Armageddon: The Musical (Armageddon Trilogy)

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Hold it easy,’ The Dalai Lama peered into the terminal screen. ‘We don’t want to rush this.’ Gloria leant closer. ‘Let him get clear.’

  ‘Of course, I mean your brother no harm.’ ‘I’ve got a fix,’ said a nondescript menial, who had got a fix. ‘Two fixes in fact. But there’s no way of telling who they are,’ Dan and Gloria watched the little red spots on the flickering mud-brown screen. ‘They’re crossing the compound,’ the nondescript continued. ‘There, see the heat signature of the air car? They’ve entered the air car,’ ‘Must be Rex then,’ ‘And he’s got one of them with him,’ ‘Bring them back on automatic,’ Dan ordered.

  ‘It’s basic stuff,’ The Time Sprout checked out the dash-board. ‘Turn the key, give it some revs and pull back the joystick,’ ‘It’s a flipping spaceship!’ said Elvis Presley.

  ‘Flipping?’ asked the Time Sprout. ‘And Holy Ham-bake? I meant to mention that one earlier.’

  ‘Momma don’t like me to use no cuss words,’ said Elvis and he tugged the joystick harder.

  ‘They’re up,’ said the nondescript menial.

  ‘Then destroy the entire quadrant,’ Dan raised a knotted fist. ‘Nuke it out,’

  ‘Nuke it out?’ Gloria fell back from the screen. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Call it involuntary euthanasia,’

  ‘Co-ordinates fixed,’ said the menial, ‘Counting down,’

  ‘You can’t do this, you’ll start a war,’

  ‘Home territory, Gloria. A terrorist headquarters. The newscast will say that they blew themselves up with a bomb of their own making,’ Dan turned to the menial. ‘We are all prepared to video the explosion, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes, Inmost One.’

  ‘But... a warhead. That’s a bit drastic, isn’t it?’

  ‘Something is occurring Gloria. I can feel it. Accuse me of being overcautious, if you wish. No, scrub that, accuse me of nothing. I’m the Dalai Lama.’

  ‘The air car is free of the drop zone, Inmost One.’

  ‘Then launch.’ Dan made with the sweeping gestures

  ‘Om-mani-padme-boom.’

  OM MANI PADME BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM

  13

  . . . thirteen thousand. I kid you not. Thirteen thousand dollars.

  For a one dollar stake. I sat in Fangio’s all the next day just waiting for the God to show. 1 figured he’d want his share or something. But I guess 1 figured a whole lot more. Like how he’d picked me out of the teeming millions. How he’d come to do that. All kinds of stuff. I had the whole day to do it in. Around six he comes by. He was drunk but he was smiling. He says that he’s sorry he’s late, like as if we’d arranged something, which we hadn’t. He asks if I’m feeling lucky again, except the way he says it, it doesn’t seem like a question. Then he hands me the day’s sheet. The first five of the evening’s races out at the coast are ringed. I’ll need a new bookmaker, says I. He hands me a list of names. When you’re on a million, says he, we do Wall Street. And we do.

  The Suburban Book of the Dead

  The firestorm loosed itself. Brick melted, concrete became carbon. The canopy of flame flung itself up at the cloud cover where it whirled and twisted as if in agony. The shockwave spread, ionising the aether. Crushing and distorting, spreading its circle of death. ‘Nice shot,’ said Dalai Dan.

  Time passes quickly when you’re having a good time. It goes at a fair old lick while you’re asleep. What it does once you’re dead is anyone’s guess. Rex wasn’t dead. Betrayed and dumped upon from a great height. But not dead. He awoke in a great blackness, which was not altogether encouraging. Nor was the smell. He groaned, as one might, and felt about at himself in order to gauge how much, if anything, remained. The basics were all in place. Groaning once again for good measure, he tried to rise.

  ‘Easy now.’ The voice wasn’t his own. Nor was the smell of violets. ‘Who, I, where, what?’ Rex floundered about. A soft light grew before him. And she was there smiling. ‘You. You saved me . . .’

  She nodded. The golden corona about her head became brighter. ‘And I have watched over you for nearly eight hours. Now come with me. You will be all right.’

  ‘Showtime.’ Dan rolled down his sleeve. ‘And bring on the dancing girls.’

