Robert Rankin - Necrophenia

‘Second Come?’ I said. ‘The Messiah?’ I said.

‘It’s not what you think,’ said Elvis.

‘Not what I think? You claim to be Jesus. You had me burned at the stake.’

‘But you live. Is this not a miracle? Bow down now and give thanks and I will say no more about it.’

‘What?’ And I waggled my pistol at Elvis.

‘Please don’t shoot.’ And he waggled his hands and he pooed a whole lot more.

And I fanned at my hooter and said, ‘You thoroughgoing rotter. I should shoot you dead right here and now.’

And Elvis grinned a sly little grin. ‘But you cannot, can you?’ he said.

‘Oh, I can,’ I said. ‘And I should.’

‘I don’t think you can.’ And Elvis was now arising to his feet. Which exposed certain parts of himself that I really had no wish at all to see. Although, if I had been gay…

‘Sit back down,’ I told him. ‘Sit back down and shut your mouth.’ And I cocked the trusty Smith & Wesson and pressed it to his forehead. Just to show him that I meant business. And that I might well shoot him if I had a mind to.

Well, I might.

And I would have been justified in doing so.

Because he really did have it coming.

And I hesitated for just a moment and considered that yes, perhaps in this world now turned all upside down, I had a duty to shoot him. For the good of all Mankind.

And Elvis looked up at me. Directly into my eyes.

And then a dire look flashed over his face. And he clutched at his heart. And he groaned. And he floundered. And he fell.

Before me, right on the mat.

Stone dead.

‘Well, pardon me for saying so,’ said Fangio, ‘but you have only yourself to blame. Women and cheese don’t mix. They are an unhealthy combination.’

‘What did you say?’ I asked him. Coming to, as it were, in Fangio’s Bar.

‘Your wife,’ said the barlord. ‘That’s what.’

‘My wife?’ And I did many double takes. I felt as if I had awoken suddenly from a dream. Or been brought to the surface of some murky-watered lake with a great big rush and a good gulp of air. And I said, ‘What is this?’

‘What is what?’ asked Fangio. ‘There’s a whole lot of whating going on.’

‘This,’ I said. And I pointed to the back of my left hand. ‘I’ve got a tattoo. When did I get a tattoo?’

‘Oh, you’re not going to start all that again, are you?’ said Fangio. ‘Because you’ll only go getting yourself banged up in the booby hatch again. And although I know that “being in therapy” is oh-so-very-nineties, it does keep you away from this bar. And I do remain quietly confident that one day I will win it back from you.’

‘Slow down. Slow down. Slow down,’ I said. ‘I am in some confusion here. But not mad, understand me? I haven’t gone mad. Say it, if you please.’

‘You haven’t gone mad,’ said Fangio. And I’m sure he tried to put some conviction into his voice.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but I’m having a bit of a moment here. I’m a little confused. And you did say wife to me a moment ago, didn’t you?’

‘Hatchet-faced harridan,’ said Fangio.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Heaven-faced honey-bunch?’ Fangio suggested. And then he looked me squarely in the eyes. And I could see that he’d aged. He’d aged again. By at least another ten years. Perhaps nearer twenty.

And I said, ‘Oh no, not again.’

‘You’ve lost your memory again, haven’t you?’ asked Fangio. ‘I bet you don’t even know what day of the week it is, do you?’

And I shook my head, rather sadly.

‘Or what year?’ asked the barlord.

And I shook my head once more.

And Fangio now shook his head. ‘So go on,’ he said, ‘what is your last memory? What is the last date you remember?’

I must have got a fearful look on then, because Fangio told me not to worry and that he wouldn’t turn me in to the men in white coats again. And I told him that the last date I could remember was 16th August 1977.

‘Ah, that terrible day,’ said Fangio. ‘And today is the twentieth anniversary.’

‘Terrible day.’ And I said those words very slowly. ‘Twentieth anniversary. ’

‘The death of the King,’ said Fangio. ‘The death of Elvis Presley.’

‘Ah,’ I said. And, ‘Yes. But that was all for the best, you know.’

‘For the best? But I’d hoped to get free tickets, for when he was going to play Carnegie Hall.’

‘As the new Messiah?’ I said.

‘As the King of rock ’n’ roll. What a tragedy that was. And he was in this very bar, that very day. Did you know that?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘because I was here, too.’

‘You?’ said Fangio. ‘You were never here that day. You left here the day before that, said you had some pressing business down South. But twenty years, though. You suddenly can’t remember the last twenty years of your life?’

And I clutched at my aching head. Because my head, which hadn’t been aching, was certainly aching now.

‘I remember that day well enough,’ I told Fangio. ‘That terrible day. With the teleportation booths and the flying saucer landing on the White House lawn and everything. And the Pope confirming that Elvis was the Second Come and-’

And I looked at Fangio. And he had a certain look upon his face. A look that said so much without there being a need for words. So to speak.

‘No teleportation booths?’ I said. ‘No flying saucers? No Elvis being made the Second Come?’

‘Only Elvis dying on his toilet,’ said Fangio. ‘A tragic way to go. A heart attack, they say it was.’

‘It was a heart attack,’ I said. ‘And I should know because-’ But then I said no more. And hunched somewhat over my drink.

‘What is this I’m drinking?’ I asked the not-quite-so-much-of-a-fat-boy-as-he-used-to-be-but-twenty-years-older barlord.

‘Spritzer,’ said Fangio. ‘Welcome to the nineteen-nineties.’

I did burying of head in hands and lots of groaning, too.

And Fangio brought me another spritzer and patted me on the shoulder. ‘So you really can’t remember anything about the last twenty years?’ he asked. ‘Nothing at all? You’re kidding me, right?’

‘No jet-packs?’ I asked.

‘No jet-packs.’

‘I think things might be coming back just a little,’ I said. Because odd things were beginning to stir in my head. Memories, perhaps? Returning, perhaps? I took a peep into the mirror behind the bar. And this time I had aged. But not in a way that I found too terrible to behold. I looked pretty trim, somewhat greying at the temples, but it was a dignified look. But if twenty years of my life were missing-‘You did say wife to me, didn’t you, Fangio?’ I said.

‘If you can’t remember her, then perhaps it’s all for the best,’ said the barman. ‘She cost you plenty in the divorce.’

‘Divorce?’ I said. ‘Oh no. I actually get a wife. Which must mean that I finally got some sex. But I can’t remember her or the sex and I’ve got a divorce. That is so unfair.’

‘Be grateful,’ said Fangio. ‘I remember her and she was a stinker.’

‘Not nice?’

‘Dog rough.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘And when did I marry her?’

‘You really can’t remember, can you?’

‘I’m not doing this for effect. When did I marry her, Fange?’

‘Thirtieth of August, nineteen seventy-seven. You met her here in the bar. The two of you were drunk, both being so upset about the death of Elvis. And you both had the tattoos done.’

I examined the tattoo on the back of my left hand. ‘It’s Phil Silvers as Sergeant Bilko,’ I said.

‘You asked for Elvis.’

‘But it doesn’t look anything like Elvis. It’s Phil Silvers as Sergeant Bilko.’