Cowboys and Dinosaurs - Chapter 13

13. The Word of Dave

When he finally found his way out of the front door, which confounded his attempts at escape without offering any significant resistance to incoming credit-card-armed burglars, he found a Post-It note stuck to the inside of the door out to the street. The note read: THIS IS NOT OVER! 10 EYE'S 4 1 EYE! 10 TEETH 4 1 TOOTH! U PUT OUR FOOT SOLDIER IN HOSPITEL! WE WILL PUT U IN DA MORG! SINE'D DA PALACE ALBANIANS PP BURGLAR KING LTD.

Steve folded up the Post-It, put it in his pocket, and went to open the front door. Then he thought better of it, closed the door again, and walked upstairs to Gonoroid's front door.

The door was undamaged. It would be difficult to damage it; it was made of billet aluminium.

He stabbed experimentally at the keypad with a finger. Despite the lack of letters or numbers on the pad, he had correctly memorized the key sequence. The door swung open. He stepped in. The outer door clanged shut behind him. Chrissie Hynde began telling him the pressure was equalizing.

If it's still set to trap intruders, I could be here a long time. They'll find me dehydrated in a pool of my own shit and piss. If they find me at all. Christ, what if Gonoroid dies in hospital of, I don't know, non-sterile stitching poisoning? My fossilized corpse might be found by paleontologists. 'We believe the species used to entomb their dead in steel airlocks, based on this one specimen. We believe this may have had some religious purpose...'

The inner door hissed open. The room inside still looked virtually untouched, though there was a nasty snail-trail of blood between door and telephone. That, thought Steve, will have to go. He resolved to clear it up. This, however, would be easier said than done. Where was the kitchen? The whole windowless compartment resembled the inside of a fictional starship, and fictional starships no more possessed kitchens than they did lavatories.

In any case, he would do it later. For the time being, he had work to do.

The remote control operated everything else in the room. He had never seen Gonoroid operate anything manually. The number of hidden power points behind all the beautifully machined plastic surfaces must be daunting.

He located the remote control. It had only two controls, plus a wheel and mouse ball. The room's many components, Gonoroid had explained, were operated from one single computer. (In actual fact, the explanation Gonoroid had furnished was that the room was controlled by two clustered Compaq Proliants providing full hot failover, fibre-channelled to a RAID-5-configured SAN for maximum porno volume, but Steve had argued him down to One Single Computer).

Steve had operated the One Single Computer before. It wasn't a Windows installation - Gonoroid believed Windows to be the Devil's jizz in electronic form, pumped in a form of trans-species rape into the hard drives of virgin PC-compatibles - but the Linux interface was simple and easy to use. It also contained no paperclips, dogs, smart cut and paste buttons or unwanted pop-up windows that Asked If You Ever Wanted To See Them Again.

He quickly found all seventeen of Gonoroid's cameras. One of them was trained on the door at the front of the building. In front of the door was a car containing Lucian and Noel. Noel was sharpening a knife.

Steve decided to take the back exit.

***

"There are how many cameras?" Mr. Botham was outraged.

"Seventeen. Don't worry, none of them are in your flat."

"In that case, they clearly prove who broke into the flat and injured Mr. Quarxxx. You should turn them in to the police." Mr. Botham removed his hat so he could tear his hair in frustration. Steve had suspected the hat might conceal baldness, but he actually had very good hair. "How did the police miss them?"

"This is the police we're talking about", said Steve.

"Good point. Probably a good thing they did miss them, to be honest. Mr. Quarxxx might not relish having to explain such a passion for observing his neighbours." Mr. Botham squinted narrowly at Steve. "You're sure he has no cameras in my flat?"

"Yes. Why, what do you do in there, dress as a red indian squaw for your guilty pleasure?"

Mr. Botham stared coldly over Steve's desk. "I find that remark inappropriate, Steve."

