Ruin Nation (8 page)

“So, to reception,” he says, adjusting the equipment, “and the unfathomable mysteries of your idiot friend. Look! There he is. I think Michelle may be about to be hitting him with the hole punch.”

“I never said he was a friend.”

“Your relative?”

“In Christ’s name, no!”

“So then what? A bald yeti you discovered with hilarious consequences?”

“He’s the face of my latest marketing campaign,” says Malmot, clearly lying.

“But he is a halfwit?” says the sceptical doctor.

“Exactly!” Malmot answers, thinking on his feet. “A blank canvas. For others to, er,
project
themselves upon.”

“If he is a canvas, then someone has scrawled across him. Picasso, perhaps? A bit of that Kandinsky guy? I am seeing a problem with his eye. His tongue we have mentioned earlier. Do you mean him to be like this? Is he the ‘before’ part of an advert?”

“Regrettably not. He’s both the ‘during’ and ‘after’. I was hoping you could tidy him up a little; make him more presentable; less abhorrent to polite society. You’ll notice if you freeze-frame – Yes, that’s it. Now zoom in a little – that he can appear quite handsome. It’s just the moving and talking that ruins the deception.”

“Then do not let him.”

“I’m afraid he must. He has to appear in public. Or, at least ‘appear’ to appear in public, if you understand?”

“No. Am I needing to?”

“Not desperately.”

“Good. Then I will give you my medical opinion: I can be stabilising the eyes with an injection to the optic muscles. It will stop them wandering independently. He will only be able to
stare straight ahead and he will not be able to focus properly, but that is more than he can do now, yes? His tongue is simple. Tell him that if he sticks it out, you will sting it with a wasp.”

“How fiendishly simple! But
do you have any wasps that I could, perhaps,
borrow
?”

“More than you could possibly imagine and for reasons you would not want to.”

“Wonderful.”

“Now look into the monitor. Observe him closely. I am thinking of his other problems. For instance, the torrent of stupidity he calls speech. Are you wishing him to speak in public?”

“I
had
hoped. I thought you might have some form of psychotropic wonder-drug that might make him smarter, more adept at communication? ... If such a thing exists?”

“It does and I do but the administering process is ridiculously complicated and smells appalling. Have you not thought of punching him in the throat and playing his words from a tape player? No one will notice. We are a nation of drunks, remember.”

“Truly, Doctor, I’m rather glad I came to see you.”

“And I am glad you are glad, mysterious Sir. Not least, for my wallet. On a coarser topic, however, I am trusting our financial agreement still holds firm?”

“Indeed it does, my good man. Half now, the remainder upon return of my suitably modified moron. I have a packing case outside. You may deliver him in that. And, if all our meetings are to conclude this successfully, well, I predict many future collaborations.”

“Perhaps, then you will be revealing your identity?”

“I fear not, Doctor. For, whilst I detest lying, I share an equal if not greater revulsion to telling the truth.

“I understand, Sir. Discretion is the better part, as they are saying, yes? But one thing, if I may ask you? You are choosing a cretin to front your campaign. Would it not be better to be selecting a man who can go for long periods of time without soiling himself? There are many actors and models out there.
They can look handsome without invasive surgical interventions. Some are even capable of thinking for themselves.”

“Which is the last thing I want. Show me an actor and I’ll show you a vacuum searching for a cause, someone with half an opinion and the desire to broadcast it to all and sundry. Couple that lack of understanding with the near religious zeal of the recent convert and you’ll find yourself with the type who delivers speeches about starving orphans at the opening of supermarkets; who berates schoolchildren on
sportsday because they’ve never trodden on a landmine and they don’t appreciate their legs; who spreads white-liberal-guilt like typhus. Turn your back for ten seconds and there they are, telling the world God sent them to cure AIDS, the bleeding-heart scum. Give me someone happy in their own skin and dumb enough to trust I’m right and behave accordingly.”

“You are critical of our thespian friends, yes?”

