THREE AGENDAS AND ONE SLIM HOPE
Vince DeWilde, a man gifted with a fantastic but useless kind of ESP (not a lottery number nor hot share commodity in sight), has had a disturbing vision regarding mankind’s future; apparently there isn’t one. Something very powerful, well dressed and supremely sinister is planning humanity’s end, and Vince finds he is the only one in a position to do anything about it. But as if keeping tabs on man’s greatest threat ever isn’t bad enough, there are also the efforts of a cantankerous old corporate villain and a middle-aged alien nasty with a penchant for human meat to contend with.   Before he can even think about living happily ever after, Vince will too often be in fear for his life, learn who really caused JFK’s death, fly a passenger jet using telekinesis, get in Henry VIII’s bad books, fall in love, take a ride in a flying yellow cab, lose a leg, meet God and discover a long lost brother.   At last we have an Australian author singularly devoted to the like themes and diversions visited by such luminaries as Douglas Adams, Robert Rankin, Tom Sharpe and Ben Elton. Brandon Roberts is destined to become a significant participant in the little known, but fabulously entertaining genre of far-fetched fiction. If humorous tales that pull the rug out from under you and deliver you nowhere you expected float your boat, this is the book for you.	In Store Price : $26.95 Online Price:    $25.95  ISBN:  1 920 69956 2 Format: Paperback Number of pages: 243 Genre:  Fiction
Author: Brandon Roberts Imprint: Zeus Publisher: Zeus Publications Date Published:    2007 Language: English

About the author  

Roughly a foot taller than you and as heavy as both yourself and the person next to you, Brandon Roberts is a rather ample individual best viewed from afar via wide-angle lens. Contemporary culture causes him no end of mirth and he is often overcome with fits of giggling at its longer shopping hours, corporate mission statement and sponsor’s logo. Diagnosed with chronic nihilism in his late teens, he doesn’t believe in God, Karma, Globalisation, home remedy wart cures or Astrology. Although, he did once have a nasty altercation with the crab.  

A non-believer often labelled an agnostic, a heathen, an atheist and a sinner; being none too bothered with labels he prefers to think of himself as simply being lightly salted. Casting a shadow any fashion-conscious young rhinoceros would envy, he is similarly thick skinned and doesn’t worry too much on what other people think. Most don’t do it very often in any case.  

An ill-mannered tradesman in a box factory, in his spare time he writes novels, tortures the neighbours with an electric guitar and by way of modern computer magic, turns decades old vinyl into bright shiny new CDs. A product of a collaboration between an emissary of the British Empire and a representative of colonial Australia , he is father to three bottomless pits and husband to a feisty red-haired warrior queen. Until such time as he can afford to buy Tasmania , he resides in Elizabeth South Australia.

The Ultimate Certainty

 (A prologue of sorts)  

What with having to be fed, watered and wiped regularly, the human condition is a susceptibly fragile thing, often fraught with uncertainty. Eat sensibly, keep fit, live right, do unto others, worship the right franchise – wither and perish anyway. No one has yet messed it up and absolutely anyone can do it. Rich man poor man, saint or sinner, nobody gets out alive. There’s no art to passing on; death is the ultimate certainty that finds all eventually. The latest studies indicate that the most stress free approach is to expire on your back and with your eyes shut. Perhaps quietly in your sleep between dessert and after dinner drinks?

Unavoidably, this account must begin with a man’s death. Some may decry such a dour opening, but even if he’d have known his end was nigh, it’s doubtful Arnold Suggs would have spent his final hours any differently than he did. A middle-aged citizen of England ’s grand capital, his quiet passing was something of a non-event. He went neither via frantic hail of bullets nor quietly at home after dessert. As he possessed neither home nor dessert, the particulars of his fate were somewhat dismal. Though the environment in which he’d breathed his last was far from homely, he’d have been happy he had at least died in the city of his birth. 

As capital cities go, London is one of those that seldom encounter anything unusual on a Tuesday. Aside from Hitler’s attentions in times past, wildly inconvenient happenings hardly ever give cause for concern. Every once in a while however, a Tuesday will crop up which is just plain contrary to convention; a day ill-fitting from the outset. As Londoners tend to approach Tuesday as a day for rolling the sleeves up and just getting on with things, even death is put on the back burner. In times of war the rules have been relaxed to accommodate the sheer numbers of those taking part, but usually such inconvenience is left, weather permitting, for the weekend and public holidays. Still there are those, most often the dwellers of the lower echelons of society, whose station in life leaves them unable to conform to custom.  

