelve. Urban-Smith and I sat patiently drinking our tea while he skimmed the relevant section until, after a few minutes, he set the folder aside and gave us his full attention.

  “You will be well aware of the Führer’s fascination with the occult,” said Kenneth. “The Apple of Eden refers to a library of what is believed to be forbidden or privileged information accumulated by Hitler between 1935 and 1945. According to rumour, it includes movie reels of human experimentation from the concentration camps and Unit 731, detailed plans of all three world wars, instructions for demonic summonings and other satanic rituals, German medical research, and details of Mengele’s attempts to resurrect the dead.”

  “Did you say three world wars?” I asked. “They had planned a third?”

  “Oh yes. The world wars were fastidiously timetabled at the turn of the century. Unfortunately, Hitler’s spies succeeded in acquiring copies of the plans. With this knowledge, the Führer was able to anticipate the Allies’ every move and would have surely overseen a Nazi victory, had the Illuminati not brought America into the war.

  “Hitler was most resentful about what he considered to be the Illuminati’s betrayal and started to plot the resurrection of the 4th Reich, should Germany be defeated. After the Red Army advanced on the Eastern Front, taking much of Poland and liberating Auschwitz, Hitler could see that the writing was on the wall. He ordered the dissemination of Nazi gold reserves, art treasures and other valuables throughout Western Europe so they could be used to fund the 4th Reich’s future endeavours. The full inventory and location of the gold and other treasures is alleged to be stored in the Archive.”

  “A prize of inestimable worth,” mused Urban-Smith. “Do your records show whether the Nazis succeeded in raising the dead?”

  “I think it unlikely,” said Kenneth. “Hitle
r’s soldiers burned his body immediately after his suicide. Had the technology existed to resurrect him, the careful preservation of the corpse would have been their priority, rather than its destruction.”

  “What about Sebastian Schwarzkröte?” I asked. “And this 4th Atman?”

  “Ātman is the Sanskrit word for soul,” said Urban-Smith. “I could find no reference to the 4th one on the internet. Ring any bells, Kenneth?”

  Kenneth shook his head. “I’ve heard of Dr Saxon Schwarzkröte, of course. He was formerly Head of the KGB’s Institute for Special Technology, but after the fall of the Soviet Union, he was recruited to The Fervent Fist. I’m not familiar with the name Sebastian Schwarzkröte. As for the 4th Atman, I can shed no light.”

  “Blast!” Urban-Smith slammed his palm down upon the arm of the sofa. “Clearly our foes are in possession of knowledge that we lack. Once more they have us at a disadvantage.”

  “Right,” said Kenneth determinedly, leaning forward and rubbing his hands together, “there’s only one thing for it; Scrabble.”

  *

  Urban-Smith elected to remain at the Badgertons’ to play Scrabble with Kenneth and Thelma, but I was in no mood for games. My imagination was running riot with thoughts of the vile contents of Hitler’s secret Archive. I had heard of Unit 731, the Japanese research division that, during the War, had been responsible for the most notorious and sadistic human experimentation, its depravity and cruelty matched only by that of the Nazis. Without doubt, whosoever discovered the Archive would be privy to a cinematic catalogue of the worst atrocities ever to be captured on film.

  I required distraction and libation, so I took a cab to The Blue Belvoir. The doorman welcomed me, and I felt some of the tension drain away as I approached the bar, nodding to some familiar faces and admiring some familiar hostesses. I ordered a large G&T and found a quiet table near the back of the room, but I was unable to enjoy the floorshow. After half an hour or so, I threw in the towel and wandered out into the night to hail a taxi home.

  Although I was in bed before ten, it was after midnight when sleep finally took me. I dreamt that I was onstage at The Blue Belvoir, dressed only in lederhosen, bumping and grinding against the pole while a hoard of Nazis cheered and drank and threw money onto the stage. I dropped to the floor to retrieve the money, but it had turned to offal, and I stared with horror at my bloodstained hands while the crowd chanted louder and louder.

  “Zeig uns deine Seele! Zeig uns deine Seele!”

  *

  Show us your soul!

  ◆◆◆

  24. SCOURGE OF THE SHIRES

  Saturday 18th November

  I rose late on Saturday morning and showered without shaving before heading to the kitchen for a beverage. I made a strong coffee and wandered through to the living room, where Urban-Smith was sat in his armchair, eyes closed and fingers intertwined, obviously in deep contemplation. I parked myself on the sofa and waited for him to come back online.

  After a minute or two he opened his eyes and turned to me. “Rupert. How are you?”

  “Rather the worse for wear, I’m afraid.” I set aside my coffee to cool. “Last night I suffered disturbing dreams.”

  Urban-Smith nodded sympathetically. “I could hear you groaning during the early hours.”

  “Each new day seems to bring a more shocking revelation than the last.” I sighed wearily and rubbed my eyes. “Surely this affair cannot darken any further?”

  “It is true, Rupert, that never have I encountered a plot so diabolical as that with which we are involved, but unless we peel away the layers, we shall never truly unravel the meaning of it all.

  “I can make neither head nor tail of it,” I confessed.

  “There are wheels within wheels, Rupert. We have barely scratched the surface.”

  “Should we not just leave this for the police to resolve?”

  “Hah!” expectorated my learned friend. “Would you entrust a task so important to the likes of DI Gadget?”

  “But he has resources, Fairfax.”

  “All the resource in the world is for nought if it is not directed appropriately.”

  I groaned and hauled myself up from the sofa. “I’m sorry, but I think I need to give my brain the rest of the day off. I am running on a very lean mixture, and this is all a bit much for me.”