"I'm sorry. It's just that I'm under a lot of strain." Steve looked round the office, wondering at the ability of so many other human beings to continue working while their colleague at the next desk was under threat of murder. "I'm pretty sure the police will be no use. I might be safe if I don't go to Lucian and tell him a mistake's been made. But Gonoroid could be hurt badly, or worse still, hurt extremely skilfully."

Mr. Botham raised an eyebrow, his equivalent of a grimace. "You must do whatever you think best."

"But they're coming after you too!"

Mr. Botham shook his head. "I do not get into trouble as easily as you do. People, however, large and violent, are usually willing to listen to reason." He unlocked his workstation painstakingly.

"Excuse me? You got me into this trouble by rubbing salt in the wound! Putting out two hundred portraits of Ronnie Dowd printed on the side of bandits."

Mr. Botham pursed his lips. "I was unaware when I did it that he had only one arm and was homosexual. I had no reason to suspect he might take offence; I was only trying to help."

Steve clapped his hands over his temples. "I know you were. I know you were. But I can't see any way out of this that doesn't involve, you know, me ceasing to exist. Did you see the local news on the BBC website this morning? That guy who got stuck in between Gonoroid's two airlock doors woke up in the ambulance, didn't know where he was, and jumped out into moving traffic. It's touch and go whether he lives or dies. That means we killed one of theirs, and that means they've got to kill one of ours -"

Mr. Botham tutted. "An eye for an eye only makes the whole world blind", he said. "Apart from one final person, necessary for the final blinding to be accomplished, always assuming an even number of world inhabitants. The trick is to be that person. I believe this needs to be taken to a higher authority than the police."

Steve looked up, alarmed. "You don't mean -"

"I do", said Mr. Botham.

***

"One Guinness and one Stella, Dave", said Mr. Botham. "And a packet of cheese and onion."

"Coming right up." Dave reassessed the faces of his customers. "Why the dejection, my children?"

"O Dave", said Steve, "we are afflicted by a plague of fake Albanian gangsters."

"We all have our crosses to bear", said Dave, "or in the case of Grizzly Adams, our bear to cross. Maybe the LORD my Father has sent these fake Albanians to teach you a valuable lesson in how to be better people."

"If 'better' means 'dead', then you may have something there", said Steve, unimpressed.

"Ah, I remember this one", said Dave, half filling Mr. Botham's pint. "A doubting Thomas. You will not believe until you have thrust your fist into my wound." He handed Steve his lager. Steve accepted it, but not without a cautious sniff at its contents. "Something wrong?"

"Nothing", said Steve begrudgingly. "It's amazing how a little thing like talk of wound-fisting can put you off the contents of your drink."

"All refreshments in this bar are untouched by mortal hand", promised Dave, openly peeling a banana.

"You know", said Steve, taking a first swig of his beer, "for an omnipotent, omnipresent, prescient being, you're not much use in a crisis, Dave."

"O ye of little faith. Have you asked for my assistance?"

Steve was forced to admit this. "Not as such."

"Then ask, child, and it may or may not be given, depending on the depth of your wickedness."

Steve cleared his throat.

"O Dave -" he began.

"With the hands", said Dave excitedly. "The thing with the hands."

Irritably, Steve clasped his hands together in prayer. "O Dave; bring down confusion upon mine enemies. Destroy them utterly unto the seventh generation. Cast them into the outer darkness, where there will be a weeping, and a wailing, and a gnashing of teeth."

"Mine enemies?" said Dave. "You have enemies underground?"

"It's archaic."

"I see." Dave handed Mr. Botham his Guinness, which was gratefully accepted.

Steve winked expectantly. Dave looked nondescriptly back at him.

"Well?" said Steve.

"Well what?" said Dave.

"Aren't you going to confound mine enemies?"

"Dave", said Dave, "helps those who help themselves. (For your information, I am watching the crisp packets to your left, and if you make any attempt to help yourselves in that fashion, I shall Wax Wroth on your Ass. In order to help yourselves, I suggest you look to one who has run a thousand miles in the overpriced trainers of others."

