The Toyminator

23

The flying disc dropped down once more through the floor hole in the poo-splattered office. It drifted downwards and downwards and as it did so Eddie made enquiries regarding its motive power.

He received in reply a stream of technical data, which, even though he repeatedly smote his head in order to aid cogitation, passed over his head, due to its intricate nature.

“And these chickens created you?” asked Eddie as his knee parts wobbled uncertainly. “How did they do that, exactly?”

“You weren’t abducted only the once,” said his other self in reply. “They took you off several times during your tenure as mayor, They grew me from bits of you as one might grow a plant from a seed. Although the technique used was considerably more complicated than that. Would you like me to explain it?”

“No,” said Eddie. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“And of course, during your periods of abduction the chickens put a few ideas into your head regarding social reform in Toy City.”

“What?” went Eddie, in some alarm. “You put ideas in my head? How?”

“It was somewhat easier than you might think – we just added our own special sawdust.”

Eddie now whacked at his furry head. “I feel somehow … dirty” he said.

“Dirty?” And the other Eddie laughed. “If you think that us messing about with your head makes you feel somehow dirty, we won’t broach the subject of the tracking device we stuck up your bum.”

“No,” said Eddie. “I don’t think we will. So where are we going now?”

“To the launch site, of course.”

“Well, of course, where else?”

“We’ll be there in just a moment.”

The flying disc drifted downwards. Eddie viewed once more the massive engines and machinery of the ersatz-chicken production lines and shortly this was above them, as down they continued to the lowermost level of Area 52.

“Now let me ask you this,” said Eddie, “as some bright spark might, if he, she or it were observing this – why would the ‘launch site’ be on the lowermost level of Area Fifty-Two?”

“Good question,” said his other self. “But then why some things are underneath other things has always been a mystery, hasn’t it?”

“Has it?” asked Eddie.

“I watch a lot of TV,” said the other Eddie. “They have these programmes on about archaeology, digging up ancient sites. But the ancient sites are always underground. Along with the ancient roads. How do you explain that, eh? Why are ancient walls always four feet deep in the ground? Where did all that earth come from that has to be dug away? Does it mean that this world is getting bigger every year? Growing and growing? Perhaps that explains why there are so many worlds all next door to each other. What do you think?”

“I think I’m not very well,” said Eddie, and his knee parts gave out.

“On your feet, soldier,” said the other Eddie. “We’re nearly there now, see?”

And Eddie saw and Eddie was impressed.

Afeared also was Eddie Bear, but very much impressed.

They were dropping down now into a massive underground compound, a vast concrete expanse lit by many high-overhead lights, a concrete expanse on which stood at least a dozen spacecraft.

These were of the variety that Eddie had seen before. Like unto the one that had pursued him up the hillside of Toy Town.

Fine-looking tin-plate craft were these, with many rivets, many portholes and those big dome jobbies on the top that proper flying saucers always have.

“The propulsion units are fascinating,” said the other Eddie. “They employ a drive system powered by a cross-interflux, utilising the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter. Imagine that.”

And Eddie tried to. But did not succeed.

“You have to hand it to the chickens,” said the other Eddie, “I think it must have been that eternal question that sparked them into advanced technology.”

“You mean, ‘What came first, the chicken or the egg?’”

“No,” said the other Eddie. “‘Why did the chicken cross the road?’ I feel that the answer must be that the chicken needed to know what was on the other side. Really needed to know. And now they know what’s on the other side of so many roads and barriers between worlds and almost everything else. And one day there will be no life in the universe except chicken life and there’s no telling what they’ll do after that. Travel beyond death or beyond time, probably.”

“Well, bravo to those chickens,” said Eddie Bear once more. “Are we nearly there yet, by the way?”

“Nearly there, and … yes, we’re here.”

And Eddie had been watching as the disc came in to land. He had been watching all the activity around and about the flying saucers. All the comings and goings, all the liftings intos of stuff and fiddlings with all sorts of things. And Eddie had been viewing those who were all engaged in this industrious enterprise. For all and sundry engaged thus so were indeed of chicken-kind.

