Five-Oh-Six-Three (Part Five)

© 2012 David Jasmin-Green

“Would-you-like-a-drink, or-maybe-a-tasty-snack, Sir?” a knee-high midget Dalek wearing an oversized dinner jacket, an equally spacious, freshly ironed white shirt and a black and white polka dot dicky-bow blurted in a bland, robotic voice at Blain's feet, surprising him somewhat because he failed to notice it making its way towards him through the crowd on its squeaky castors. He couldn't help noticing that the Dalek was also wearing a royal purple turban bearing an embroidered slogan proclaiming 'DON'T FUCK WITH THE WONGS' precariously balanced on the smooth, highly polished dome of its battle suit, and a huge pantomime beard was amateurishly Sellotaped to what could only loosely be described as its chin.

“Erm, not right now, thanks,” Blain said, trying (but largely failing) not to stare.

“Are-you-looking-at-my-turban-in-a-funny-way?” the Dalek said.

“No, of course not,” Blain replied.

“Judging-by-the-ridiculous-smile-on-your-face-I-suspect-that-you-find-my-beard-comical, then,” the Dalek said. “You're-openly-taking-the-piss-out-of-the-holy, highly-venerated-badges-of-my-faith, you-despicable-fascist.”

“Not at all,” Blain replied. “I was just thinking about a funny joke concerning a bishop, a barmaid, Boris Johnson, the so-called Mayor of London and a set of well-oiled skittles that my friend told me a couple of weeks ago. Listen, matey, I don't give a monkeys what creed, colour or religion you are. I've always encouraged immigration – ethnic diversity is the spice of life, that's what I say.”

“That's-all-right, then,” the Dalek mumbled. “I'll-let-you-off-this-time, you-total, unmitigated-tosser. I'm-sorry-about-that, Sir, I-didn't-mean-to-call-you-a-tosser, honestly-I-didn't, but-I'm-sure-you-realise-why-I-make-such-fuck-ups – I'm-sure-you-appreciate-why-I'm-an-unpredictable, over-emotional-wreck.....

I've-had-it-up-to-here-with-this-place. Us-waiters-have-to-put-up-with-an-inordinate-amount-of-abuse-from-rude-customers, and-after-a-while-in-this-job-we-tend-to-get-a-little-edgy-and-suspect-that-all-white-folk-are-bigoted, racist-bozos. You-know-the-sort-of-nonsense-we-have-to-suffer, I'm-sure – 'get-me-some-more-poppadums, Gunga-fucking-din.' 'Giz-a-borrow-of-that-funky, gay-looking-turban, Mowgli, you-fully-fledged, Taliban-worshipping, woman-stoning, suicide-bombing-bastard.' 'Don't-dare-shed-any-of-your-dirty-beard-hairs-into-my-chicken-and-prawn-Madras, you-diseased-Paki-twat.' Unfortunately-the-management-expects-us-to-turn-the-other-cheek-and-completely-ignore-such-horrendous-treatment - they expect-us-to-grin-like-brain-dead-bloody-retards-and-bear-the-most-degrading-insults-imaginable.”

“Well you won't have to suffer crap like that from me, I assure you,” Blain said, feeling a trifle hurt. “I believe in equality for all.”

“Thank-you-for-being-so-understanding,” the Dalek said. “You're-a-gentleman, I'm-sure. You're-a-nice-man, a-very-nice-man, a-very-very-very-nice-man-indeed. May-I-ask-you-a-personal-question?”

“Fire away.”

“Are-you-bi-curious? You-certainly-look-bi-curious. And, I-hasten-to-add, you-look-almost-as-camp-as-David-Beckham, and-if-the-big-girl's-blouse-decides-to-be-a-spiteful-bitch-and-prosecute-me-for-making-that-comment-so-be-it, because-I-don't have-anything-of-any-value-that-the-courts-could-take-from-me.”

“How can anyone look bi-curious?” Blain said. “And don't you think that question is a bit too personal, you nosy little pooftah?”

“I-thought-you-said-you-believed-in-equality-for-all, you-insufferable-homophobe,” the Dalek muttered. “And-for-your-information, clever-clogs, I'm-not-a-pooftah – I'm-bi-sexual, though-I-dislike-that-title-intensely-and-I-prefer-to-think-of-myself-as-ever-so-slightly-gay.”

“I'm terribly sorry,” Blain said. “I guess I spoke without thinking. But it was your own bloody fault – you haven't stopped bombarding me with insults since we met.”