Arnold Suggs had once lived a conventional lifestyle. Nice home, fine car, good job, holidays abroad – very cosy. Resplendent in health and sporting a tallish, somewhat athletic physique, he’d never have considered anything as inconvenient as dying on a weekday. In difficult times though, a man’s principles can be eroded. Once one of the city’s well to do, the fates hadn’t been entirely kind to him in recent years. Homeless, often inebriated and in dire need of a bath, he lately cut a gaunter, rather more dishevelled figure. His situation had deteriorated to the point where he no longer even knew where they kept Tuesday.

Apart from those on death row, suicidal fanatics or poor souls in palliative care, our last day alive arrives out of the blue for most of us. Even for those pursuing more extreme lifestyles. They just don’t expect the chute to fail, the deceptive swiftness of wild fauna, or the revelation their real world driving skills aren’t as sexy as their virtual racing abilities. The last day of Arnold ’s sad existence, happened to find him on the same Tuesday that the extraordinary displaced the ordinary in London . Odd things began to occur that day; things of great consequence, things to make the evening news and the weekend supplements. Arnold ’s passing would make neither. Mourned by few, he would be just another statistic.     

Apart from providing a convenient corpse, Arnold played no part whatsoever in the events of the following tale. There were other individuals far more deeply involved in things whose exploits will come to light in due course. The cantankerous elderly billionaire, the middle-aged alien monster, the sinister stranger, the professor of ecology and the man who bore witness to it all, but it was Arnold who started the ball rolling by dying. Not a terribly interesting fellow as interesting people went; nevertheless, intriguing things happened in the hours prior to his final curtain. No doer of great deeds or herald of the fates, he was none the less a man someone had once cared for. The mechanism of his passing should at least be given the courtesy of closer scrutiny. 

Nothing pointed to the day in question as being anything other than regular. Sticking to form, Arnold ’s last morning arrived as bombastically as they all did towards the end. He really had an issue with daylight. Did there have to be so much of it first thing in the morning? Through clenched eyelids, the light had come to assault his frail awareness one last time. He was cold and he was stiff. The light had worried his senses earlier, but it was the combination of the day’s unseasonable radiance and a woman’s voice, which had awoken him.

“Arnie! Wake up, we’ve gotta get going. It’s the police!”

Damn. If daylight wasn’t bad enough on its own, now sobriety had to get in on the act too. He cracked open crusted eyes to scrutinise the owner of the voice. Hell on Valium; Sally Gates was a frightening specimen to awake to. Somewhere well past middle-age, she shared more in common with a train wreck than a super model. Her coiffure was not what you’d call well managed, and a greenish tinge about her teeth complimented her dragon breath. A point of some pride, they were the original set she’d started with. Although looking something akin to a mistreated Muppet, her ready smile, along with the startling blue of her eyes, served to remove at least some of the harshness from her face.

Like Arnold ’s, her attire was not ‘this season’. Patched and ragged, the pair could have come directly from a plane crash. Arnold ’s simple footwear wasn’t as flamboyant as Sally’s however. She favoured pink galoshes with little moulded frog faces on the toes. Very fetching. The two had met a few years previously at a large public demonstration in the city. Neither could recall what it had been about, but the youngsters waving placards and shouting earnestly at the authorities had provided them warmth and shelter from winter’s penetration for a few hours. Each a shoulder to the other, they’d been inseparable ever since. 

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Arnold found his bed damp and prickly. A bed of grass, they had spent the night on the cold ground behind a small service building in a local park. The dew-kissed lawn was cold enough, but being bare-legged wasn’t helping matters. What the hell had possessed him to remove his pants in the night? A brief search revealed they’d been called into service as a makeshift pillow. His underwear was intact, but his crotch was uncomfortably wet. What on earth? Was that saliva? 

“Your new friend there might know something about that,” Sally giggled.

