CHAPTER 6 - HISTORIC POISONINGS

In anticipation of two whole days free, Crabdale and some of the drones go to poison themselves. They leave the Department through the arch and scramble down the steel stairway to the edge of the trunk route to catch a machine. Legs wrapped round, clinging on, Crabdale enjoyed the buzz of the motor on his inner thighs. Such a privilege to have a two-day weekend, he reflected as the machine moved off into the traffic flow; so arbitrary, having two days off every twelve.

The tide of vehicles oozed slowly through the bowels of the city and finally deposited them on the edge of the refreshment zone. Wiping the grime from their faces, the bureaucrats made their way past the dull thud of tribal and warily eyed the group of young staggerers outside as they entered the Dog and Dreck

Hekate, haply evolved for life in bars, went to order for the group of them: three gutfuckers, a rusty nail and a Moulted Old Crow. She returned to the table, ran her fingers through her luxuriant jet-black hair and took immediate aim at the Head of the Department.

“I had to take some diktat from JC today,” she began, “and I was thinking - well, do you not think he looks really like round flubber man from the Flubberjacks? Remember the Flubberjacks? They used to show it after Carnivore Parade.”

Mad Alf closed his eyes and moved his jaw around for a few seconds, as if having a little fit. “The Flubberjacks – yes!” he grinned. “All the characters were played by the same person, weren’t they? But were any of them male? Were any of them straight?” Laughter. “I loved the Flubberjacks.” His slightly gap-tooth grin lent his face a look of total bliss until the moment he snapped it off and resumed staring at a point on the wall.

“That one was a bit after my time,” remarked Crabdale, but, keen to get into the babble about historic viewing, added, “I always watched Hang ‘Em High on the other channel.”

Alf jerked into life again. “A-ha! The execution show!” He made a frightening face. “That was so great, before they changed the format. Can you own that one now?” His eyes darted to Crabdale.

“Nah, I think most of them were deleted, but they re-run some clips on Dead Entertained if you stay up that late, ‘cept with different commentary.”

Hek eyed them all mischievously. “OK – when push comes to shove, JC or Hangman Judd from Hang 'Em High?” She knocked back some of her scarlet gutfucker.

Laughter. Lots of shouting.

“What about, what about…” Alf jabbered furiously, “Naughty Nicky or Slut?”

“Both! At the same time!”

“Alf Splitter or the Baby Jesus?”

“Yeah, Alf or the Baby Jesus? Which one? Which one? Good question!”

Crabdale let his eyes wander round the bar. He felt the characteristic sickening rush of the poison and watched as the rough contours of the stone walls began to reveal an inner structure of green and red veins. Alf looked skeletal, about to fall apart, jaw clenching and unclenching mechanically. Hek, feline and gorgeous, darted Crabdale a knowing look and nestled further into her recliner. Behind her, Crabdale could see the bar was starting to fill up with plasticked-up nubiles; he lusted silently as he watched the contours of their bodies shift gently. Restlessness filled him as he prepared for the onslaught of his thoughts. JC or Hangeman Judd? What an idea! Must shake that one off.

A violent crash from somewhere close by and a tinny loudspeaker spluttered to life.

“It’s them again,” Hek hissed to Crabdale. “We’re under attack. Let’s get out of here.”

“We’re supposed to wait for further instructions, aren’t we?”

The sound of falling masonry drowned out Hek's disbelieving reply.