Robert Rankin - Necrophenia

‘The dawn of a New Age,’ I could hear the TV news reporter saying, over the Pope’s resumed Latin stuff. ‘The Final Age. The Glorious End Times. When the Second Come will defeat the powers of Evil and lead us all – well, we Christians at least – to Paradise.’

‘Mmph mm mmm,’ I went. Which meant something along the lines that a big mistake was being made here. And please would someone kindly untie me as I dearly needed the toilet.

And then Pope Keith chimed in with, ‘Burn the heretic. Burn the Antichrist.’ And wouldn’t you just know it, this cry was taken up by the assembled multitude and chanted again and again and again.

Which rather drowned out my mumbling of, ‘Mmph mm mmm.’

And the chanting sort of turned down a bit in volume, as it might do in a movie when someone has something to say over it, and I heard the TV news reporter say, ‘And the winner of our Light Up the Antichrist for the Lord competition is – oh and this is something of a surprise – the actual brother of the heretic-Antichrist himself. And he’s here with us right now – let us give a big Second Come Graceland welcome to Andy.’

And the chanting ceased and cheering began.

And I looked on at Andy.

Well, sort of down at Andy. Because I was atop a goodly heap of combustibles. And Andy appeared, making his way through the cheering crowd. And he looked pretty good, did Andy, older now, of course, but still slim and with all of his hair. And very fashionably dressed in the chicest of silver jumpsuits, all sequinned, and just like the look that we had in those early days of The Sumerian Kynges. My brother! And I breathed a sigh of relief. Through my nose. He had come here to save me. Good old Andy. And I copped Andy a wink. And Andy winked at me.

‘Andy,’ said the TV news reporter, shaking Andy by the hand, ‘and tell us all the truth now. This is not a happy coincidence, is it?’

‘Well, no, Keith,’ said Andy. Another Keith! ‘Actually, I did not win the competition. I bought the competition. I have put twenty million dollars into the Elvis Messiah Fund to promote the Second Come. Indeed, finance His own situation comedy show on TV.’

And the crowd took once more to cheering. And I looked on all forlorn.

‘Let’s hear it even more for Andy,’ crowed the TV news reporter. ‘A true American hero.’

I might have managed, ‘A what?’ had I been able to speak. But as I could not, I fought even harder to free myself and made a mental note that if by some miracle (and that was what I was going to need) I did get out of this mess, then I was going to beat seven bells of Bejabbers out of Andy at the very first opportunity.

‘Let’s hand over that flaming torch to Andy,’ said the TV news reporter man. And Pope Keith did the jolly handing over.

And Andy took that flaming torch and raised it high above his head and cried, ‘For Elvis,’ and then plunged it down into the combustibles that were all piled up most high about my feet.

And the combustibles did what was natural to them. And smoke and flames rose up all around me. And if I’d ever had any doubts about commending my soul to the Lord, I lost all of those doubts right then and I prayed for forgiveness to the real Lord Jesus. And put in just a little word with God that if He would like to break His rule of non-involvement in human affairs just this once, then I for one would not hold it against Him. Perhaps, I suggested, a mighty thunderstorm to staunch the flames. That was in His remit, thunderstorms. I’d be fine with a thunderstorm about now. And then the flames reached my feet and ankles and I couldn’t think any more.

All I could do was scream.

And I could do that. Because the excruciating pain brought sufficient power to my jaws to burst the tape that bound my mouth. And I screamed most loudly.

And I glimpsed the TV news reporter through the smoke and flames, beckoning to someone to tape me up again. Because my screaming was drowning out his commentary.

And suddenly amongst the smoke and flame and agony that was my existence came fellows clawing their way towards me, trying to fan the flames away from themselves and stuff things into my mouth. And I wasn’t having that. And I wrenched my head from side to side and tried to avoid them. And the flames were rising higher. And I was suddenly aware that one of these fellows was now well ablaze too and he sort of flung himself towards me in a rather futile bid for escape. And the bottom of the pole I was lashed to was burning away. And he fell against me and I reared backwards and the pole snapped and we both toppled back and down and out of the roaring flames.

And I suppose it must have looked to those who viewed the conflagration from the front as if we had simply vanished into the flames. Which must have been why no one came rushing round to roll me back into the fire.

And I was fast, believe you me. I rolled over and over and I managed to free myself from the pole and get my hands under my feet and use my teeth to gnaw away the knots. And all that kind of stuff. And the guy who had tried to stuff things into my mouth was howling on the ground, somewhat on fire. And I went over to him and didn’t half put the boot in!

And then I kicked off my boots, because they were still on fire. And then I looked all around and about. And having assured myself that I was unobserved, I took to my blistering heels and I fled.

I knew that I couldn’t escape from Graceland. Yet. There were too many people. I would have to wait until the crowds had melted away. As crowds will do, when all the excitement is over. And so I crept back into Graceland mansion, snuck upstairs and hid myself in the bathroom. There was a TV in there, too, of course, so I switched that on, with the sound turned ever so low.

And I watched that terrible bonfire. And my own brother dancing around in front of it. And Elvis and the Pope having a knees-up, too. And the crowd all cheering. It was all most unpleasant, I can tell you, and it upset me no end.

And I lowered the lid on the toilet and sat down upon it, broken-hearted. What had happened today? I asked myself. This was all insane. And Elvis was the Antichrist, for surely that was what he was. Was I hallucinating? Was this all some awful drunken dream, brought on by too many of Fangio’s nautical cocktails? That was a possibility. But it was all too real. Too detailed. And I couldn’t wake up. Nor could I do any of those impossible things that you can do in dreams. Especially in those rare dreams when you know you’re dreaming. Those lucid dreams.

So, not a hallucination.

And not a dream.

Then what?

I didn’t know. But I knew that I was angry. And I knew that I was sore. Very sore. My feet were badly blistered and my wrists were red raw. This was real enough. But how could it be? I just had no idea.

And then I heard voices. So I switched off the TV and hid myself behind the shower curtain in the bath. And I saw the bathroom door open, and Elvis come in. And shut the door behind him, lock it and drop his trousers, for he now wore a T-shirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms. And he raised the toilet lid and settled himself down upon the toilet.

And I drew from my inner trench-coat pocket the trusty Smith & Wesson and I emerged from hiding.

And Elvis looked up from his ablutions. And the startled look on his big fat face was almost comical. Almost.

‘Well, well, well,’ I said to Elvis. ‘Matters adjust themselves. To my advantage this time.’

And Elvis now had a look of horror on. And he blubbered, ‘How?’ And he blubbered, ‘Please don’t shoot me.’

And then what with the sound and the accompanying pong, it was clear that he had pooed himself.

And I relate that here because I was really really angry.