A Boxer sat panting at Arnold ’s feet. Let’s just clear that up. It was a Boxer of the canine variety, not a pugilist. This is a peculiar tale, but it’s not that peculiar. Arnold waved the dog away with clenched fists and gruff words. It merely moved beyond his reach. Possessing a face looking to have been finished in a hurry, it displayed undisguised umbrage at being so ill thought of. There was no pleasing some people. Snorting in disgust, the animal turned and trotted away. Maybe there was a pile of nastiness somewhere it could go and roll in before breakfast. Perhaps kill two birds with one stone?

Up and ready to move, Sally encouraged her friend to do likewise.

“Come on Arnie, they’ve already been past twice. I think they’ve spotted us.” She directed his attention to a police car that had stopped near the park entrance. “If we don’t get a move on, they’ll be over here.”

Swiftly, and wobbly, Arnold pulled his pants on. Just as quickly and just as unsteadily, he removed them. They went on the right way out, the second attempt. Hangovers seldom presented a problem for Arnold ; the fog harassing his thoughts today must be indicative of a particularly serious drinking session. A man of little means, he wondered where he’d come by the funds to allow a binge of such magnitude. There was a great big nothing parked in the back of his head, and his brain just shrugged the query aside. “Don’t ask me, I just got here myself.”

“Hells Bells, I could do with a drink,” he said smacking his lips. “Not to mention something for breakfast.”

“Do some shopping before we go find Lionel?” Sally suggested.

She frowned after the police car as it moved off. It appeared the constabulary had things of greater importance to attend to than moving homeless folk on. 

“Lionel?” A vague inquiry, Arnold was having trouble enough re-booting the correct procedure for standing and walking, never mind recalling his short list of friends and acquaintances. Sally watched him much as a cow might consider a three-piece lounge suite.

“Don’t be daft! Lionel Sherman – our best mate!” Lately it seemed she needed to jog Arnold ’s memory on an increasingly regular basis.

Borrowing her bovine countenance, Arnold looked blankly toward the sky. Something angry, unseen and very far away looked right back at him.

Having found a wallet in a railway station toilet the previous Friday, (leaving it after relieving it of nearly five hundred pounds) Arnold still had considerable funds at his disposal. He and Sally had so far enjoyed a four-day drinking session, yet there was still probably enough cash to finance another day or two’s drinking. If they paced themselves that is. Arnold dug his own wallet out of a coat pocket and attempted to tally his wealth. His brow knitted and his tongue poked, but it didn’t help. His ability to understand simple mathematics was kept in the same place his brain stored the understanding required to construct kit furniture or fill out a tax return. Things of his former life, in which he no longer indulged. Defeated, he waved the cash at Sally who gave it a cursory glance.

“Looks like we’ve got about a hundred and thirty pounds left Arnie.”

 “Wow!!!” Arnold wasn’t one for dishing out exclamation unnecessarily, but that amount of ready cash in his hand was certainly worthy of it.

Elsewhere in the city that same moment, several other points of exclamation were also being expressed. Something immense and rather peculiar had just happened. It was the first of many such peculiarities to beset the planet over the next few days, but if the day was behaving oddly it was no concern of Arnold ’s. The two policemen who’d briefly watched Arnold and Sally however, certainly had reason to be concerned. They’d only had time enough to deploy a couple of half-constructed exclamations, before their patrol car slammed into the undercarriage of one of the peculiarities as it materialised suddenly on to one of London’s busy roads. Both hobos heard the calamity of horns, screeching tyres and crashing metal, but paid it little mind. It was the business of regular folk, and as they were no longer regular folk, today’s agenda was as simple as that of the day before – purchase some fundamentals, find their friend, get comfortable and have a drink or several.

Now he was mobile and on amiable terms with the daylight, Arnold ’s thoughts began to brighten. Concentrating so hard he had to stop lest his brain fall over, he recalled he did have a friend called Lionel after all. The sun picked at them through patchy clouds. Not the sort of effort to prompt a poet to scribble anything for the ages, but it warmed the blood well enough. The homeless cohorts ambled slowly away from the park to pursue their short catalogue of necessities. Neither having a care for the extraordinary.