But somehow these were no ordinary chickens. No farmyard peckers, these. They were of a higher order of fowl. Clearly of superior intelligence, clad in uniforms and capable of using their wing-parts as a passable facsimile of hands.

Eddie viewed these dextrous appendages and wished like damn that his own hands had not been denied him.

As the flying disc settled onto the concrete floor, the other Eddie stepped nimbly from it and bid his wobbly counterpart to follow if he would.

Eddie stumbled onwards after his other self.

“Twelve spaceships,” the other Eddie told him as Eddie stumbled along, “each equipped with a thousand jars to store the essences in. It was felt prudent to speed up operations. Take all in a single gathering. Which ironically enough will fulfil certain prophecies promulgated by the various religious factions in Toy City. So I suppose there must be something to religion, mustn’t there?”

Eddie nodded slowly. There were no prophecies of doom to be found in the religious credo of The Midnight Growlers. There was love, there was laughter and indeed there was beer. But there was none of the grim stuff.

“The spaceships will fly out there,” said the other Eddie, pointing with a paw, “up that tunnel, out and through The Second Big O.”

“Surely they will be seen,” said Eddie Bear.

“By humankind? Probably. But it doesn’t matter. Those who believe in flying saucers are so vastly outnumbered by those who do not that their sworn testimonies are always laughed at. And as for those on the other side, they will never know what hit them. Fear not for them, Eddie. Their ends will be swift and painless. Their misery and enslavement will be over.”

“Will the chickens be hitting the meathead P.P.P.s?” asked Eddie, hopefully.

“Not yet. They’ll crash a single saucer, as they did here. The ‘survivor’ will wheel and deal with the P.P.P.s. Set up a production plant. Then they’ll add a few ingredients to the ersatz chickens, something to make the P.P.P.s and all the humankind on that side of the barrier compliant. The chickens will need their services as a workforce to redecorate Toy City. After that they will be redundant. Then they will be disposed of.”

“It’s all figured out,” said Eddie, “isn’t it?”

“Years and years of planning.”

“I am impressed,” said Eddie. “Now can I meet Her Majesty?”

“All in good time.”

“But I don’t have much in the way of good time left.”

“This is true,” said the other Eddie. “This is true indeed.”

And back beyond The Second Big O and up the Yellow Brick Road, a clockwork barman called Tinto said, “This is true indeed.”

“It is certainly true,” said Chief Inspector Wellington Bellis. “But what do you know about it?”

“Not much,” said Tinto, polishing furiously at a glass that needed no polishing. “I know Eddie’s missing because he hasn’t been in here for two days. And I think that’s a bit poor. It’s always me who helps him out on his cases and I wish to report the theft of my calculating pocket Wallah. Between you and me, I think that big boy Jack nicked her. Do you want me to fill out a form, or something? I have really nice handwriting.”

“That will not be necessary.” Wellington Bellis quaffed the beer that he wouldn’t be paying for, because chief inspectors never have to, which is a tradition, or an old charter, or something, no matter where you might happen to be in the known, or indeed the unknown Universe.

Along Tinto’s bar counter, laughing policemen laughed amongst themselves, poked with their truncheons at things they shouldn’t be poking at and laughed some more when these things fell to the floor and broke.

“And I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop them doing that,” said Tinto to Bellis.

“So you’re telling me,” said Wellington Bellis, “that you put a lot of ideas into the head of this wayward bear?”

“More than a lot,” said Tinto. “Most.”

“You are the source of inspiration to him, as it were?”

“Yes, you might say that.”

“Same again,” said Wellington Bellis, offering up his empty glass.

Tinto hastened without haste to oblige.

“You see,” said Bellis as Tinto did so, “we have a positive ID on the mass-murderer who did for the orchestra at the Opera House. The backstage doorman identified him.”

“Then you arrest the blighter,” said Tinto, “and do so with my blessings. If you need them, which in my opinion you probably will, as I am lately informed by the vicar of the local Church of Mechanology that The End Times are imminent.”