  “Of course, Rupert,” said Urban-Smith sympathetically. “You should recuperate. We will liaise post meridiem.”

  *

  I returned to bed and slept for several hours. At around six, I was enticed from my chambers by the tantalising smell of Mrs Denford’s fish-supper and, after performing my ablutions, I ambled downstairs in far greater spirits than I had ascended them.

  After dinner, Urban-Smith and I retired to watch the seven o’clock news. The lead story was the appearance of a thirty-metre sinkhole in a quiet suburban street in Pringford. At the same time, locals had been plagued by an outbreak of spectral figures, much like those reported by residents living adjacent to the recently destroyed Wafflebridge Town and Waspinghuff football stadia.

  Aerial footage taken from a helicopter showed a beautifully symmetrical hole which had evidently swallowed a pair of semi-detached houses and several parked vehicles.

  A news reporter was interviewing local residents.

  REPORTER: Can you tell us what happened?

  LOCAL RESIDENT 1: I were in my kitchen, roasting a pheasant and supping mead, when I were accosted by a ghastly apparition.

  ‘Begone, foul spirit,’ I roared, but it defied me. I raised my arm to smite the demon, but there suddenly came a tremendous sound from across the street.

  ‘Egad,’ I shouted. ‘Gadzooks,’ and so forth.

  REPORTER: Can you describe the sound?

  LOCAL RESIDENT 1: It were the sound of two adjacent semi-detached houses, a green Peugeot and a white transit van falling into a deep hole.

  REPORTER: Is there anything you can add, Madam?

  LOCAL RESIDENT 2: I swear that them houses were there when I went to work this morning, but when I came back, they were gone. It’s witchery, I tells you. Witchery!

  “I pity the fool,” said I, mustering my finest Mr T impersonation, “that substitutes the third-person personal pronoun for the plural distal demonstrative pronoun.”

  “It is no laughing matter,” reprimanded Urban-Smith. “Grammar done been murdered, and us is powerless to act.”

  REPORTER: [stopping a young man in the street] Excuse me, Sir; what do you think about what has happened here today?

  YOUNG MAN: [jabbing a finger towards the camera] I blame the blacks!

  REPORTER: But, Sir; you are black.

  YOUNG MAN: [looking at his hands] Oh, right. In that case [jabs finger at camera again], I blame the gays!

  REPORTER: Do you know that your tee-shirt says, ‘Gay Pride’ on the front?

  YOUNG MAN: [looking down at chest] Does it? Oh, well. At least I’m not Jewish.

  REPORTER: Then why are you wearing a yarmulke?

  YOUNG MAN: [throwing his hands up in frustration] Oy gevalt!

  REPORTER: This is Jemma Alpaca reporting live from Gubbins Street, Pringford, where the grim monotony of quiet English desperation has been shattered by…

  “Dr Herman Grove resides on Gubbins Street,” said I. “Coincidence?”

  “I think not. Dr Grove is closely acquainted with the Gorshkov’s. You will recall that Mrs Gorshkov is a geologist.”

  “Of course,” I replied. “When she first met the Professor, she was studying the effects of low-frequency resonance upon the Moscow bedrock. Oh, Lord! Could she behind this?”

  Before we could speculate further, there was a knock at the front door. I went to the window to glance out, but Mrs Denford had pounced, and the visitors were already in the hallway.

  A few moments later, the living room door opened, and in came Mrs Denford followed by Dr Herman Grove carrying a bass amplifier and a car battery. At the rear of the procession lurked Mrs Ulyana G
orshkov wielding a handgun and with a canvas bag slung over her shoulder.

  “Be careful, Fairfax,” said Mrs Denford, visibly flustered. “That’s a Soviet PSS semi-automatic. Silent, but deadly.”

  “Put it down there please, Herman,” said Mrs Gorshkov.

  Dr Grove placed the bass amplifier on the floor. It bore the words, ‘Scrotech Mongoose 50’ on a small metal plate and had been connected to the car battery via jump leads.

  “Alright, Herman. Back away.” Mrs Gorshkov brandished the gun, and Dr Grove did as instructed. The poor fellow was quite ashen and so tremulous that I became fearful that his spleen might collapse under the strain. Mrs Gorshkov threw the canvas bag to him, which rattled as he caught it.

  “You three,” she demanded. “On the sofa.”

  Urban-Smith was as fast as a rattlesnake. He deftly launched himself across the room, grabbed Mrs Gorshkov’s gun arm with one hand and tried to place his other behind her back to break her balance.

  Mrs Gorshkov had evidently been expecting something of this nature. With her free hand, she produced a stun gun from her pocket and jabbed it into Urban-Smith’s right side as he attempted to unbalance her. He cried out in surprise, dropping heavily to the floor, where he lay, writhing and twitching. I made to move towards him to offer my assistance.

  “Don’t!”

  I found myself staring into the barrel of Mrs Gorshkov’s pistol and I froze.

  “But he needs medical attention,” I implored.

  “Sit,” Mrs Gorshkov insisted. “Herman will help him onto the sofa.”

  Dr Grove knelt beside Urban-Smith, who had by now ceased to gibber and palpitate, and helped him to all fours so that he could crawl to the sofa.

  “I’m sorry,” said Dr Grove as he heaved Urban-Smith into his seat. “She said that she would shoot me if I didn’t do what I was told. Two bullets in the spleen and one in each testicle.”

  A professional hit; a sobering reminder of Ulyana Gorshkov’s KGB training.