Robert Rankin - The Antipope

Omally smiled indulgently. “Possibly, Soap,” said he, “you will be taking the opportunity to invite up a few of your chums from the inner earth. Tell me now, does old Rigdenjyepo get the likes of Laramie on his underworld twenty-inch or is the reception a bit ropey down there?”

Soap rose purposefully to his feet and stood swaying to and fro, his hand upon the bartop for support. “You, sir, are an ignorant Irish blaggard,” quoth he, raising a shaky fist to strike Omally.

“Soap was telling me that flying saucers are manifestations of the static souls of bygone civilizations,” said Neville, who was not only pleased that the subject of Cowboy Night had been forgotten but was also a great stirrer.

“I’ve heard that little gem on more than one occasion,” said John, “but you and I know that there is a logical and straightforward explanation for that particular phenomenon.”

“There is?”

“Of course, flying saucers are in fact nothing more than the chromeplated helmets of five-mile high invisible fairy folk.”

The Irishman, having both sobriety and the eye for impending violence to his account, stepped swiftly out of the hollow-earther’s range. Soap’s fist whistled by harmlessly.

Neville was making some motion towards his knobkerry when the door swung open to reveal none other than Mr James Pooley. Jim stood framed in the opening, thumbs clasped into his belt and a licorish-paper roll-up in the corner of his mouth. “Howdy pardners,” he drawled.

Omally groaned and hid his face in his hands.

“Howdy Soap,” Jim continued, “you subterranean sidewinder, you look mighty like as if yore meaning to slap leather with this here Irish hombre.”

Soap was squaring up for another shot at Omally’s chin; now his fist hovered motionless in mid-air as if freed from the powers of gravity. “You what?” was all he could say.

Neville leant across the counter. “Before you ask, Jim,” he said, “I am fresh out of Buckskin bourbon, Mississippi Sippin’ liquor, Kentucky rye, Redeye whiskey or any other brand of white man’s firewater.”

“I shall just have a pint of the usual then Neville.” Jim seated himself between the two combatants and withdrew from his pocket the exact change. Neville drew off a pint of his very best.

Soap placed a drunken hand upon Jim’s shoulder. “I am glad you have arrived, Jim Pooley, for now you can witness the rapid demolition of this Irish lout here.”

Pooley whistled through his teeth. “That indeed will be a sight worth watching.”

“It will be terrible but instructive,” said Soap.

“Soap,” said Jim, “Soap, may I ask under which grand master of the oriental arts you study?”

Soap said, “Eh?”

“Well, I take it that you are acquainted with Mr Omally’s skills in this direction?”

Soap shook his head and peered suspiciously over Jim’s shoulder at the Irishman.

“You are surely aware,” Jim continued, “that Omally here is an exponent of Dimac, the deadliest form of martial art known to mankind, and that he could instantly disable you should he so wish, his hands and feet being deadly weapons.” Soap’s face took on a look of bewilderment as Jim rambled on. “That he was personally schooled by Count Dante, dubbed by friend and foe alike as none other than the Deadliest Man on Earth. That he is a master of Poison Hand, surely the most horrendous of all the vicious crippling skills, whose maiming, mutilating, disfiguring, tearing and rending techniques strike terror into the hearts of even the most highly danned and darkly belted Kung Fu, Karate and Ju-jitsu exponents. That with little more than a deft touch he can…”

“Enough, enough,” said Soap, “it was merely a difference of opinion, nothing more. Here, John, let us speak no more of such things, join me in a pint.”

John waggled his fingers in a movement suggestive of immense dexterity. “I shall be pleased to,” said he, “and possibly as our friend Jim here has acted the role of arbitrator you would wish to show your appreciation with a similar gesture of goodwill.” He clicked his knuckles noisily.

“Three pints please, Neville,” said Soap, “and have one yourself.” With many echoes of “Cheers” and “Down the hatchway”, the three set in for an evening’s drinking.

Thus did Omally form a deep and meaningful relationship with Soap Distant. That the two held each other generally in absolute and utter contempt was no longer important. Here, as Neville ejected the dear friends into the street and pushed the bolt home, Soap Distant, Jim Pooley and John Omally found themselves swaying along the highway, arms about each other’s shoulders, engaged upon the vocal rendition of one of Pooley’s own compositions, “If there are no spots on a sugar cube then I’ve just put a dice in my tea.”

Omally halted to urinate into the doorway of Norman’s papershop. “That is for all waders to France,” he said.

“And for the exorbitant price of imported Fine Art Publications,” Pooley added, following suit.

“I have no axe to grind regarding the proprietor of this establishment,” said Soap, “but I perform this function out of biological necessity and the spirit of pure badness!”

“Well said, Soap,” said Omally, “I have surely misjudged you as an individual.”

“All for one and one for all,” said Jim Pooley, as three golden rapiers crossed in the moonlight. Amid much fly zipping, in which three separate shirt fronts were torn asunder, Soap said, “I have maturing in my cellar several bottles of a home-produced claret which I think you gentlemen might find most pleasing.”

“If, in this newfound eloquence,” said Omally, “you refer to that home-brewed lighter fuel which you call Chateau Distante, then we would be pleased to join you in a glass or three.”

Rumours abounded regarding the mysteries lurking behind the gaily painted front door of 15 Sprite Street. Strange noises had been heard in the nights coming as from the bowels of the earth, weird rumblings and vibrations. Cats gave Soap’s back yard a wide berth and the milkman would venture no further than the front gate. How this ordinary little house had managed to gain such notoriety had always been beyond Omally’s understanding. Believing as he did that Soap was little more than a buffoon, the way in which his neighbours avoided him and even crossed over the street before reaching his house had the Irishman baffled.

Pooley, to whom most doors swung open one way or another, had never yet managed to cross the portal, although he had employed many devious devices. He could probably have persuaded even Cerberus to leave his post and go off in search of a few dog biscuits. Soap had always been impervious. Thus it came as something of a shock to find himself and Omally now standing in the tiny front garden whilst Soap shushed them into silence and felt about in his pockets for the key.

“Now,” said Soap in a voice of deadly seriousness, “before you enter I must ask that all you may see within must never be divulged to another living soul.”

Pooley, who had been in the Scouts for a day, raised two fingers to his forehead and said, “Dib-Dib-Dib.” Omally, who was finding it hard to keep a straight face, licked his thumb and said, “See this wet, see this dry, cut my throat if I tell a lie.”

Soap shrugged. “I suppose I can expect no more. Now come, step carefully because the light will not function until the front door is closed and bolted from within.” He turned the key and pushed the door open into the Stygian darkness within.

“You seem somewhat security-conscious, Soap,” said Omally.

Invisibly in the darkness Soap tapped his nose. “One cannot be too careful when one is Keeper of the Great Mystery.”