Lionel Sherman was what kinder folk called eccentric, or quaint. Common garden-variety of mad bastard was the terminology everyone else used, and he very much looked the kind of person alien civilisations would make first contact with. A shortish rotund fellow in his fifties, his complexion was of the olive family and a mop of frightful hair reclined lazily about his skull. His home-made teeth looked it, but suited the air of someone not altogether sane. Arnold and Sally came upon him shortly after noon; they’d found him sitting on a manicured lawn of another park, one with views of the river and some lovely gardens. Destitute he may have been, but Lionel did like to maintain a certain standard of accommodation. Having just finished shaving a cat, he was licking his toes when they approached.  Nothing eccentric or quaint about it, that sort of behaviour has mad bastard written all over it.

“Hello dear Sally, I see you’ve our wonderfully flush comrade on your arm this morning. How are you both?” The greeting was bellowed with such pomposity and theatricality, had anyone from The Royal Shakespeare Company seen it, they’d have signed the odd fellow for ‘Othello’ right there and then. 

Brushing loose hair from the placid cat, Lionel kissed it full on the mouth, before placing the mostly bald creature into a large coat pocket. He then pulled his boots on and stood to greet them.

“I’m sad to say you find me sober and starving. I wonder do you still have the means about you to remedy the situation.”

The coat he wore was of the full-length black leather variety. A striking garment in its own right, but the rest of his ensemble detracted from it sorely. His red and blue pyjamas hadn’t been new in almost a decade, but the man’s choice of footwear was most impressive. Thigh high, snake-skin boots with seven-inch leather heels don’t suit everyone; Lionel however, was born to wear them.

Sally presented him with two plastic shopping bags. Full to bursting they were with a strange assortment of consumables; pizzas, walnuts, maple syrup, socks, chilli sauce. Hobos adhere to different shopping criteria than that of regular folk. Arnold produced two bottles of something wet, which the labels proclaimed had taken eight years to manufacture, from inside his own coat. A grin the width of the Thames seized his face. “Only the best for my friends, and there’s more where that came from.”

Beaming at one another in anticipation of the drinking session they were about to embark upon, the day might have progressed merrily had it not been for the cat.

The vagrants had commandeered a park bench for use as a dining room; built of cast iron and oak, it was hard on the rump, but served its purpose. With Arnold on the left, Lionel in the middle and Sally on the right, all three rumps settled on the seat at once. Unfortunately, Lionel had forgotten about his feline passenger; its tail was trapped under a leg and its body was sandwiched between the two men. For the size of the animal, the thing let out quite a howl. Immediately, both Arnold and his friend shifted their weight to relieve the frightened creature.

Scrambling through folds of cloth seeking escape, the cat clawed its way to daylight. Arnold’s was the first face it registered as a legitimate target and it rocketed out to latch onto his head in a frantic dance of scratching, hissing and biting. He clumsily fought to pull the frenzied creature off his face, but it was anchored pretty determinedly and didn’t appear to be planning to leave in a hurry. Up and stumbling about with cartoon lunacy, Arnold was desperate. He opened his mouth and bit down hard upon a chunk of hairless cat. There was an instant of resistance and then to his surprise, the chunk came away from the rest of the snarling feline. Before he knew it, it was down his throat.

As unsavoury as it had been, it produced the desired effect. The cat screeched and leapt away minus a nipple, leaving Arnold standing there all scratched and bleeding. He’d lived rough for some time now, but he’d never before resorted to eating raw cat. Not even cooked cat. The animal was a reasonably clean specimen as hairless stray moggies went, but even so, raw cat is an acquired taste. It was imperative he wash the taste away immediately. The poor defenceless bottle of eight-year old wetness didn’t stand a chance; Arnold downed half its content before you could say alcohol in moderation.

Sally pulled a rag, something that might once have been a handkerchief, from her sleeve to mop at her friend’s wounds. Cleaning him as best she could, she said, “Ooh Arnie, you do look a sight.”

“Forgive me dear fellow. My fault entirely,” Lionel apologised, dabbing at the blood with a pyjama sleeve end.