“Yes,” said Bellis, “word of such seems to be reaching me from all sides of late. But let us apply ourselves to the matter presently in hand.”

“The mass-murderer,” said Tinto.

“That very fellow. You see, it is my theory that he is not working alone. In fact I suspect he is an evil cat’s-paw working on behalf of some supercriminal. A sinister mastermind behind his vile doings.”

Tinto nodded thoughtfully, though his printed face smiled on.

“A criminal mastermind who put ideas into the head of this monster. Who is the source of his inspiration, as it were. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Well,” said Tinto. “Ah, excuse me, please, I have to serve this lady.”

The lady in question was Amelie, the long-legged dolly from Nadine’s Diner. The dolly well known to Jack.

Bellis looked on approvingly and made a wistful face. Now there was a good-looking dolly, he thought. A dolly who could certainly bring a fellow such as himself a great deal of pleasure. And solace, too, of course, because Chief Inspector Bellis was, in his special way, a police chief. And so he was, as with all police chiefs, having a rough one today. What with all the pressure being put upon him from his superiors to get results. And his wife in the process of divorcing him and everything. And him trying to give up drinking, and everything. And his India rubber self now being so perished that bits and bobs of him kept regularly dropping off. And everything.

“Bring me something long and cold with plenty of alcohol in it,” said Amelie to Tinto.

“I don’t think my wife’s available,” said Tinto.[44]

“Just get me the drink, you clockwork clown.”

Tinto did as he was bid, chuckling as he did so.

Amelie turned to Chief Inspector Bellis. “And have you done anything?” she asked.

“I’ve done all manner of things.”

“About my boyfriend. I reported him missing. The gormsters on your front desk just laughed and looked down the front of my frock.”

Bellis, doing likewise, ceased this doing. “We’re on the case, madam,” he said.

“Well, you’d better get a move on. I’ve just come from a chapter meeting and from what I’ve heard there’s not going to be much time left to do anything.”

Tinto placed Amelie’s drink before her. It was short and warm, but it did have plenty of alcohol in it.

“Chapter meeting?” said Bellis to Amelie, averting his eyes from her breasts and straying them down to her legs.

“Chapter meeting, you dirty old pervert, I am a member of The Daughters of the Unseeable Upness.”

“Ah,” said Bellis, “one of those.”

“And according to our Chapter Mother, tonight is the night of the Big Closing. After tonight there will be no more nights, ever.”

“Really?” said Bellis. “And you personally hold to this belief?”

“I do,” said Amelie. “Which is why I intend to get very, very drunk tonight and, if given the opportunity, fulfil my wildest fantasies.”

“Really?” said Bellis. “And might these fantasies include having sex with a hero?”

“Women’s fantasies generally do. When they don’t include having sex with an absolute villain.”

“Interesting,” said Bellis. “So would these fantasies include having sex with a police hero? One who brought to book the evil mastermind, the source of inspiration who puts ideas into the head of a mass-murderer?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Amelie, tipping her drink down her throat. “Well …” said Wellington Bellis.

And, “Well,” said the other Eddie to his failing counterpart. “As time is now rapidly running out for you and the chickens are on a tight schedule, we’d better let you say hello to Her Madge, eh?”

“That would be nice,” said Eddie, tottering somewhat as he did so. “Then I could wish her well and everything.”

“You are such a well-adjusted bear,” said Eddie’s other self.

“I try my best,” said Eddie. “Oh, and might I ask you something?”

“Indeed, my friend, you might.”

“Well, I was just wondering – what would happen if something were to happen to Her Majesty?”

“Happen?” said the other Eddie.

“Something bad,” said Eddie. “Some accident or something.”

“That is not going to happen. Believe me, it is not.”

“No,” said Eddie, “of course not. But say it did. Say the unthinkable occurred, something that you were unable to prevent. Some tragedy, resulting in Her Majesty’s untimely demise.”

“Such is unthinkable, of course.”

“But imagine if you did think it. How would it affect the chickens’ plans for inter-world domination?”

