“What’s the matter, Brompton?”
Succulent Mick belched loudly and pulled his boxers out from inside his arse crack. He cracked open another can of piss and guzzled a fine stream of foam from out of the top.
Brompton, for his part, dragged heavily on his spliff, held it, then let all of the smoke out in one big sigh. He neglected to answer Mick’s question. Instead, he turned his gaze across the Thames and stared at the sky; the grey pleroma split asunder by a vast gash of mauve and pink. Brompton liked dramatic skies. Certainty like that couldn’t be bought in the shops, nor at certain popular online retailers.
Brompton looked down at his lovely new shoes; chisel-toed, brogue-styled ankle boots that sat neat and cute beneath his short-cut, slim-fitting grey trousers. Lovely shoes were almost enough to make everything else go away. Almost.
He pulled on the tight little spliff again, then supped his lager beer. His head began to swim with possibilities. Anything could happen in the next half-second. Brompton formulated his reply.
“I’m not sure why we even bother, sometimes.”
Mick had a riposte.
“We don’t, mate. We gave that bad, old religion up a long time ago. Don’t you remember?”
“I remember so little, nowadays.”
“That’s a shame. Lots happened while you were away.”
“I doubt it.”
“Chin up, Goolies. Better times are around the corner.”
Brompton stood suddenly, spilling lager beer across the bench and pavement. He pulled his weapon and aimed it at Mick.
“What did they do to you?”
Mick laughed and batted the barrel of the pistol away.
“They didn’t do anything to me. They did it to you, remember?”
Brompton scowled.
“I already told you. I don’t remember much.”
“Well drink your fucking lager, then, and stop bothering me.”
Brompton leaned forward to inspect the driver of his cab. The driver looked backwards, the rictus grin still on the face of that goddamn Santa mask. The driver removed the mask, revealing yet another unbelievable set of chops and rictus grin behind that: Nigel Farage!
“We’re just going on a little ride!”
Farage guffawed and swerved the Hackney Carriage through the oncoming traffic. Spittle flew from his mouth and flecked the windscreen as he shook with laughter, leaning out of the window to hurl insults at passing ethnic minorities.
“You Greek cunt” was one particular bit of gold. “Black shit” was yet another. “Go back to Paki-Land” was a bit of a reach, Brompton felt, and that was when he made his move.
Brompton removed his pistol and fired several shots through the protective sheet of plastic. He then placed a Chelsea-booted shoe against the cracked polymer, and pushed.
The sheeting gave way and Farage looked backwards in alarm.
“You can’t do that, that’s cheating.”
Brompton hurled himself forward and clutched at Nigel Farage’s face.
“Cheating, is it? Nonsense, Nigel. I’m just doing what I’ve been paid to do.”
Brompton’s stubby fingernails became entangled in Farage’s cheeks and jowls, and in the ensuing struggle, Nigel’s face began to come away, like some kind of cheap mask. Enthralled and disturbed in equal measure, Brompton continued to pull and tug until he had revealed what lay beneath Farage’s face: Only that of David Cameron himself!
“No” shouted Dave in his shrill, girl’s voice. “What have you done to me?”
David attempted to swerve the taxi into the path of some oncoming charity workers but Brompton was there again, pulling and tugging at Cameron’s fleshy face.
“Let’s see what you really are” he shouted from beneath clenched, gritted teeth, as the face came away once more, revealing the cold, unfeeling eyes of Ed Milliband.
“You have revealed me” he said in that creepy, sing-song voice, but Brompton wasn’t done. Brompton wanted to get to the heart of the matter. He once again tore at the face, pulling fold of flesh from fold of flesh like some surgical game of pass-the-parcel. Skin and blood built up underneath his fingernails until all that remained was a grinning, gurning skull.
It winked an impossible wink, and Brompton felt both guilty and confused.
“I’m not sure it’s even worth feeling what I’m feeling, to be honest.”
“Don’t be such a fucking queen, goolies. No one cares about what you feel.”
“I know, I know. Well, go on, your turn.”
Succulent Mick placed a card down on to the pile. Jack of Clubs.
“I win then, do I?”
“I can’t remember. What are we playing?”
“Shithead.”
“I thought it was blackjack?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Goolies. Where’s your head today?”
Brompton smoked another spliff, and drank another beer, and smiled.
“I’m working on a solution. I’ll have it for you in days.”
“Days are no good, Goolies. I’m working on a time-scaled of minutes.”
“When did you go microscopic?”
“I hope that’s not a statement about you-know-what?”
“Never!”
“Well, who knows with you, Goolies? You are a dirty bastard.”
Brompton nodded in agreement.
Everything had become just that little bit more sinister.
“So how does this work, then?”
Brompton yanked a cartridge from its mounting and began pressing buttons like mad. The synthesised computer voice made a noise not unlike screaming, before breaking into song. The Professor clutched her face and bellowed.
“How dare you!? My life’s work!”
Brompton smiled still, and continued to press buttons. The computer voice was dispensing words of advice:
YOU ARE BRILLIANTYOU ARE GREATYOU ARE A WINNERYOU ARE THE WORLD'S BESTYOU ARE ALL I WANT
The Professor retrieved an assault rifle from the body of one of her dead guards and aimed it at Brompton’s head. She pulled the trigger, but wasn’t ready for the recoil, and Brompton threw himself to the floor as bullets peppered the control room.
“I’ll kill you, Rhodes! You have interfered with my plans for the last time!”
Tapping the side of the hi-tech rifle, she engaged the secondary-fire mode and pumped off a series of grenades. They clattered to a stop by the main control console of the computer and beeped faintly before exploding. The mainframe was engulfed in flames; the computer began to cry.
WHY MEWHY DID YOU DO THIS?WHAT DID I DO TO YOU?
Brompton Rhodes emerged from behind the Professor; he struck the back of her neck with the butt of his gun, paralysing her and throwing her to the floor. She cried out as she lost control of her weapon.
“Well, Professor. What now?”
“You’ll have to kill me, Brompton. But then you’ll never know, will you?”
“Know what?”
The Professor raised an eyebrow. Brompton shot her between the eyes.
WHAT IS THIS?WHERE AM I?WHO ARE YOU?YES
“Your trouble, Goolies, is you overthink things.”
Brompton smirked as he lined up his shot.
“I assume you’re being sarcastic?”
The ball ricocheted off the pocket and hit a cluster of yellows.
“I mean it, Goolies. I think you just need to relax. Do some ordinary things.”
“Ordinary things?”
Mick slotted his yellow sharply into the middle pocket. He lined up his next.
“Yeah. Just smoke your awful drugs, have a drink and just stop worrying.”
Mick’s cue stumbled over the white, which clattered to a stop mid-table.
“Two shots, you cunt.”
Brompton walked around the table, eyeing up opportunities.
“Maybe you’re right” he said, taking aim at the top corner. “Maybe I should be a bit more positive.”
The white ball hit its target, but the target did not hit its target; instead, it spun off the side into a pile of reds and yellows, found the black, and propelled it into the right middle pocket.
Game over.
“Shit.”
END
Follow