Arnold didn’t speak. His lips were too sliced and startled to form words just yet. Attempting a smile, he nodded he was alright. His oozings began to waiver as the alcohol attended to his hurt; fast becoming loose and happy, he was soon considerably more relaxed than his doctor and nurse. His wounds were only a minor setback, which didn’t prohibit the planned feast and libation. Once everyone’s nerves had settled, their picnic had begun in earnest. It was solid effort continuing through the afternoon and well into the evening. By the time daylight had stolen away, they were all quite severely intoxicated. Sally lay flat on her back, fingers dug into the grass and hanging on for dear life.

“Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” she wailed.

Experiencing a different ride, Arnold still occupied the bench but he too held on tightly. Always as steady as a rock no matter what sloshed within him, Lionel was on his feet busily conversing with an ostrich. It was a somewhat one-sided conversation however, as the ostrich was in actuality a small tree – a conceited and incommunicative tree at that. The topic of conversation dealt with the decline of intelligent social debate in the modern world. The discussion would have continued, but for the large portion of peculiar which suddenly intruded on the evening. 

“My God!!!” Lionel exclaimed loudly. He’d written the book on distributing exclamation. “Where on God’s green Earth did that come from?”

The three friends might have been professional drunks of the first order, but they were also staunchly English. It was considered ill-mannered to slur ones’ words, even amongst like company. Whereas Arnold was more your quiet drunk, both Sally and Lionel could talk lucidly, sober or otherwise, until the cows came home. So rousing were Lionel’s words, had a passing American television network executive heard him, the lead role in a science fiction series about boldly going somewhere in spaceships, teaching the Galaxy how to be good Americans, would not have been beyond the realm of possibility.

The cause of Lionel’s excitement had just materialised not ten feet in front of them. It was long; resting on four wheels it was metallic gold in colour. Sally sat up then delicately made her way above her feet. Arnold stood also. Remaining upright on the third go, all three approached the phenomenon linking arms for support. Each examined it with differing levels of cognition seeking verification from one another. Was it real or an alcohol-flavoured apparition? A consensus was quickly arrived at, and all agreed they weren’t hallucinating.

The vehicle’s styling fit the American category of foreign, and the numberplate also hinted it wasn’t local. Behind the wheel of the kind of stretch limousine Arnold had only ever seen on TV, there sat a large well-tanned, terribly surprised New Yorker. Hank DeVito was his name and although he didn’t yet realised it, he’d just been transported across the Atlantic in the blink of an eye. It wasn’t his only transgression of the physical laws of the universe.

A chauffer on his break, he’d been dozing in his car when he’d awoken to a peculiar sensation of movement. Sudden and violent, it had stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The warm mid-day sun of New York State had been replaced by cool night. His night vision gradually adjusted itself, annoyed at having been called into work several hours early. Searching for some aspect of recognisable purchase on the world, it was evident that this was not any place he knew of in the State of New York .

Wherever he was it was a city. The lights dancing on nearby water told him it was a city with a river. But which city, and how did he get here? Heart beating ninety-nine to the dozen, he cautiously stepped from his car. Shutting the door behind him, he was instantly taken aback as the three locals greeted him. Moving toward him, wide-eyed and odd, they seemed to shimmer before his eyes. Shaking his head to clear his sight, he realised they were the ones doing the shimmering.

It was Lionel who spoke first. “Hello… er… we didn’t notice you drive up.”

Hank was relieved. He was expecting… well he didn’t know what he’d expected.

“Gave us a right start you did,” Sally struggled to maintain balance as her two friends leant heavily on her for support.

Arnold remained silent. Cross-eyed and drooling, it looked to Hank like the man had just now learned to stand. The American also wondered what had tried to eat the poor guy’s face. Correctly judging that these people represented no harm, Hank noted they spoke with a foreign accent. It was English, but not proper American English. They were obviously not from his neighbourhood; none of them had suggested he attempt an awkward intimacy with himself, and they seemed happy to talk to his face rather than in it.

“Excuse me,” Hank asked, “this might sound stupid, but where the heck am I?”

“You’re not from around here are you dear?” Sally had moved a little too close for Hank’s liking. “This is Arnold , that’s Lionel and I’m Sally. Nice car. What do your friends call you?”

“My name is…” Hank’s mind stumbled with the situation a moment while Sally’s rather unique aroma got better acquainted with him.

“My name is Hank. I’m from New York …” he declared hesitantly. “I seem to be kind of… ah… misplaced.”

