Robert Rankin - Necrophenia

‘Ah,’ I said to Elvis. ‘We’re not doing it like that any more. That was the old format. That’s old-fashioned. Now we have a brand-new nineteen-seventies-style format. It’s a more Zen kind of thing. It’s not quite as hands-on as the old format, it’s-’

And I looked up at Elvis and the blankness on his face.

‘Never mind,’ I told him. ‘I will be doing it my way. You have nothing to worry about. You can go back to your rehearsals. You want to be your best for Begrem.’

‘But, sir,’ said Elvis, ‘I took a week’s vacation so I could help you out. And I brought this.’

And wouldn’t you know it, he had another pocket in his jumpsuit, an inner pocket this time, and from this pocket he produced a pistol. And it was a very big pistol.

‘This is a World War Two Colt Forty-Five, just like the one I gave to President Nixon in the Oval Office.’

‘Put it away!’ I told him. And Elvis tucked it away.

‘You still carry the trusty Smith & Wesson?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But neither of us will be involving ourselves with guns at the present.’

And Elvis gave me another blank look.

And Fangio arrived with our drinks.

‘Two Jamaican Longboats,’ said Fangio.

‘Jamaican Longboats are Wimpy Bar ice-cream desserts,’ I told him. ‘One scoop each of vanilla, chocolate and strawberry ice cream, topped with glacé cherries.’

‘Arr harr-harr! Correct,’ cried the fat boy. ‘Then that makes us even. Do you want to go for a double-or-quits on the next ones?’

‘Of course I do,’ I said. ‘And bring us some alcohol. We don’t want these ice-cream desserts.’

‘I do,’ said Elvis. Although it was difficult to make out his words as he was already tucking into both Jamaican Longboats.

Fangio left our company and later returned to it in a company of his own. A company of two Avast-Behinds. ‘You are never going to figure out what I’ve put in these,’ said Fangio.

‘I’ll just bet that I won’t,’ I said.

‘You’re on.’

And we raised the stakes and Fangio went off, chuckling.

I fished a napkin from the chromium-plated napkin dispenser that stood upon the bar top and handed it to Elvis. ‘You might need this,’ I told him. ‘You have a bit of ice cream… on your… well, everywhere, really.’

Elvis looked somewhat baffled.

‘You don’t actually do wiping yourself, do you?’ I asked him.

‘Would you?’ asked Elvis. ‘If you were me?’

And I supposed I would not.

And so Elvis and I drank on into the night. And I ordered further drinks and failed to identify their ingredients. And at the end of the night’s drinking, Fangio handed over the deeds to his bar and told me that I had the luck of a Latvian.

And so I didn’t have to stagger back to my unelectrified office. I was able instead to pass out on the floor of my new bar.

Which I did, with a smile on my face. Because I had only been Lazlo Woodbine for about twelve hours. And already I was chumming it up with Elvis. Had become ten thousand dollars richer than the nothing I was previously worth. And was the very proud owner of Fangio’s Bar.

It was clear that Fate had finally decided to smile upon me, and that my fortunes were already changing.

And so I kipped down with a grin on my chops.

And ne’er a care for the future.

And do you know, I sometimes think back to that night in Fangio’s Bar as being one of the happiest moments of my life. Really. Truly. And for a man such as myself, who has done so many things, that might sound strange. I had played Hyde Park in front of a quarter of a million people. And made love to some of the most beautiful women in the world. Well, the former, anyway. But that night, in Fangio’s Bar, I was happy. Which, I suppose, is why I remember it so well. Because I was never happy again.

I think it may be that prior to that night in Fangio’s Bar, my life never had a focus. I might have thought it did and that I had a purpose, but it wasn’t true. And I was manipulated. And my life was orchestrated. But now, for the first time, I acquired that focus, that purpose, that sense of direction. I knew what I was and what I had to do. And I will write more of such things, but not now.

Because something else happened that night. Something that shocked me and set my focus, my purpose, my sense of direction all to the same grim goal.

To destroy the being that called itself Keith Crossbar.

It happened to me while I slept, but it wasn’t a dream. I had a vision. The detail was so precise. And I watched every bit of it as if I was watching a television show.

I had a vision of Death that night as I lay upon the floor of Fangio’s Bar. Or Tyler’s Bar, as it might soon be renamed.

And in this vision I learned the identity of Death.

And Death was Keith Crossbar, brother of Elvis and evil Homunculus.

And I awoke in a sweat.

Which is why I remember the night before with such fondness. Because in the days that followed, things got very grim indeed.

Elvis was asleep on the counter, with his sweetly smelling head resting upon the chromium-plated napkin dispenser. I rose from the floor, clicked my limbs, did stretchings, clutchings at my skull, searchings and findings of my fedora and, at length, quiet stumblings towards the bar counter.

Where I beheld the other King of Kings.

The King of rock ’n’ roll.

True, it was a fair old time since Elvis had actually done any real rock ’n’ roll and he had long ago sacked Scotty Moore and the other members of his original backing band. But he was the King. Elvis was a one-off.

Except, of course, I had now learned that he was anything but. He was one of a three-off. But a good one. And he lay there, sleeping like the King he was. And yes, I confess it, I had a little sniff.

And Elvis smelled sweetly even there.

Captain Lynch had once told me about the odour of sanctity, which issues from the incorruptible bodies of the saints. He had personally sniffed Saint Bernadette of Lourdes, he told me, and could confirm the smell. She smelled of lilacs.

I had a good old sniff at Elvis. And yes, he smelled of lilacs, too. And my sniffing awoke the King of rock ’n’ roll and I had to back off in a hurry.

Elvis roused himself and yawned and saw me and said, ‘Hey, Laz, sir. Have you been awake all night, guarding me?’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Yes, I have. I will add that to the bill, if you don’t mind.’

‘Nope,’ went Elvis, and he straightened his hair. ‘I was having me a weird old dream there. And my brother was there, and he was Death, and-’

I said, ‘Really?’ and yawned a bit myself.

‘Do you think it might mean something?’ Elvis asked.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry about it. You leave the thinking to me.’ And Elvis made the face of relief. ‘I love it when folks say that to me,’ he said. ‘Colonel Tom, or the movie director, or some Jimbo that the manager of Caesar’s Palace has had sent up to my room.’

I opened my mouth, but then closed it again. We wouldn’t go into that.

‘I could do breakfast,’ said Elvis. ‘Peanut butter and banana-stuffed French toast with cinnamon butter and maple-beer syrup, washed down with strawberry shasta.’

‘Sounds delightful,’ I said. ‘Do you think you could get it delivered? ’

‘Am I Elvis?’ said Elvis.

And I agreed that he was.

And so Elvis made a phone call from the phone that Fangio had denied all knowledge of to Mama Cass. Or perhaps he’d had it installed later, in case any other rock icons needed to use it. Elvis, for instance. [24]

And soon as you like, Elvis and I were chowing down upon peanut butter and banana-stuffed French toast with all the trimmings and the strawberry shastas.