Robert Rankin - Necrophenia

And I did panicking, I can tell you. All alone in the dark.

And then I didn’t panic quite so much. Instead, I did risings up. I projected. As I had done at The Stones in the Park gig after taking the Banbury Bloater. And later in my coma, when I found that I had somehow developed the ability to leave my body at will and float off abroad in my astral form. Just like Doctor Strange.

And I arose in that darkness and moved above my physical body and, looking down by means of astral vision, I could now see myself floating there, all hooked up to wires and whatnots all in the dark in a big floatation tank.

‘Oh,’ I said to my astral self. ‘A sensory-deprivation tank. Probably not the best place to be for a fellow such as myself, with rather a lot on my mind. My, a fellow could go mad in one of those if he awoke and didn’t know that he was in one.’ So to speak.

And no! I did not get any angrier at this thought. But only, I must stress, because there was no possible way that I could get any angrier.

I really had reached the cut-off point and I’ll say no more about it.

And so I floated up upon high, looking down at myself floating down upon low. And I was pleased to note that someone had given me a jolly good wash and a shave and a haircut. Although I did feel that they might have had the decency to slip a pair of swimming trunks onto my naked loins before they deposited me into the floatation tank and switched off the light.

But why was I in the floatation tank? Why hadn’t I simply been killed and conscripted into Papa Crossbar’s Army of the Dead? Or bunged straight into the incinerator for instant disposal?

And I did some more detective thinking and drew the conclusion that there had to be a very good reason for my captors to keep me alive. And that it probably wasn’t one that I was going to be too keen on. And would probably involve torture and torment, and things of that nature, grimly.

And so where was I? In the big CIA building? I really did hope that I was, because I had, prior to my truncheoning down, given a thought or two as to how I might gain entry to a building that would probably be rather big on security. So if I was in it, it was rather handy. Wasn’t it?

So, best have a look-see, eh? And I drifted upwards, and my weightless, invisible non-corporeal astral spirity-magical form passed through a ceiling and into a room above. And this was a locker room of some kind, smelling strongly of plimsolls and man-bits. And I drifted through an open doorway and into a big gym hall where chaps in ninja costumes were doing some working out. They were beating each other up and smashing lengths of four-by-two with their bare hands and generally carrying on in an overly macho manner. And I could hear their thoughts, and their thoughts were simple thoughts that encompassed complete dedication to their leader Papa Crossbar, violence and sex. And I made a mental note that once I had escaped from the floatation tank, I must keep clear of these violent zealots.

And I drifted onwards and upwards, through computer rooms manned by men in white coats, who wore thickly lensed spectacles and carried clipboards. The canteen and recreational areas. Offices, offices and more offices. And then rather elegant furnished apartments. And then to the very top floor, where I saw him.

And he sat there at a great Gothic desk of black basalt. On a great Gothic chair carved from similar stuff. And he had piled up a lot of silk cushions onto this chair to get him up to the level of the desk. Because, as well as being the most evil being alive on the planet, he was also something of a short-arsed little git. Although I might not have put too much emphasis before upon the matter of him being somewhat vertically challenged, it really can’t hurt to mention it now. All things considered.

The short-arsed little thoroughgoing swine.

And please don’t get me wrong here. I have nothing against and no axe to grind regarding the shorter in stature. I’m not that tall myself and although I’d like to say that some of my very best friends are positively dwarf-like, I regret that I can’t. But only because I have no very best friends. Which is rather sad.

And I stood before the desk of Mr Papa Keith Crossbar, vile twentieth-century Homunculus and would-be bringer of death to all Mankind. And I hated him. With every smidgen of my body and my soul. I utterly, utterly hated him. And I cast my mystic eyes all around and about this room that was his headquarters and his sinister lair. And both he and his room were also rather sad. And I knew instantly, instinctively, why both he and his room were rather sad. And it was because both lacked for love. This man was absolutely loveless. The very concept of love was totally alien to him. And I could feel this, as I stood invisibly before his desk in my spirit body. There was no love in this room and there could never be.

The room itself was cold and bleak. The walls were of a dull grey cast, the floor unpolished slate. But for the desk and chair there was no other furniture. No pictures hung upon the walls, the windows uncurtained. The views that lay beyond these windows were without doubt panoramic – all the world that was New York spread beyond and below. And it all looked far more wonderful at night.

But the loveless fellow at the desk didn’t look upon the city beyond and below. For he’d had frosted glass installed and so the views were blanked.

And then I realised that yes, this room was exactly as it should be. It was the perfect office for such a cold and loveless foul monster as Papa Keith Crossbar. As The Flange had sought to create the perfect lounge room that would facilitate the Second Coming of Jesus, and the native followers of Jon Frum had done years before that, when they built their imitation airstrips to lure down the God from the sky. This was the perfect office for such a creature as this. And he simply had to be in it.

And curiously that gave me an idea. It was a long shot, of course, But it was an idea. And what I really needed at this time was an idea.

I drifted around to the rear of the desk and had a peep over his shoulder. He had before him on the desk what looked like an ancient tome. And a really ancient one, like one of those really ancient and gem-encrusted golden Bibles that they have so many of in St Katherine’s Monastery on the slopes of Mount Sinai.

And I recalled that Captain Lynch had told me about how St Katherine’s Monastery had and still has the largest and most valuable collection of Christian holy books in the world. They have handwritten pages from the original gospels there and more gem-encrusted Bibles than the Vatican’s vaults. Apparently it was the fashion (a fashion that I suspect was started by the monks themselves, as St Katherine’s also boasts some of the fattest and best-dressed monks in the world) for Kings to pilgrimage to St Katherine’s (which also has the original burning bush in its courtyard, although it no longer burns, of course) and bring the monks a really expensive present to show how sincere and devout they were.

And Kings, who, without advisors, never had a lot of imagination, would go, ‘Now what would be a really nice present to give a bunch of monks? I know, a Bible. I’ll get a big gem-encrusted golden one knocked up. And in case they’ve already got one, I’ll make sure that the one I give them is even bigger and more gem-encrusted.’

And boy, do they have some great big gem-encrusted golden Bibles.

And the big ancient book open on the desk of Papa Keith Crossbar looked like one of those.

So what did this loveless body have? This hateful horrible man?

And I peered over his shoulder to have a good old look. And I had a good old look. And then I wished I hadn’t.

The words on the pages were penned in Latin and I knew not their meaning. But these were no holy words, no words of inspiration. Nor indeed were they the pidgin-tongued lyrics of old George Formby songs. No, these words were those of ancient magic and although I could not understand their meaning, it was as if, as I looked, they tried to raise themselves from the page and force themselves into my head. For surely these were the words of a magic dark and dire and dreadful. And doom-laden. And dirty-doggish.