“You are critical of our thespian friends, yes?”
“I move in political circles, Doctor. That should tell you all you need to know. But I digress. Please. Take my card. You’ll notice there’s no name. Have the idiot delivered to this address. You’ll find it’s a bawdy house but…”
“A ‘bawdy house’?”
“A brothel. A place where kidnapped women rent their internal friction for the stimulation of lonely gentlemen. I prefer to do my dealings in whorehouses. Visitors with something to lose keep quiet. Those without, well, it’s a professional hazard, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“Why, being shot and mutilated in an alleyway, of course. My idiot knows the place. In fact, they treat him as some kind of mascot there. And you might find it somewhat educational yourself. On a purely physiological level, of course. You being a married man and all…. Well, now, must be going.”
“You are leaving? I shall see you out. Stemset is
a big facility, yes?”
“No need. I have the plans to the building and an airship equipped with thermal imaging equipment tracking my location. I might take the scenic route, though. You don’t mind?”
“A-hah! There is nothing here you could try to steal which would not be tearing your throat out first. Speaking of which, be wary around the West wing, enclosure 247:B. That is where we are keeping the Gulls.”
“Gulls? Carrion Gulls? Still breeding them, are you? Christ!”
“I may be sounding defensive, but please do tell another way to clean up incriminating battlefield mess?”
“Yes, but when there aren’t any dead soldiers, the Carrion Gulls migrate inland and eat children.”
“It is an economic equation, yes? We need Carrion Gulls on constant standby to make conflict zones look innocent for television cameras. We cannot cull them. They cannot breed naturally and cloning is prohibitively expensive. Too many birds have avian flu to harvest DNA. But children are cheap to replace. Give common women alcohol and their legs divide like the Red Sea to Moses. It is swings and roundabouts, yes?”
“Yes. Empty ones.”
The black limousine speeds through blacker night. The rear-view mirror reveals Ceesal, writhing contentedly around the backseat like a hippo in a warm morphine fug. We could pay attention but we don’t need to. Malmot is asleep. This is his dream:
“I’ve never understood why ‘cunt’ is a swearword,” announces Ceesal in an eloquent voice.
“And why is that?” says Malmot, distracted, disinterested, sweating narcotics, trying to drive inconspicuously but seeing everything like a cubist painting. Only rounder.
“Because,” Ceesal continues, “fifty percent of the population have them, and the majority of the other fifty spend most of their time trying to get in them. Why would a chap want to do that if they were so bad? And lesbians?! Lesbians’ve got ’em, they know the drawbacks, and they still chase after ’em. So, I think, they must be rather good. I think ‘cunt’ should be a compliment.”
“Much as I admire your newfound capacity for lateral thought,” says Malmot, “try calling King William a cunt… See if you get a knighthood.”
“I like thinking!” Ceesal laughs. “Can’t recall ever doing it before!”
“And what was it Holubec did to you again?” Malmot asks, noting that King Tutankhamen’s mummy is sitting in the passenger seat, taking notes.
“Well,” Ceesal starts. “He scanned my head and found that my brain was adhering to the inside of my skull. The massive pressure on vital areas was what was making me such a confounded imbecile, you see.”
“He’s right,” says Tutankhamen before transforming into Malmot’s mother and then a leopard. “I never loved you,” says the leopard. The numbers on the speedometer morph into letters. Malmot changes into fifth and accelerates to PMC miles an hour. The leopard changes its spots.
“They went in through a tiny hole,” Ceesal continues, “did some jiggery pokery and, lo and behold, it turns out I’m actually something of a clever clogs. However, they do concede that I have very little sense of shame or embarrassment….Will you excuse me, I’m just going to wave my penis out of the window. Ah! That’s better!”
The leopard turns to Malmot.
“It’s Bactrian all over again,” it says. “Turn off at the next exit for Purgatory.”
“Not actual Hell?” Malmot asks. “That’s a relief!”
“Oh, you’re going to Hell,” the leopard replies, “but first you have to do the induction course.”
“So I’m the prime minister?” chips in Ceesal, leaning in between the front seats.
“Technically speaking,” says the leopard, “you should spell Prime Minister with capitals. It’s arcane usage but I feel the lower case implies disrespect.”
“Shut up, Leopard!” Malmot snaps. “And put that pipe out!”
“I’m the Prime Minister,” says Ceesal smugly. “And you say I’ve got an interview tomorrow? On live television? That’ll be fun. I’ll make it fun!”
“Not live, thank God,” Malmot answers. “You see, we must retain control of your public image. We may need to, how shall we say, massage the footage somewhat – ensure you come out in the best light.”
“You consider me something of a liability, don’t you?” Ceesal laughs. “Worried I’m going to upset the applecart, are you? Too much of a live wire, eh?! Oh dear! Hah! It’s a wonder you don’t arrange a little accident for me?! I would – in your shoes. A-hah!”
He’s ahead of me, thinks Malmot, checking for a pistol in the glove compartment.
“Don’t,” whispers the leopard. “The car’s armoured. It’ll ricochet. Drive him down to the docks and collapse a building on his head.”
“I’ve got to stop him going to that interview,” Malmot whispers back.
“Like I said,” the leopard repeats, “it’s the docks and a rickety warehouse or nothing. Because you won’t stop him. He’s smart now. He’ll escape. He’ll probably drug you and run off to the interview without you.” And it leans over and paws the speedometer, now calibrated in hieroglyphics. “And slow down.”
Malmot awakes. He pushes aside the meal that Ceesal doped and considers that everything he has dreamed, bar Tutankhamen and the talking animal, has actually happened. His eyes settle upon a folded note:
Dear Malmot,
Gone to the studio. Didn’t think you’d mind. Have taken Big Tony, Mustapha and that slutty admin girl with the big backside and the self-esteem issues. I’m expecting to get lucky.
Charming, thinks Malmot. Especially the signature in the shape of ejaculating genitals. He holsters his pistol, slips a silencer into his inside pocket, slides a sheathed stiletto knife into his sock suspender and pockets a packet a poison for good measure.
“P.S. What is it, exactly, that you do?” he repeats bitterly. “I do what needs to be done.”
“Wow! That Hitler could really work a crowd!”
Opinions and attitudes can shift over time. Take Vlad III Tepes for example. That’s ‘The Impaler’ to you and I. He killed an estimated eighty thousand people - including women and children - skewering twenty thousand of them through the anus with sharpened wooden poles, standing them upright and leaving them to die in man-made forests of rotting corpses. But that’s all water under the bridge since Bram Stoker recast him as a sexy bereaved husband who can turn into a bat. Yes, goth girls get very wet for Vlad “Dracula”, and now something equally weird’s happening with old Adolf.