“I move in political circles, Doctor. That should tell you all you need to know. But I digress. Please. Take my card. You’ll notice there’s no name. Have the idiot delivered to this address. You’ll find it’s a bawdy house but …”

“A ‘bawdy house’?”

“A brothel.
A place where kidnapped women rent their internal friction for the stimulation of lonely gentlemen. I prefer to do my dealings in whorehouses. Visitors with something to lose keep quiet. Those without, well, it’s a professional hazard, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Why, being shot and mutilated in an alleyway, of course. My idiot knows the place. In fact, they treat him as some kind of mascot there. And you might find it somewhat educational yourself. On a purely physiological level, of course. You being a married man and all. ... Well, now, must be going.”

“You are leaving? I shall see you out.
Stemset is

a big facility, yes?”

“No need. I have the plans to the building and an airship equipped with thermal imaging equipment tracking my location. I might take the scenic route, though. You don’t mind?”

“A-hah! There is nothing here you could try to steal which would not be tearing your throat out first. Speaking of which, be wary around the West wing, enclosure 247:B. That is where we are keeping the Gulls.”

“Gulls?
Carrion
Gulls? Still breeding them, are you? Christ!” 

“I may be sounding defensive, but please do tell another way to clean up incriminating battlefield mess?”

“Yes, but when there aren’t any dead soldiers, the Carrion Gulls migrate inland and eat children.”

“It is an economic equation, yes? We need Carrion Gulls on constant standby to make conflict zones look innocent for television cameras. We cannot cull them. They cannot breed naturally and cloning is prohibitively expensive. Too many birds have avian flu to harvest DNA. But children are cheap to replace. Give common women alcohol and their legs divide like the Red Sea to Moses. It is swings and roundabouts, yes?”

“Yes. Empty ones.”

The black limousine speeds through blacker night. The rear-view mirror reveals Ceesal, writhing contentedly around the backseat like a hippo in a warm morphine fug. We could pay attention but we don’t need to. Malmot is asleep. This is his dream:

“I’ve never understood why ‘cunt’ is a swearword,” announces
Ceesal in an eloquent voice.

“And why is that?” says
Malmot, distracted, disinterested, sweating narcotics, trying to drive inconspicuously but seeing everything like a cubist painting. Only rounder.

“Because,”
Ceesal continues, “fifty percent of the population have them, and the majority of the other fifty spend most of their time trying to get in them. Why would a chap want to do that if they were so bad? And lesbians?! Lesbians’ve got ‘em, they know the drawbacks, and they still chase after ‘em. So, I think, they must be rather good. I think ‘cunt’ should be a compliment.”

“Much as I admire your newfound capacity for lateral thought,” says
Malmot, “try calling King William a cunt... See if you get a knighthood.”

“I like thinking!”
Ceesal laughs. “Can’t recall ever doing it before!”

“And what was it
Holubec did to you again?” Malmot asks, noting that King Tutankhamen’s mummy is sitting in the passenger seat, taking notes.

“Well,”
Ceesal starts. “He scanned my head and found that my brain was adhering to the inside of my skull. The massive pressure on vital areas was what was making me such a confounded imbecile, you see.”

“He’s right,” says Tutankhamen before transforming into
Malmot’s mother and then a leopard. “I never loved you,” says the leopard. The numbers on the speedometer morph into letters. Malmot changes into fifth and accelerates to PMC miles an hour. The leopard changes its spots.

“They went in through a tiny hole,”
Ceesal continues, “did some jiggery pokery and, lo and behold, it turns out I’m actually something of a clever clogs. However, they do concede that I have very little sense of shame or embarrassment. ...Will you excuse me, I’m just going to wave my penis out of the window. Ah! That’s better!”

The leopard turns to
Malmot.

“It's Bactrian all over again,” it says. “Turn off at the next exit for Purgatory.”

“Not
actual
Hell?” Malmot asks. “That’s a relief!”

“Oh, you’re going to Hell,” the leopard replies, “but first you have to do the induction course.”

