“Excuse me…”
…of a strawberry milk-shake. Sorry, did you say something?
“The mouse. Now where is it?”
About eight inches to your immediate left. It seems to be eating a microscopic crumb of some sort, probably toasted crumpet.
“I wonder if you might possibly…”
No, it’s gone again. Something must have disturbed it. That’s a real shame, in my opinion. A good mouse is hard to find, I always think.
“Gone?”
“Fraid so, yes. Now then, where were we? Had I got on to “If at first you don’t succeed” yet?
Kiss slumped against the side of the bottle. True, in even the most spacious bottle slumping room is generally at a premium, but he managed quite nicely under the circumstances.
“Listen to me,” he said. “Any minute now, the air is going to be blue with fucking great big nuclear bombs. Unless I do something about it, these bombs are going to blow up the planet. Now, can you do anything to help?”
That does put rather a different complexion on it, the voice admitted.
“I rather thought it might.”
Quite so. In that case, I think either, “You can’t make omelettes”, or “It’s no use crying over spilt milk” would be rather more appropriate. Or possibly even, “It is better to have loved and lost than…”
This, Kiss reflected, is what comes of getting involved. If I was back in the bar right now, along with the rest of the lads, none of this would matter. True the planet would go pop, but so what, there’s plenty of planets. Let’s have another cup of coffee and another piece of pie. But as it is…
“I think I’ll pass on all of those, thank you. So unless you’ve got anything actually positive to suggest…”
Try singing.
“Right, that does it,” Kiss snarled. “Unless you’re out of my head in a five seconds flat, I’m going to bash my brains out against the side of the bottle. One-Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three-Mississippi.”
He paused and listened. Nothing. Good.
Won’t be long now. Time, ladies and gentlemen, please. Haven’t you got afterlives to go to?
He waited.
Try singing. Try singing, for God’s sake. Yes, of course! Now why the hell hadn’t he thought of that for himself?
The bomb had fallen asleep.
Just, grumbled the carpet to itself, my bloody rotten luck. First time I’ve been on a promise in God knows how long, and she goes and falls asleep on me. Marvellous.
The carpet flew on regardless. It was, after all, a gentle carpet. Take her back to the shop, let her sleep it off there.
As if things weren’t bad enough, it noticed as it flew, she snores. Or rather, she ticks loudly in her sleep. Amounts to the same thing, in the long run.
Question. Since it’s such a painfully obvious solution, why hasn’t anybody thought of doing it before?
Answer. Because genies are generally too bone-idle and pig-ignorant to try anything. Put a genie in a bottle and he’ll stay there till somebody lets him out. After all, they have all the time in the world.
Kiss cleared his throat, swallowed, and sang.
“Do-rey-mi-fah-so-la-tee-do!”
Nothing. He tried again, an octave higher. Then an octave higher still. That was enough to make his eyes water and his teeth ache.
Excelsior.
“Do-rey-mi-fah-so-la — tee-DO!”
He paused to massage his throat and jaw. Come on, Kiss, if some fat lady in a blond wig and a hat with horns on can do it, so can you. Higher still.
“DO-REY-MI-FAH-SO-LA-TEE-DO!”
He broke off, coughing like a terminal tuberculosis case, and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. Reckon I’m just not cut out for this sort of work, he told himself.
Indeed. Very apt.
“DO-REY-MI-FAH…”
Success; and just in time, too. Another note higher and he’d have been in no fit state to save green shield stamps, let alone the world.
Subjected to a harmonic stress equivalent to seven fat elephants jumping up and down on it, the bottle flew into pieces. Kiss tumbled out, cutting himself to the bone on broken glass as he did so, hit the tiled floor of the fireplace, swore horribly and scrambled to his feet; all in one nice, fluid movement. All around him windows were falling out, decanters were splitting, light bulbs were popping. The mouse was curled up in a ball in the coal-scuffle, its paws jammed in its ears. Only the picture of Abraham Lincoln seemed not to mind, probably because its mind was on other things.
“Now then,” Kiss said aloud, as he aimed himself at the window. “That was the easy bit.”
He jumped.
The sky, when he got there, was a bit like the Rome rush-hour. Nose to tail intercontinental ballistic missiles, all hopelessly snarled up, their proximity-actuated guidance systems completely up the pictures, all at a complete standstill; honking, swearing, waggling their fins in unconcealed fury, trying to nudge past on the inside, ignoring the traffic-light beacons helpfully shot up into orbit by Side A’s mission control centre, and generally not improving the situation. Kiss crossed from Europe to Asia by walking across the backs of bottleneck bombs.
There is no need, Kiss realised, to save the world. Just sit back and let old Captain Balls-Up do it for you.
Nevertheless he was here now, he might as well make himself useful.
He rolled up his sleeves, materialised a whistle and a pair of white gloves, took his stand on a small wisp of cloud a few feet over the seething mass of bombs, and started to direct the traffic out of orbit in the general direction of Ursa Major. It took him about half an hour, during the course of which his ankles were lightly singed by overheating rocket motors and a Class 93 ran over his foot. Apart from that, it was a doddle.
That left just the one bomb, presently sleeping it off on a mattress improvised out of priceless Turkestan rugs in Justin’s uncle’s shop. Kiss didn’t know about that one, of course. Nobody can know everything.
Right, he said to himself, done that. That was more of the easy bit. It was time he got on with the job in hand.
“So there you are,” said Philly Nine, whooshing into existence a foot or so above his head. “Pretty long phone call, if you ask me.”
“I got held up,” Kiss admitted, “but I’m back now.”
“Good. Shall we get on with it, then?”
“Only too pleased. Oh, by the way, I got rid of all those missiles.”
Philly looked at him. “Oh,” he said. “You did, did you?”
Kiss nodded. “They were cluttering the place up a bit,” he said, “so I shooed them away. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Plenty more where those came from, I expect,” Philly replied. “Production lines probably working double time right this very minute. Honestly, Kiss old thing, you are naive.”
In his time, which was roughly coeval with the Universe, Kiss had been called a wide selection of things, but this was a new one. “You think so?” he said.
Philly nodded. “You honestly think you can save the world by getting rid of a few bombs? Dream on, chum, dream on. All they’ll do is build some more. Idiots they may be, but what they lack in basic survival instinct they make up for in dogged persistence. And of course,” he added, “I shall be there to offer whatever assistance they require.”
“Will you now?”
“I confidently predict that I will be.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Leonardo da Vinci, had he been there, would have wept.
So would Shakespeare, and Goethe, and Tolstoy. And Beethoven and Mozart and Jelly Roll Morton, and Sophocles and Flaubert and Rubens and Molière and Wordsworth and Brahms and Petrarch and Diaghilev and Jane Austen and Tintoretto and probably Virgil, Buddy Holly and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.