  ‘This is the time

  This is the place

  The time to face

  What the fates have in store

  It’s double or drop

  Do or die

  And here’s the guy

  You’ve all been waiting for

  He’s the man with the most

  The heavenly host

  The holiest ghost

  In the cosmic drama

  And here he is

  The Shah of Showbiz

  The Dalai . . . Dalai. . . Dalai

  Da-lai La-ma

  The Lamarettes high-kicked and made with the grinding pelvic movements. The cameras closed in upon golden pubic regions and then swung out to frame the grinning face of He-who-knows-what’s-what-in-the-great-meta-physical. ‘Hello and howdy doody,’ crowed the lad himself. ‘And welcome to Nemesis.’ Cue applause. Cue reprise.

  Lights flashed. Buzzers buzzed. The station logo chased its tails.

  ‘And a really special show we have lined up for you tonight.’ The bunker-bound, following the holy writ, popped cans of Buddhabeer and intoned the mantra of the day: ‘Give us an Om. Give us a Mani. . .’ and so on ad infinitum.

  ‘This is no ordinary show tonight. Not that any show could ever be called ordinary. Oh no, siree.’ Dan ran his hand down the naked thigh of an untried Lamarette. ‘We have a young man with us tonight who I know you’re going to love. Flew right into the station today. Says that he hails from Tupelo, Mississippi, and calls himself the King.’

  The Lamarettes went, ‘Ooooooooooh.’

  ‘Exactly. And how many kings can wear a single crown? No, don’t struggle over it. The answer is one. But this boy says he’s the one and only, so it looks like we’re gonna have fun. So ladies and gentlemen, I know you want to meet him. The King . . . come on down.’

  Encouraged by a twentieth-century farming contrivance, known as an electric cattle prod, Elvis Presley took the stage.

  As the spotlight hit him the King of Rock and Roll underwent a dramatic transformation. From bewildered schmuck to figure of greatness.

  Many and various are the wonders of this world, explainable for the most part, they’re not. ‘Bring the band on down behind me, boys,’ said the big E, ‘where’s my geetar?’

  ‘Welcome to the show,’ crowed Dan, spinning full circle upon a mirrored heel. ‘Mr King, is it not?’

  “The King.’ Said Elvis. ‘ Call me the King.’

  ‘Well ‘The’, we’re sure as makes no odds glad to see you here. And what would you like to answer questions on?’ Several of the Lamarettes had, to Dan’s annoyance, detached themselves from the throng and were now fawning about the young man with the killer sideburns. Straight for the chop this boy, thought Dan. ‘Come on now girls,’ he crooned, ‘give the man space to breathe.’

  ‘Ooooh and aaaah,’ went the Lamarettes.

  ‘Kindly desist!’ Knowing which sides of their bread had yak butter uppermost the wayward nubiles grudgingly withdrew. Pouting for the greater part. ‘On with the show,’ cried Dalai Dan.

  ‘Where’s my geetar?’ asked Elvis Presley.

  ‘I’ll get it, chief,’ said a small green voice.

  ‘Not quite tuning into you there, boy. What would you like to answer questions on tonight?’

  ‘Questions? I just did “Love Me Tender” on Ed Sullivan. If there’s gonna be questions I gotta square it with Colonel Tom.’

  ‘This is Nemesis,’ This boy is one clapper short of a temple bell, thought Dan. ‘Marion, can I have the questions? Any questions?’

  Marion’s appearance on stage always drew standing ovations from the male members of the bunker-bound. Which you may take as you will. No woman could really look that good, but Marion did anyway.
Even a conservative description of her bodily charms would be gratuitous. Elvis whistled. ‘Baby,’ he said.

  ‘The questions, Marion, please.’ Marion made free with the questions.

  ‘The questions are on Rock and Roll,’ she husked. Elvis strummed a chord upon the guitar he was suddenly holding. ‘Have I missed anything, chief?’ the sprout asked.

  Marion parted with the plastic question-card and swayed precariously from the stage. Elvis watched her go.

  ‘Okay, The King, the questions,’

  ‘Uh, just one minute,’ Elvis whispered something into his top pocket.

  ‘Outrageous,’ the sprout replied. ‘But good for a laugh. I’ll give it my best shot,’ Words and actions rolled into reverse. Marion returned to the stage walking backwards in a fast action re-run. She took back the question-card. Elvis took Marion in his arms and did young and healthy things to her. Refastening his fly, at length, he said, ‘On with the show, small buddy,’

  Time rolled forward and Marion left the stage a second time. Now in a state of disarray. She was wearing a very large smile.