“So I’m the prime minister?” chips in Ceesal, leaning in between the front seats.

“Technically speaking,” says the leopard, “you should spell Prime Minister with capitals. It’s arcane usage but I feel the lower case implies disrespect.”

“Shut up, Leopard!” Malmot snaps. “And put that pipe out!”

“I’m the Prime Minister,” says
Ceesal smugly. “And you say I’ve got an interview tomorrow? On live television? That’ll be fun. I’ll make it fun!”

“Not
live
, thank God,” Malmot answers. “You see, we must retain control of your public image. We may need to, how shall we say,
massage
the footage somewhat – ensure you come out in the best light.”

“You consider me something of a liability, don’t you?”
Ceesal laughs. “Worried I’m going to upset the applecart, are you? Too much of a live wire, eh?! Oh dear! Hah! It’s a wonder you don’t arrange a little accident for me?! I would – in your shoes. A-hah!”

He’s ahead of me, thinks
Malmot, checking for a pistol in the glove compartment.

“Don’t,” whispers the leopard. “The car’s armoured. It’ll ricochet. Drive him down to the docks and collapse a building on his head.”

“I’ve got to stop him going to that interview,” Malmot whispers back.

“Like I said,” the leopard repeats, “it’s the docks and a rickety warehouse or nothing. Because you
won’t
stop him. He’s smart now. He’ll escape. He’ll probably drug you and run off to the interview without you.” And it leans over and paws the speedometer, now calibrated in hieroglyphics. “And slow down.”

Malmot awakes. He pushes aside the meal that Ceesal doped and considers that everything he has dreamed, bar Tutankhamen and the talking animal, has actually happened. His eyes settle upon a folded note:

Dear Malmot,

Gone to the studio. Didn’t think you’d mind. Have taken Big Tony, Mustapha and that slutty admin girl with the big backside and the self-esteem issues. I’m expecting to get lucky.

Regards,

PRIME MINISTER CEESAL!!!

P.S. What is it, exactly, that you do?

Charming, thinks Malmot. Especially the signature in the shape of ejaculating genitals. He holsters his pistol, slips a silencer into his inside pocket, slides a sheathed stiletto knife into his sock suspender and pockets a packet a poison for good measure.

“P.S. What is it, exactly, that you do?” he repeats bitterly. “I do what needs to be done.”

“Wow! That Hitler could really work a crowd!”

Opinions and attitudes can shift over time. Take Vlad III Tepes for example. That's 'The Impaler' to you and I. He killed an estimated eighty thousand people - including women and children - skewering twenty thousand of them through the anus with sharpened wooden poles, standing them upright and leaving them to die in man-made forests of rotting corpses. But that's all water under the bridge since Bram Stoker recast him as a sexy bereaved husband who can turn into a bat. Yes, goth girls get very wet for Vlad “Dracula”, and now something equally weird's happening with old Adolf.

Now I'm brutal but I was never racist and I was never cruel. There are six million very emotive reasons why Hitler's rule should not be eulogised but it's happening anyway, as right-wing revisionists and hormonal teens wrap him in the doomed romance of a Twentieth Century Macbeth. They forget the death camps and fixate on the pageantry -  which brings us to our current set of circumstances: a lone man sitting in a projection room watching Riefenstahl’s “Triumph Of The Will'. His name is Pip Lindberg. He presents a television
chatshow. And Nazis get him hard.

They say he has a big heart. I'm sure he does. Probably in a jar, next to his collection of Third Reich crockery and a lampshade covered in human skin. I think back to that old nursery rhyme: “Slugs and snails and puppy dog’s tails. That’s what little boys are made of.” My mind turns to the constituent
components of your average minor celebrity and I picture a poisonous doughnut: a viscous jam of ego and narcotics boiled inside a half-baked cake of ruthless ambition and Munchausenian self-delusion. Sprinkled with sugar, of course. And if you gorge yourself on the empty calories of celebrity? Well, you end up with a potbelly and a sticky face. Lindberg has both of these.