“Do-you-by-any-chance-fancy-an-inter-racial, inter-species-dabble?” the Dalek continued, completely unperturbed. “Do-you-wanna-come-back-to-my-place-later? I-knock-off-at-midnight-or-there-abouts, kissy-face. I've-got-a-single-mattress, but-it's-a-bit-crusty, mind.”

“Aah,” Blain sighed. “You're a persistent, predatory little git, aren't you? I think it's best if we pretend that you never uttered those last few comments.”

“Be careful how you deal with the staff,” Fathom whispered. “They're a bit sensitive, especially the Daleks, and most especially the bi-curious and/or slightly gay ones. As you're learning the ropes I'll try keep out of this conversation from now on, as long as you're not obviously getting yourself into the sort of pickle you're unlikely to escape from without my assistance.”

“OK, let's-abandon-that-avenue-of-investigation-for-now, you-sexy, tight-buttocked-thaaang,” the Dalek said, clumsily blowing Blain what might have been a kiss. “I-guess-I'd-better-get-back-to-business.

We-have-a-range-of-invigorating-cocktails-to-tickle-your-fancy, Sir. Would-you-like-to-try-our-eel-blood, Arthur Scargill's-breath-and-criminally-necrotic-ostrich-gizzard-special? That's-our-most-popular-cocktail-at-the-moment, and-it's-sodding-ace, even-though-I-say-so-myself.

Or-maybe-a-liquified-pig's-intestine-and-dirty, diseased-old-slapper's-vaginal-discharge-whopper-presented-for-your-gastroniomic-delight-in-a-fresh-blood-soaked-okapi-bladder-would-be-more-to-your-taste?

How-about-a-cheeky-rat-piss, ferret-musk-and-vinegar-chaser-with-that? Hmmmmm?

We-also-stock-Angosture-bitters, Carling-Black-Label, luke-warm-Ansells-mild-and-a-range-of-alchopops-that-I'm-sure-you'll-find-are-are-equally-shit-and-will-probably-make-you-spew, but-we-don't-really-care-as-long-as-you-settle-your-bill, you-white-fucking-twat.”

“I think not.....”

“Then-perhaps-you'd-like-something-to-nibble-on,” the Dalek continued, refusing to give up. “The-decrepit-pensioner-groin-and-buttock-cutlets-with-deep-fried-bedsores-sauted-in-a-tasty-garlic-Death's-head-and-Destroying-Angel-mushroom-sauce-and-served-with-a-crispy-fried-ocelot-dropping-topping-usually-goes-down-well.

We-have-few-complaints-about-the-bloater-and-dog's-arse-surprise, I'll-tell-you-that-for-nothing, buddy - the-surprise-being-that-the-dish-contains-little-or-no-bloater. Ha!

Or-if-it's-an-unusual-flavour-mix-you-require-to-tempt-your-jaded-tastebuds, why-not-try-our-chain-smoker's-cancerous-lung-steamed-with-jalapeno-peppers, finely-minced-and-lovingly-blended-with-so-putrid-that-even-bleeding-vultures-avoid-it-assorted-sunbaked-roadkill, baked-in-a-large, crusty-and, some-say, exceptionally-sexy-pie? That-dish, curiously-enough, is-referred-to-by-our-senior-chef-simply-as 'Trevor'. It's-well-scrumptious.

The-barbecued-Ronald-Reagan-knackers-are-also-fairly-good, though-I-warn-you-there-are-only-two-of-them, they're-exorbitantly-expensive-and-almost-microscopic – they're-like-baby-peas - and-they-generally-sell-out-very-quickly-indeed.

Our-senior-chef, Gordon-Aqualung-Doodlebug-McFazzle, is-an-utter-genius, honestly, my-friend. No-bloody-kidding, oh-dearie-me, no. Duane-Le-Arse-hole, the-French-fry-pastry-chef, on-the-other-hand, is-completely-shit-and-he-ought-to-be-sacked-or-preferably-crucified; he's-a-crass-amateur, a-right-prick, a-big-mouth-and-an-ugly, unwashed-bastard-into-the-bargain, and-if-he-doesn't-watch-his-step-I'm-gonna-take-him-to-the-fucking-cleaners-one-of-these-days, I-swear, but-I'm-sure-you-don't-want-to-hear-about-our-petty-inter-staff-squabbles, so-I-don't-know-why-I-mentioned-it.