Lionel had moved closer now too. And because both Sally and Lionel were now standing either side of the puzzled American, Arnold had no one to help him maintain the standing up trick. The ground suddenly sprang at him, colliding with his face. Hank raised an eyebrow, looking from Lionel to Sally.

“He’ll be okay,” she reassured him.

Arnold clutched at the ground. “Weeeee.” He wasn’t hurt, merely riding the turf roller-coaster.

“You’re in Lionel’s park. That’s where you are, you big silly,” Sally answered Hank’s query.

“No, I mean what city is this?”

She gave him the look of a cow told to select a curtain fabric to go with the lounge suite. Lionel stepped in for her. “What an odd question. You’re in London of course.”

“ London ? In England ?”

“Yes, London in England . Which London did you think it was?”

“But I’m from New York .”

“So you’ve said.”

“I mean that’s where I am supposed to be now.” Not normally one to get flustered, Hank was doing a fairly reasonable impression of flustered. “Five minutes back, I was in up state New York . Now, if I’m to believe you… I’m in London ?”

Indifferent looks told Hank they weren’t getting the idea at all. Legs wobbling momentarily as though gravity was singling him out for special attention, he sunk to the ground and sat with his back against the warm metal of the car.

What was going on? Was this something to do with all the weird stuff happening in the world lately? A plethora of feelings ran the gamut of his thoughts; puzzlement, disbelief, frustration, fear, annoyance, anger. They all argued over who was in charge, but in the end, the executive decision was made to put lethargy in the driver’s seat. Hank’s faculties had never failed him previously, and he didn’t believe they were doing so now. This sort of thing didn’t usually feature in his workday, but there seemed no denying the fact he’d somehow ended up in England . It made no sense. What he didn’t yet know, was that he had also moved in time as well as space.

Sally had taken a shine to the big American; she sat down next to him. The boisterous perfume of her person soon worked as smelling salts to bring him back to his senses. Lethargy immediately sent off a memo to the effect it was just popping out for a while, and could all correspondence be forwarded to the department of self-preservation until further notice. Hank winced and struggled back to his feet. She could kill a horse with that breath of hers, he thought.

If his mind was in disarray at the strange circumstances he’d found himself in, things were about to become considerably more confusing. If this was indeed London , then he might as well try and get his bearings. He began to pursue a new line of thinking which would only serve to exacerbate his problem.

“Hang on. It was somewhere around one in the afternoon when I… well, when I left. London ’s not that far ahead of us. It should only be about six or seven in the evening. I get the feeling it’s much later.”

The drunks shrugged. Neither owned a watch.

It was then Hank asked the question to utterly shake his world.

“This might seem another odd question, but what day is it?”

Arnold and Sally offered blank stares; Lionel pondered the query a moment before responding. His answer was met with disbelief. So from one of his cat-sized coat pockets, he extracted a copy of the day’s newspaper for verification.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God…”

“What’s the matter love?” Sally stroked the distraught New Yorker’s hand. His eyes were now those of a lost child and the tears welled as he spoke.

“If he’s right, I left home…” he stammered between sobs. “Three days from now.”

Unable to contain his anguish any longer, Hank slumped forward and wept openly. 

“Well gee whiz …” Sally searched for something helpful to say. “That’s a bit of a bugger.” Which wasn’t very.

She flashed Lionel a look that said, ‘I don’t think this fellow’s playing with a full deck’. Lionel replied with a look that said, ‘Yeah, but he’s got a nice car’.

Arnold ’s face asked, ‘What?’

They were silent some minutes whilst Hank’s sobbing ebbed and gradually quietened. 

“Perhaps we could go for a drive?” Lionel’s words were no more helpful than Sally’s.

The American only shrugged at them. He’d somehow become a refugee from time and place and his thoughts seemed to be racing at breakneck speed in slow motion. There would be much navel gazing to see to before Hank could get a handle on the world again.

“Maybe we could go somewhere the air smells less like river, I don’t mind driving, Hank.”

The chauffer made a feeble gesture, which seemed to say help yourself. He didn’t care about the car at the moment; he had other fish to fry and could do with his own company for a while.

“Oh goody,” Lionel squealed enthusiastically, clambering clumsily into the front of the limo. “We’ll just go for a bit of a spin then. Have it back to you before dawn.”