Steve stared intently at Dave.

"That's a cryptic but prophetic comment, isn't it?" he said. "The idea being that I don't actually understand it until it's almost too late."

"Take it or leave it", said Dave. "The Management accepts no responsibility."

"I understand it now", said Steve. He turned to Mr. Botham. "How long has Devasekhara been in the Hell of Being Chav now?"

Mr. Botham did not even pause for calculation. "Assuming he was correct in his dates when he first told us, around one thousand and one days."

Steve's spine tingled. "He's done it! He's reached Nirvana!"

Mr. Botham bridled at the term. "I'm not quite sure Nirvana would be exactly the word -"

"Come on", said Steve. "He's the man with the answers. We've got a perfectly legitimate client visit to do." He drained his pint and gestured for Mr. Botham to do the same. When the other man protested, he drained Botham's pint himself.

"Hey! That was mine -"

"I'll buy you another. We're off to Balls and Bandits."

They left. Dave shrugged and began polishing glasses.

"Not bad for a little bit of improvised bullshit", he said happily. He caught the eye of a customer over the bar. "What? Divine beings can't just make stuff up every now and again? Three words, my son - Duck-Billed Platypus."

***

The arcade was a mess. Plastic flakes were being swept off the floor with a dustpan and brush. Sad faces stared up out of the polypropylene. Dusty shadows marked the carpet on the left hand side where seven McSweeny machines still had yet to be repaired and returned to service. On the right hand side, however, stood seven Sommers B300's in new clothes - Cowboys and Dinosaurs, The Court of King Arthur, Lucky Devil, Lucky Number, Lucky Shot, Win A Freakin Million, and, Steve was disturbed to note, King of Crime. Ronnie Dowd's face sneered at him from among the Tilt and Double Or Nothing buttons. He was interested to note that the bells and fruit of a standard bandit had been replaced by dollar signs, bullets, and lipstick.

Robed minions were at work repairing the damage the Palace Albanians had done. Rather than the hoodies and sportswear they had worn last week, however, this week they were wearing Tyrian purple monks' robes and sandals. One of them bowed to Steve.

"This Nike's new look for the coming year, is it?" said Steve.

"We've had to let the old staff go", said the monk in a disconcerting Scouse accent. "From the ashes of this place will grow a shrine to the glory of the new Boddhisatthva."

"The former staff didn't look monky enough, then."

The monk bowed. "We plan to build on this site a Bad Hat sect monastery incorporating a pound land, mobile phone stockist, sportswear superstore and megacasino to celebrate the named of the Ascended Devasekhara. Wearing saffron-coloured sportswear, our acolytes will operate high-payout slot machines, roulette tables, poker games, and coin waterfalls."

"In a monastery", said Steve.

"Of course, as we are a religious organization, our tax position will be very interesting", continued the monk, holding Steve's gaze. "Possibly even unique."

"Sounds like a valid business plan", said Mr. Botham.

"Religious charity", corrected the monk. "Not business."

"Have you considered", said Steve, "that all this might attract the attention of London's underworld?"

"Not at all", said the monk, cheerfully sweeping another pile of gangster-shattered plastic flakes into his dustpan. "However, by pure coincidence, another of our number, an inoffensive seven stone weakling, has only recently announced an intention to pursue enlightenment by living as a violent criminal for a year. If he is successful, we may need to open another monastery with quite a different purpose."

Steve reconsidered holding the monk's gaze.

"Is Mr. Devasekhara at home to visitors?" said the Mr. Botham.

"No", said the monk. "However, his reincarnated self, the Bodhisattva Brooklyn Starshyne 2 Da Max, is In Da House."

"Can we see him?" said Steve. "We've sort of come from the East, or from towards Hornsey at any rate, bearing gifts." He held up an illustrated catalogue demonstratively.