Whatever-dish-you-select, Sir, I-promise-that-you-won't-be-disappointed. If-you-are-disappointed-by-any-chance, you-ungrateful-cunt, it-is-my-duty-to-exterminate-you-in-the-foulest-possible-way. Perhaps-you-prefer-stinky-pooh, cordon-bleu, garlic-tainted-French-cookery, you-great, mincing-closet-hom, or, cack-of-cacks, Findus-crispy-shit-pancakes-or-cow's-arse-burgers. Or-maybe-Kentucky-fried-chicken, you-complete-Phillistine. Damn-Colonel-Sanders-and-Ronald-Mc-fucking-Donald! Exterminate! Exterminate! You-will-o-bey!”

“You can't exterminate me, you belligerent little twannock,” Blain said. “I've already been exterminated – I'm already in Hell, so what could a diminutive tin-pot general like you possibly do to make my predicament any worse?”

“I-can-exterminate-you-as-many-times-as-I-bleeding-well-like,” the Dalek continued. “I-may-be-a-mere-skivvy-in-your-eyes, Mr-Blain, but-believe-me, it-is-in-my-power-to-make-your-multi-demises-more-unpleasant-than-you-could-possibly-imagine, you-pathetic, jumped-up-piece-of-shit. Heaven-knows, you-bloody-well-deserve-it.

I-don't-know, it's-bad-enough-damning-an-intergalactic-warrior-of-incomparable-bravery-to-eternal-drudgery, but-the-likes-of-me-should-never, ever-have-to-put-up-with-arse-wipes-like-you. The-least-you-could-do-is-recognise-my-superiority-and-be-civil, you-foolish-little-man. I'm-sick-to-the-back-teeth-of-the-horrors-of-customer-service. I-sodding-well-quit. I-should-be-fighting-Klingons-in-the-Gamma-Quadrant-or-invading-the-Earth-and-vapourising-flimsy-humans, not-serving-tepid-typhoid-riddled-drinks-and-crappy-nibbles-to-ring-pieces-with-illusions-of-grandeur-and-mouths-too-big-for-their-own-good. What-the-fuck-am-I-doing-here? If-you-ask-me-this-Satan-fellow-is-a-right-prick.....

Bearing-that-in-mind-I-have-made-my-decision - I-will-exterminate-you, bum-breath. Maybe-I'll-casually-read-a-shit-tastic-Danielle-Steele-or-Dan-Brown-novel-or-flip-through-a-crotcheting-magazine-while-I'm-waiting-patiently-for-your-indescribable-agony-to-subside-and-your-flimsy-carcass-to-rejuvenate, or-maybe-I'll-simply-have-a-crafty-wank-knowing-that-I'm-completely-encased-in-armour-plating-so-no-fucker-can-take-the-piss-out-of-my-embarrasingly-small-penis. And-when-the-time-is-ripe, perchance, I'll-begin-the-process-all-over-again-for-the-rest-of-eternity, or-until-I-tire-of-your-excruciating-pain, whichever-option-comes-first. What-fun-I'm-going-to-have-with-you, twinkle-toes!”

“Look,” Blain said. “As you can see I'm stark bollock naked, ergo I don't have any pockets, so it should be obvious that I don't have any money to purchase your cruddy wares - and I doubt if my friend Fathom has any cash on him either. Besides, I'm not in the slightest bit hungry or thirsty, OK?

“Fathom?” the Dalek said. “You-are-with-Fathom-Confucious-Watermelon? You travel-with-the-most-honourable-Snakey-man? I-didn't realise-that-you-were-together – I assumed-that-the-serpent-had-coincidentally-wandered-in-behind-you-in-search-of-a-filling-snack. Well-bugger-me-sideways-with-a-roll-of-razor-wire - I'd-like-that-very-much..... I-apologise-a-thousandfold, good-buddy. I-didn't-realise-that-you-were-so..... erm..... so-important. Or-should-that-be-so-bloody-lucky? Look, Sir, I-take-back-my-absentminded-threat-to-exterminate-you, not-to-mention-rudely-trying-to-cop-off-with-you. I-am-truly-sorry-for-existing, and-I-sincerely-hope-that-you-can-find-it-in-the-bottomless-goodness-of-your-heart-to-forgive-me. What-can-I-do-to-make-it-up-to-you? I'll-willingly-wolf-down-yonder-fresh, steaming-polar-bear-turd-and-lick-clean-the-rock-that-it-cheekily-sits-upon-if-it-makes-you-feel-any-better.”