  ‘Slight technical hitch,’ Dan spluttered. Something was going very wrong indeed.

  The cavern was stone-tiled and ancient. Unspeakable things oozed through gratings and dripped into a sea of blackness. But all Rex could smell was violets, all he could see was the beautiful woman. She was there in the middle of the foul lake. Standing. Her bare feet didn’t touch the water. ‘Who are you?’ Rex asked. ‘What are you?’

  ‘I am Christeen, and now is my time.’

  Rex shook his head. ‘I’m confused. I don’t understand.’

  ‘You will, all in good time. I have chosen you. We are in the End Days, the final times.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that.’

  ‘There are many pasts but only a single future.’

  ‘Where am I?’ Rex asked.

  ‘On the edge of tomorrow. Will you join me?’

  ‘I surely will.’ Rex Mundi walked upon the water.

  ‘And that is the correct answer.’ Dan grew slightly damp about the brow. ‘Which leaves you with just one single question left.’

  ‘No sweat,’

  ‘But before I ask you this question, let’s bring back Marion to tell us about tonight’s Special Star Death.’

  ‘Yeah, let’s do.’

  Lights flashed. Applause cued. Marion once more took to the stage. A golden envelope in a gloved hand. ‘Tonight’s Star Death is a real killer,’ she purred, opening said envelope and reading as one does from the card. ‘It’s a chance to be ...

  ‘Brutally slain.’

  ooooooooh and aaaaaah.

  ‘Ritually disembowelled.’

  aaaaaaaah and ooooooh

  ‘And literally torn to pieces in a frenzy of sexually crazed bloodlust.’

  ‘Well all right,’ yelled Dan, ‘and we want to see it.’

  ‘Hey, fella.’ Elvis flexed his manly shoulders and adjusted his guitar strap. The magical guitar was worrying Dan no end. ‘Hey fella, I don’t think I get this.’

  Dan winked at the viewing public. ‘What don’t you get, boy?’

  ‘Well. Now see here. If I answer the question wrong then I get . . .’ He drew his right forefinger across his throat. Dan nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘And if I get the question right, I still get . . .’

  Dan’s head bounced up and down. ‘That’s the way we play the game.’

  ‘Ah. No sweat then. Just didn’t want to look a jerk in front of my public.’

  ‘No problem. Now just stand on the spot there. We want all the viewers to see you.’ Elvis stood on the spot.

  ‘Okay. Right on. The question.’ Dan waggled his finger at the mythical studio audience. ‘And no helping out there.’ The crowd synthesiser roared with laughter. ‘Can you complete the following? Well since my baby left me . . . I’ve found a new place to dwell . . . it’s . . .’ Dan’s words trailed off. Holophonic images swam in his brain. Black vinyl in a protectrite shell. Worlds colliding. Time collapsing at the edges.

  ‘It’s down at the end of lonely street at Heartbreak Hotel,’ sang Elvis Presley. Dan backed away from him. The aura surrounding the singing man was unreadable, unbearable. But the voice . . . the voice.

  ‘SUN,’ mouthed the Dalai Lama. ‘You are SUN.’

  Elvis was alone in the spotlight. The bunker-bound looked on in awe. Something was occurring. Certain board members, domiciled upon a distant planet swapped incredulous expressions. ‘That’s what’s-his-name,’ gasped Gryphus Garstang. ‘You know . . .’

  ‘Paisley,’ said Lavinius Wisten. ‘Ian Paisley. How in the nose of God did he get there?’

  14

  . . . and the God says to me, it’s a restructuring job. We’re putting the world to rights and that can’t be wrong, can it? No, says I. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, says he. Too true, says I. We had a deal of property by then and were extending into the entertainment industry. All legit, I might add. Or looked to be. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. I remember that. Because it seemed like a lot of people were being taken away. People who got awkward or too nosy or whatever. I never saw where they went but went they did. He was restructuring and I was living high off the hog. Praise the Lord, says I.

  The Suburban Book of the Dead

  Is this the real life or is this just Battersea?

  Freddie Mercury

  ‘Fergus, I would like your opinion on this.’ Fergus Shaman’s eyes flickered towards Garstang, then back to the screen. ‘Well, he’s singing, isn’t he?’