“Rather hugely, I imagine.” And the other Eddie laughed. “You see, there is no royal line of succession in the chicken queendom. Too many princesses, you see. The chicken queendom is a matriarchy, democratically elected. But a queen will live for hundreds of years – chickens do if they’re not interfered with. But it is the tradition that a new queen will overthrow and reverse all the policies made by a previous queen.”

“And why is that?” asked Eddie.

“It’s a tradition,” said the other Eddie. “It is, of course, the tradition everywhere amongst politicians. Here, for instance, in the USA, each new candidate for the presidency promises the people that should he gain the position of power, he will dump all his predecessor’s policies and begin anew. And if the population believe him, they vote him in.”

“And so he does what he says?” said Eddie.

“No,” said the other one. “He does nothing of the kind. Because he lied to the people. The problem with this world is that everyone lies to everyone else. Nobody tells the truth. Nobody. That’s another reason why things are in such a mess. But chickens cannot lie. They always tell the truth. Should this Queen die, the new Queen would reverse everything. Not because she wanted to, but because it is tradition. Which is why it’s a very good thing that chicken queens live for such a long time, or there would be no progress.”

“Interesting,” said Eddie Bear. “So can I meet the Queen now, please?”

“Now, I’m saying please,” said Samuel J. Maggott, Police Chief of LAPD, “because I’m such a nice man, and because I bear you no malice for the mayhem you wrought upon the personnel of this precinct.”

“Really?” said the other Jack. “That’s nice all round then, isn’t it?”

They were in Sam’s office, the other Jack handcuffed to the visitors’ chair, a goodly number of knocked-about-looking officers standing around looking “useful”. A troubled young detective smoking a cigarette. A feisty young female officer paring her fingernails with a bowie knife.

“All I want to know is why?” said Sam. “Why the kidnappings at the Golden Chicken Headquarters? Why all the mayhem during your escape? And why flee to a secret military establishment, of all places? The mysterious Area Fifty-Two? What were you doing there?”

“I demand my phone call,” said the other Jack. “I am entitled to my phone call.”

“And you’ll get to make your phone call. As soon as you’ve answered my questions. Would you care for some coffee?”

“The coffee machine’s still on the blink, Chief,” said the troubled young detective, putting his cigarette stub out on Sam’s desk with a bandaged hand. “We could send the feisty female officer here out to the diner to get some.”

“You could try,” said the feisty female officer, adjusting the arm that she had in a sling.

“And you’ll do it if I tell you,” said Sam. “So, young man, Mister Jack-no-surname, from wherever you come from – are you hungry, would you like something to eat?”

The other Jack said, “Yes, I would, before I make my phone call.”

“Then pop out to the Golden Chicken Diner, would you, honey?”

“‘Honey’?” said the feisty female officer, flipping Sam “the bird”.

“Get us in coffees all round. And eats, too. We’ll all have chicken burgers.”

“Chicken burgers?” The other Jack flinched. “I don’t want chicken burgers.”

“Don’t want chicken burgers? Are you some kind of weirdo, buddy? No, don’t answer that, I know you are. But don’t want chicken burgers? What kind of madness is that? Everyone wants chicken burgers. Everyone needs chicken burgers. You’ll have chicken burgers and you’ll love chicken burgers. Just as everyone does.”

“Oh no I won’t,” said the other Jack, struggling in the visitors’ chair. “I’m getting out of here. Let me go, you have the wrong man. You’re making a big mistake.”

“Get the burgers, feisty lady,” said Police Chief Sam.

“No!” The other Jack fought fiercely.

“Don’t go hurting yourself,” said Sam. “Those cuffs are made of high-tensile steel. You’ll not break out of them.”

“Oh really?” And the other Jack fought. And as Sam looked on and the officers looked on and a chap from the ACME Coffee Machine Company who had come to fix the machine in Sam’s office looked on (through the glass of Sam’s office door), the other Jack rose from the visitor’s chair. The steel cuffs ripped down through his hands, ripped his hands most horribly from his wrists. The ankle cuffs restraining his feet fell down to the floor and the other Jack’s feet fell, too.