“Ooh, I dunno,” Blain said. “Let me think about it for a mo.....

I want a shocking pink Rolls Royce Silver Shadow and a fancy red sports caar, I want a private jet, a castle in the French Alps, a posh beach-side mansion in Barbados and loads upon loads of topless, preferably heavily breasted servants and skivvies to do my every bidding. I want to return to Earth, I want complete exclusion from Hades and I want my wife to be tortured and murdered in a memorably horrific and painful way – live on the sodding internet - even though I can't remember her name or what she looks like, I'm sure that would give me tremendous pleasure. I want a fortune in gold bullion. Oh, and a considerably bigger cock. And that's just for starters - I'd also like a roll with Mutya Buena with an option to repeat the pleasure whenever I feel like it. Same deal with Beyonce, plus a luscious, ridiculously prolonged blow-job from Kate Bush. And a no holes barred orgy with the Pussycat Dolls and/or (depending on my mood) Girls Aloud whenever I desire, except for the ginger-minge, of course - I'd make her wait outside in the bloody rain. What have you got to say to that, short-arse?”

“I-cannot-provide-such-services, and-you-bloody-well-know-it, you-divvy, you-complete-arse, you-total-numbskull. You're-pulling-my-plonker, surely. You're-having-me-on, you're-taking-the-frigging-piss. Do-you-think-I-was-born-yesterday? Do-you-think-I-came-in-on-the-last-banana-boat? Do-you-think-I-floated-up-the-canal-on-a-bubble?”

“Fuck off and leave me alone, then, 'cos you're getting on my tits,” Blain said, kicking the irritating creature over and walking away with Fathom close behind him.

“Help!” the Dalek squeaked as an hinged opening at the front of its casing burst open and a fat, fluffy white puppy rolled out onto the floor. “Help me, mister man, please! My bloody turban's dropped off! Oh, forget that, it's not important..... I'm easy meat without the protection of my exoskeleton - some opportunistic tart is sure to eat me up if you fail to assist me.” Blain tried to ignore the helpless puppy, but he couldn't do it; it had a black patch over one eye, just like Fuzzy, the little mongrel he briefly had as a boy before his father had it put to sleep while he was at school for shitting on the sofa, and that about settled the deal.

“There,” he said, standing the buzzing battle suit up, lifting the flailing puppy inside and replacing the turban on the top of the dome, albeit slightly skew-whiff. The Dalek's beard was hanging on by a single strand of Sellotape and its dinner jacket was covered in mud, but Blain chose to ignore those discrepancies. “Think yourself lucky,” he snarled. “Most people would have left you to the mercy of the wolves, because you're a total pain in the arse and being gobbled up is probably the fate you bloody well merit. Now piss off, and behave yourself in future, you insufferable little despot. It might be a good idea to have a bolt fitted on the inside of your door to prevent such a thing happening again – kismet might not be on your side next time you piss somebody off.”

“I've-got-a-highly-sophisticated-locking-mechanism-actually, smart-arse,” the Dalek said as it trundled off, angrily waving its antennae, “but-I-must-have-got-distracted-and-forgotten-to-re-engage-it-after-I-popped-in-the-newsagents-this-morning-for-forty-Lambert-and-Butler-Superkings-and-a-packet-of-extra-strong-mints. Or-was-it-when-I-nipped-out-for-a-shit-behind-old-Mrs-Prendergast's-hedge?

Oh-my! You've-knocked-over-my-vase-of-lupins-and-busted-my-bloody-kettle, you-contemptible-pussy. Lovely, now-I-can't-even-make-a-nice, relaxing-cup-of-tea. And-you've-spilled-milk-and-sugar-all-over-my-formerly-mint-condition, jism-free, highly-collectible (in-certain-circles) nuns-of-questionable-gender-and-transsexual-Shetland-pony-oriented-jazz-mags, you-utter-tool. What-a-bleeding-mess. I'll-never-forgive-you-for-this, Blain, you-pig, you-pariah, you-Alpine-marmot, you-Traffic-Warden, you – you – you-blinking-doughnut! I-won't-settle-until-I-have-been-avenged. Put-on-a-habit-and-a-wimple-if-you-dare, matey-boy, and-I'll-bum-you-until-you're-blue-in-the-fucking-face, you-poncey-looking-English-tart!”

“There's no pleasing some folk, is there?” Blain muttered as he walked away.