  Gryphus Garstang leant back in Mungo Madoc’s chair. He was smoking one of the lime-green cheroots from Mungo’s private stock. ‘Why am I getting this strange kind of deja vu?’ he asked.

  Fergus shrugged nervously. ‘I really couldn’t say. The continuation of the genetic code throughout succeeding generations argues for the existence of ancestral memory. Your grandfather possibly . . .’

  ‘If that is the case then I must be one of Garstang’s distant cousins,’ Diogenes chimed in, ‘which I’m not.’

  ‘You never can tell.’ Fergus tried hard to sound convincing.

  ‘Presley,’ cried Wisten. ‘Elvis Aron Presley, born January the eighth, 1935. Joined the US Army twenty-fourth of March, 1958.’

  Garstang sprang to his feet and pawed at the intercom. ‘Get me Jason Morgawr,’ he demanded.

  Morgawr’s handsome face appeared a moment later upon the desk set. ‘You rang?’

  ‘Do you have access to the exact date on which the virus was inserted?’ Garstang asked.

  ‘Twenty-third March, 1958,’ Jason rattled it out. ‘Ingrained into all our memories, I would have thought.’

  ‘Quite so.’ Garstang blanked Jason’s face from the screen.

  ‘A curious coincidence,’ Fergus suggested.

  ‘What’s that?’ Lavinius Wisten pointed to the enlarged image of Presley.

  ‘What’s what?’ Gryphus followed the pointing finger.

  ‘Up there, sticking out of his breast pocket. It looks almost like a . . .’

  ‘Sprout,’ said Gryphus Garstang. ‘It looks like a sprout. Fergus, where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘I’m going to be sick,’ Fergus replied.

  Elvis bowed towards his viewing millions. ‘I wouldn’t wait around for an encore,’ the sprout advised. ‘I think we had best be away.’

  The security men burst into the studio. All stun suits, mirrored visors and weighted truncheons. They plunged from either side of the stage to meet head-on in an orgy of unrestrained violence. But the punishment they meted out was only inflicted upon their fellows. Of Elvis Presley and his little green buddy no trace whatever remained. It all went down very big with the viewing public of at least two worlds. Tune in next week, they most certainly would.

  Dan crouched on his sofa. The cocktail glass was never very far from his mouth. Gloria paced the floor behind him. Her thoughts were not music to the Dalai’s inner ear. ‘Stop p
acing, damn you. You’re giving me a head-ache. Look, look.’ Dan re-ran the video yet again. ‘There, see it? He just vanishes. Gone. Here, see it again,’

  ‘I have seen it. Seen it till my eyes crossed. You have really fouled up this time.’

  ‘Me? How was I to know?’

  ‘I thought you knew everything.’

  ‘Well I do. Almost.’

  ‘You kill my brother and you let this clown make a fool out of you on your own show. I’ll bet Pope Joan is splitting her raiments.’

  ‘Shut up! This is serious. Don’t you realize who that was?’

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’

  ‘It was SUN.’ croaked Dan, emptying his glass into his throat and reaching it out for a refill. ‘It was SUN himself.’

  ‘SUN?’ Gloria looked perplexed. ‘What do you mean? On the vinyl, that SUN?’

  ‘That SUN. I knew something big was happening.’

  ‘But how? I mean it’s impossible. He must have died before the NHE.’ Gloria flung herself into a chair, breathing heavily. ‘It can’t be.’ She chewed her lower lip. ‘I want to hear it,’ she said suddenly.

  ‘What, hear the vinyl? Through the holophon? Certainly not, you couldn’t take it.’

  ‘I want to hear it.’

  Dan gazed at her, a strange expression upon his face. ‘It’s all connected somehow.’ His voice lacked any tone. ‘Something between he and I and it is in there somewhere.’

  ‘Then I want to hear it.’

  ‘All right. Perhaps you should.’ Dan took up the headset and wiped the plastic beads. ‘I should have killed him the moment we found him in Rex’s air car. I should have realized then.’

  ‘So why didn’t you?’

  Dan adjusted the headset over Gloria’s hair and fed the beads into her ears. ‘I have no idea at all,’ he replied with disarming frankness. ‘Are you ready?’ Gloria nodded. Dan jacked in and set the level to its minimum. Gloria nodded again. Dan pressed the ‘on’.