"Naturally." The monk graciously opened a door into Devasekhara's office, in which little had changed, apart from the fact that Devasekhara appeared to be floating beatifically in mid-air, legs crossed in meditation. As Steve and Mr. Botham entered, he extended a hand into the Fear-Not position. In the background twin, Aphex Twin blared so loudly as to constitute the foreground.

Devasekhara noticed his visitors' concern at his levitated state. "IT'S ALL DONE WITH WIRES", he yelled. "ISN'T IT FABULOUS? I WOULD COME DOWN, ONLY I CAN'T. I'M WEARING A SORT OF BIG MONKISH PARACHUTE HARNESS." He clicked his fingers; the acolyte crossed the room and pressed a switch, and the Aphex Twin died in the speakers.

"We have come here for some advice", said Mr. Botham, "seeking the wisdom of a newly-enlightened Bodhisattva."

"Who sent you?" said Devasekhara suspiciously.

"God", said Steve.

"Dave, then", said Devasekhara.

"Dave", admitted Steve. "We need to know how to get rid of the Palace Albanians."

Devasekhara nodded wisely. "You need to emulate the actions of Captain Delamitri in TOSS 13, Find A Nutcracker."

"Hang on." Steve was indignant. "I came here to consult an enlightened superbeing, not my friend Gonoroid who has already plainly demonstrated an inability to deal with extreme irrational violence using an encyclopaedic knowledge of bad Seventies sci-fi. Can't you furnish some inner Zen wisdom or something?"

Devasekhara smiled down from the ceiling. "I advise you to place your enemy between the Man of Steel and the Tiger."

Steve spread his arms in consternation. "Well, what's that supposed to mean?"

"You don't know much about Zen, I take it."

Steve shook his head. "I know that it's heavily involved in motorcycle maintenance, but that's about it."

"Go now!" said Devasekhara. "Let the world teach you."

"Now just a bleeding minute here -" Steve advanced to within jumping distance of the suspended Living Buddha. Devasekhara nodded to his scouse acolytes, who seized up brooms and floormops and levelled them at Steve.

"Careful", said Devasekhara. "He is skilled in the ways of the floormop."

Steve considered further confrontation, then shook his head in disgust, turned on his heel and left. Encountering a brass buddha by the door, he heaved at it and sent it crashing to the floor.

Mr. Botham raised his hat politely and followed Steve.

The monks clustered round the stricken Sakyamuni. One of them began lifting its head.

"Easy, brother", said another monk. "It's cast brass."

"He ain't heavy", said the first monk. "He's my Buddha."

The monks began giggling despite themselves. One of them slapped another playfully. The other one slapped back.

***

"So now we're no better off than we were before", said Steve.

Mr. Botham failed to agree. "We have instructions", he said.

"I'm not sure", said Steve. "There are times when I doubt the divinity of Dave."

A nearby overheard Steve, made the Sign of Dave, and crossed to the other side of the road.

"Personally", said Mr. Botham, "I am a Davenostic. I am open to the possibility of Dave."

Steve kicked at a burger carton on the pavement. "I'm afraid I may have to leave town altogether for an undisclosed location."

"Ah, like Jonah taking ship for Tarshish, thinking thereby to escape the Lord's command."

"Dave hasn't commanded me to do anything. The only things Dave has ever commanded me to do have been to Drink Up and Adjust My Dress Before Leaving. All he does otherwise is suggest. It preserves my free will."

"I do think we should visit Mr. Quarxxx again, however. Despite the fact that he will almost certainly not be able to derive a solution to the problem of organized crime from the information given, he is our neighbour, and we do have an obligation."

"All right. You talked me into it. But only if you pay the car parking charges."

Mr. Botham nodded and held the zapper in the direction of the Pool Car. It flashed back at him cooperatively.

***

"Oh god." Gonoroid stared at Steve and Mr. Botham and burrowed into his pillow. "Oh god, just go."

"Downers", said Mr. Botham with an air of I-told-you-so.

"Not feeling too good, then", said Steve.