Sam Maggott made a horrified face, which matched all others present. He fell back in considerable alarm as the handless, footless other Jack rose up before him. And then the officers fell upon this Jack and awful things occurred.

“Let us not speak of awful things,” said the other Eddie, leading the wobbly Real McCoy towards a flying saucer. “Come aboard the mothership and you will meet Her Madge.”

“I think it had better be quick,” said Eddie, “for I am all over the place.”

“You’re doing fine. You’re doing fine.”

“I’m not doing fine. I’m all in and out of my body.”

“Soon,” said the other Eddie, “there will be peace for you. Peace for you and all your kind. Eternal peace. What better peace than that, eh?”

“None much better,” said Eddie. “None much … better.”

“Come on then, up the gangway. This way, come. Come on now.”

And Eddie was led to the mothership.

And it had to be said that the interior of the mothership looked just the way that the interior of a mothership should look. Your basic pilot’s seat, of course, in the cockpit area, with the steering wheel and the gear levers and the foot pedals. And the computer jobbies with the blinking lights. And the coffee machine.

“Whoa,” went Eddie. “So this is what the inside of a spaceship looks like. What does that do?”

“You don’t really have the time to concern yourself with that,” said the other Eddie.

“Does it matter?” Eddie asked. “What does that do?”

“That does the steering. That’s the steering wheel. Those are the foot pedals. Those are the weapons panels. That button there activates the, well, how shall I put this? Death ray, I suppose. It’s as accurate as a time-clock at a Golden Chicken Diner. And they are really accurate, believe me.”

“Oh, I do,” said Eddie. “All the controls look so simple.”

“Oh, they are. They really are. You can complicate things to death, but it’s not necessary. The more advanced technology becomes, the more user-friendly it becomes. The more simple to use.”

“I’ll bet I could have flown this,” said Eddie. Wistfully.

“I just bet you could have, too. But never mind.”

Eddie sank down heavily into the pilot’s seat. “I think I’d like to go to sleep now,” he said in a very drowsy, growly kind of a voice.

“Well, perhaps you should,” said the other Eddie.

“But I really would like to meet Her Majesty. Do you think I could have a glass of water, or something? Or better a glass of beer. My very last glass of beer. I’d like that very much.”

“Oh, I think that could be arranged.”

A chicken in a uniform clucked words into the other Eddie’s ear.

“And at something of the hurry-up,” said the other Eddie. “It’s two minutes to take-off. Her Majesty is already on board and we must prepare for Operation Take Out Toy City.”

“Well done on the name,” said Eddie Bear.

“I’ll just get you a glass of beer. You just sit and relax.”

And the other Eddie took his leave and Eddie sat and sighed.

And, “Oh,” sighed Amelie also as Chief Inspector Wellington Bellis presented her with another short warm drink with plenty of alcohol in it.

And, “Oh,” sighed Tinto, as he knew that Chief Inspector Wellington Bellis had no intention of paying for this or any other drink.

And, “Oh-oh,” went laughing policemen as they knocked other things on the floor and laughed more as they broke.

And, “Oh,” went the feisty female officer in Police Chief Sam Maggott’s office as a blur of blood and guts enveloped her.

And, “Oh,” went Eddie Bear as he sank lower and lower over the flying saucer’s dashboard.

And oh it was to be hoped that there might have been some kind of something, some kind of solution to all this trouble and strife.

And then, “Oh,” and, “Holy Mother of God!” Sam Maggott drew his gun from his shoulder holster. And the feisty female officer and the troubled detective did their own particular forms of Oh-ing as a fierce metallic skull-type jobbie burst out through the top of the other Jack’s head.

And another “Oh” was heard, and this from the other Eddie. It was an “Oh” of surprise, and one of alarm also. Because in the cockpit of the flying saucer, Eddie Bear had slammed his paw onto the ignition button and caused the engines to roar and the chicken crew to panic and flee.

And then all sorts of extraordinary things occurred.

Which caused more Oh-ings all round.