Sally hadn’t ridden in a motor car for so long that she jumped at the chance now. It mattered nought that the driver was smashed and quite possibly insane. Arnold didn’t fully appreciate what was happening, but he joined her in the back anyway. Lionel keyed the ignition and the big motor barked into life. The noise lifted Hank’s head, but he wasn’t troubled by it. Waving them on, he walked away to ponder his predicament. As things were to eventually pan out, the car was to return stateside long before he did.

“Okay friends, where to?” The scatty headed driver made a mess of the grass, spinning wheels and sliding every which way, as he made for London ’s streets.

As no definite destination was suggested from either giggling drunk bouncing about in the back, Lionel followed a random course at his leisure. It had been some considerable time since he too had sat in a moving car, like a teen stealing a ride; he couldn’t get enough of it. The limo was seen all over the city during the next two hours, until the phenomenon that had delivered it in the first place, removed it.

“I need to pee.”

“Can’t you hang on?”

“No. Gotta go now,” Arnold was adamant.

“Damn it Arnie. We can’t take you anywhere.” Lionel was having a ball. He really didn’t want to interrupt the ride. “Oh all right, we’ll pull in just down that side road.”

A layer of rubber was put down as Lionel brought the big car to a noisy stop. A rear door immediately swung open and Arnold fell out onto the road. Because his state of damaged sobriety had rendered him pretty much bullet-proof, he suffered no pain. Using the door as a crutch, he pulled himself up and limped off toward a conveniently placed alleyway. The alleyway ran along behind one of London ’s premiere nightspots; littered with empty crates and among other things the smell of stale beer. Arnold managed to stumble only twice as he sought out the privacy of a large metal refuge bin on wheels, halfway down the nightclub’s rear access way.  

His relief was a Godsend and he uttered a noise demonstrating the fact. When he’d finished, he zipped himself up and headed back toward his friends. His progress was unsteady, but maybe things wouldn’t have ended as they did if he’d been able to get back to them. Unfortunately he encountered a half bottle of champagne sitting in a crate of empties amongst the rubbish. Altering course, he gingerly stepped over to it.

The stopper, a brightly coloured plastic affair, still squeaked like a cork when he pulled it free of the bottle. Tossing it aside, he lifted the bottle to his nose and smiled; it was flat, but it wasn’t urine. The touch of the glass was cold and tasted stale as he put it to his lips, but he up-ended it and drank anyway. At that moment, the limousine was reclaimed by whatever had earlier displaced it. Lionel, Sally and the car were gone from London . Arnold had seen it vanish, and if it weren’t for the lack of blood in his alcohol system, he might have been astonished.

“That’s a good trick Lionel. Where’d you get to?”

There was no response. Not to worry, they’d be back sooner or later. In the mean time, he still had the champers. Best just make himself comfy and wait for them to show up again. He let out a wide yawn as he laid himself down amongst a mound of rubbish attired in black plastic. It had been a tiring day; he could do with a little nap. Once satisfied that optimum comfort had been achieved, the bottle was raised for one last drink. Sliding down his throat to join the rest of the mess in his stomach, it truly would be his last drink. Moments later, his eyes rolled back, his lids lowered and sleep overcame him. In a few hours, the earnings of his harsh existence would finally get the better of him. He would choke to death on the very substance, which in the end had governed his existence. He hadn’t done great things in his time, but his body would soon be put to momentous use. A deed to end all deeds, in fact.

Some would be saddened at Arnold ’s passing. None were likely to have understanding of the broader picture though. His final years had been a bit of a chore, and having never fulfilled his potential he was doomed to return to this realm of being for another go at it. Shortly after shuffling off this mortal coil, he did just that.

It must have come as a bit of a shock at first. Even before drawing his first breath of new life, he was rudely dropped onto a bare patch of hot dusty ground from quite a height. His new mother nipped him on the ear letting him know he’d better quickly learn to use his feet. The alarm had gone out; there was a pride of lions heading into the area. Lions, who’d like nothing better than to have a nibble on a newborn giraffe, so they’d best be moving on quick smart.

Arnold had to hit the ground running in his first moments of new life on the African Serengeti, but at least he was off the booze.

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