"They've given me something", said Gonoroid. "This morning I was so happy. Why couldn't they just let me be happy?"

"We have something", said Steve, bending to Gonoroid's ear and whispering, "that'll help you be happy."

Mr. Botham's face exhibited deep disapproval. "What have you got there? You've not got any more of that? Are you aware of how illegal that is? We're lucky you weren't arrested with it last night -"

"All the more reason", said Steve softly, "for getting rid of it while we can." He cracked the ampoule and slid the end of the syringe into it. "Now, Mr. Quarxxx - do you want some of Doctor Steve's Tricksier Elixir?"

"Oh god", said Gonoroid, staring at the syringe. "Oh my word."

"Check that water shoots out of it", fussed Mr. Botham. "You don't want to inject an air bubble. And you're supposed to be injecting the patient, Steve. STEVE!"

Steve, who had been sitting staring at the needle poised over his own median cubital vein, snapped back to reality and set to pushing a stream of liquid nirvana into Gonoroid's arm.

"Oh crumbs", said Gonoroid. "Oh law."

"This", said Steve, patting Gonoroid on the head and bending his elbow to close the wound, "will be our little secret."

"We were lucky enough to get in to visit in the first place", said Mr. Botham. "If it hadn't been a different lady on duty, we'd have been recognized."

"If you hadn't taken off your hat", said Steve, "we would have been."

"Was I wearing a hat last night?"

"Oh god", said Gonoroid. "Oh my, oh that's better." He looked up. "Thank you, Doctor Steve."

"Pretend to be glum and depressed for the rest of the day", said Steve, "and don't let on we gave you anything."

"The police were round", said Gonoroid. "The duty non-nurse told him two drug addicts got into the ward and maliciously sewed me up before making off with the contents of the medicine cabinet."

"How's the stitching?"

"Not bad. They wanted to unpick it and redo it because it wasn't a union job. I wouldn't let them near it."

"Good lad. Now", Steve said, sitting down on the bed beside Gonoroid, "we have ourselves a little situation, and though this is admittedly a slim hope, we were hoping you might be able to shed light on it. What can you tell me about TOSS 13?"

Gonoroid spoke almost before the sentence had ended, automatically: "The design for the Mancunians' silver space underwear was done by a very young Alexander McQueen. The original diorama of the Catamite Homeworld was twelve inches tall and made of partially masticated toothpaste. The bit part actor Captain Delamitri cradles tragically in his arms after the radiation leak was even more tragically named Gaylord Humpage. Alpha Centauri is not a planet, as incorrectly stated by the Alpha Centaurian supreme overlord, but a binary star system. Ensign Biddle's dog 'Stowaway' later went on to star in Swedish Animal Frolics 3, 4, 5, and 6, being a popular male canine bestial porn lead on account of his extraordinary friskiness and an ability to Stay Wood. A Light Year is not a measure of time. Power Systems Officer Zingaro was the only one-legged crew member -"

"Whoah, whoah. We just want a basic plot synopsis. Not trivia."

"Oh." Gonoroid visibly wound down a notch. "That's simple. Pursued by an Alpha Centaurian War Slug with vastly superior firepower, Captain Delamitri takes a short cut across a battlefield where the Mancunians and Catamites are engaged in a hundred-year conflict, luring the Centaurians to their doom. The Centaurians", he added, "speak with distinct German accents."

"And is there a Man of Steel anywhere in this episode?" said Steve. "Or a Tiger?"

Gonoroid searched his memory painstakingly. "No", he concluded. "If you want a Man of Steel, you really need TOSS 19, The Man of Steel, which many people mistakenly assume is about a robot -"

"We are no further forward", said Steve disconsolately, "than we were before."

"Sorry", said Gonoroid. "Was it important?"

"Nah", said Steve. He reached into the bag beside him. "We brought you some grapes. And", he added proudly, "we didn't even eat any."

"Greater love hath no man", agreed Gonoroid.