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rowman Tavern。 'And fast；' he said。
'Fergus； why do you think it is that I'm losing all confidence in you？' Mungo was propped up in his boardroom chair。 Tubes； dangling from an assortment of coloured bottles strung above him； vanished into various parts of his anatomy。 He didn't look the picture of health。
Fergus could only shrug helplessly。 He thought he probably knew the reasons。
Jason Morgawr was grinning behind his hands。 At length he rose to speak。 'If I might just say a word or two；' he ventured。
'Oh yes； Jason。' Fergus winced。 'What would you like to say？'
'Well； sir。 The fact that Mr Presley is still here in the present； need not necessarily be such a terrible thing。' Fergus brightened； Jason was back on his side； surely。 What a decent fellow。
'Although Mr Shaman has clearly made a grave error in judgement…' and none more so than just then； thought Fergus '…the situation can still be turned to our ultimate advantage。'
'I like what I'm hearing； Jason。 Please continue。'
'Certainly sir； thank you。 I just wondered if I might sound you out upon the subject of Armageddon。'
Mungo clutched at his heart。 The dangling bottles gurgled。 Mungo gurgled。 'Armageddon？'
'Well； not so much the real thing。 None of us want the series to end； do we？'
Mungo shook his head gravely。 'We do not。'
'Well； it occurs to me that it might not be altogether a bad thing if we just let this Presley get on with whatever he has in mind。 It's bound to go down well with the viewers。 I understand from a recent poll that his antics on the Nemesis show were extremely well received。 Now if we could just jolly things along a bit。 I have a certain scenario in mind which might just do the business。'
'To do with Armageddon？'
'Well； in a way。 I'll work out all the figures and get it costed。 Then I'll get back to you。'
'And you are suggesting that in the meanwhile we do nothing at all？'
'Absolutely nothing。 Just trust me。'
'Do absolutely nothing；' Mungo sank into his chair and began to suck his thumb。 'Absolutely nothing。 I like the sound of that。'
The lounge boy dowsed Rex down with decontaminant as he passed through the plastic flaps。 Rex entered the uncrowded bar。 The one…eyed barman met his approach with an unfaltering stare。 'What do you want？' he said； without charm。
Rex cradled his weatherdome。 'Tomorrowman Brew； mega…large；'
'Eyeball the screen。' Rex hesitated。 'Eyeball or butt out。 It's all the same to me；'
Rex eyeballed。 'My； my；' the proprietor raised a matted eyebrow； 'you've e into some scratch lately。 The wages of sin； eh？' He glanced at Rex and decanted a triple measure。 'Still it's of no consequence to me。 But the pox on you； nonetheless； for it。'
'Your very good health。' Rex drained the fetid cup in three short gulps。 'Another of similar。'
'And have one yourself landlord？'
Rex didn't dignify the remark with a reply。 Mine host splashed short measure。 'To the line；' said Rex。
'pany man then； are you？' The barman passed the cup across the unspeakable bartop。 'Station boy？'
'I just quit。'
'Buddhavision car though。 Saw you e down。'
'I haven't quit officially as yet。' Rex stared dispiritedly into his spirits。
'No…one quits； asshole。 No…one。' With this said the barman took himself off to business elsewhere。 Rex ferried his drink to as distant a corner as he could find。 Here he sank into a plastique scoop…chair of near antique construction。
Delving into one of his numerous pockets he fought free a pack of Kharma Cools and flipped one inexpertly toward his mouth。 He drew deeply on it； chemicals flared and Rex filled his lungs with toxic relaxant。 He held the smoke a full five seconds before releasing it in a turquoise plume through his currently serviceable left nostril。 Rex turned the packet between his fingers。 The Dalai's face grinned up at him above the motto 'You're never alone with a Kharma Cool'。 Rex tipped out the two remaining cigarettes before crushing the packet to oblivion。 He wasn't a happy man。
Something gnawed away at his insides and it wasn't simply hunger or the senseless killing of his aunt。 Nor the Dalai's coldbloodedness nor his sister's contempt。
It was something much more。 He was up to his neck in something； but he had no idea what。 Perhaps that was it。 The helplessness。 Lack of control。 Rex struggled to put it into words； but his lack of vocabulary proscribed it。 H。 G。 Wells once said that every word of which a man is ignorant represents an idea of which he is ignorant。 That Rex was walking proof of the great man's hypothesis would doubtless e as little consolation to either of them。 Rex fumed。 He sucked upon his cigarette； downed his second triple； rose gloomily and hunched back to the bar counter for a refill。
The one…eyed barman was squeezing his spots。 Rex rattled his cup meaningfully upon the bartop。 'Shop；' said he。
The barkeep examined a pus…bespattered fingertip。 'Another？ You are a prodigious bibber； and there's a fact for you。'
'Eyeball the screen is it？'
Barkeep angled a cracked bottle toward Rex's cup。 'Conscience pricking？'
'Fuck you；' Rex replied。
'Articulate fellow； aren't you；' the barman observed。 'Man of action。'
Rex eyed the barman。 History records that when lost for words many prefer the use of violence to enforce a point。 This well…attested truism was not unknown to the professional behind the bar； who now took a deliberate step back。 'You'd love to； wouldn't you？'
Rex shook his head。 'It's not you。 You just happen to be here。' He accepted his drink。 'Have one yourself。'
The barman grinned and decanted a large libation of the demon brew into an unnaturally clean glass of his own。 'What's on your mind？'
Rex shook his head。 'I only wish I knew。'
'Not a lot of time nowadays for too much self examination。 Look at them。。。' He gestured with his drink…clutching hand towards his patrons。 These sat； a row of dummies lined up along the bar counter。 Drinks in hands； eyes fixed upon the screens； earning credits。 'No…one thinks any more。 Free thought is tantamount to heresy。 Thought implies doubt。 Doubt equals subversion。 Subversion leads to anarchy。 Anarchy is heresy。 Round in a circle。 Like some unholy mandala。 I'd not go troubling yourself with too much thought； if I were you。'
'If you were me？'
'pany car。 Rooms above ground； I'll wager。 Big credits with MOTHER。 You're a whizzkid boy。 You're the business。'
'So I should say thank you； I suppose？'
'That's the system； you're a part of it。 What else do you expect？ What else do you want？'
'Integrity？' Rex suggested。
The barman fell about in mirth。 'Excuse me；' he wiped tears from his cheek； 'It's a long time since I heard that word。 Are you sure you know what it means？'
'And what of you； then？ Running this plague pit； you are above it all； I suppose？'
'Oh no； pal。' The barman shook his head violently； causing his false eye to turn it's pupil into his skull。 'I'm just like you。 A victim。 We're all victims。 There is them and there is us。 We're never going to be them； no matter what we do。 We're us。 You're us。 A victim； a non…person； cog in the great wheel； number on the screen。 The only difference between you and me is that you haven't e to terms with it yet。'
Rex glowered into his cup。 'But it doesn't have to be like that。 It shouldn't be like that。'
'Maybe it shouldn't。 How should I know？ But it is and possibly it always has been。 So what are you going to do？ Change the world？'
'I might just do that；'
'No。 Please； please。' The barman clutched at his sides； laughing hideously。 'Too much fine humour in one day。 Change the world indeed！ A crapulous ic； so you are。' He topped Rex's cup without charge； and sauntered away chuckling immoderately。 Rex stubbed out his cigarette upon a leg of his radiation suit and thought grim thoughts。
A sudden altercation now occurred which sent Rex ducking for cover。 Between the plastic flaps voices were being raised； blows exchanged。 The barman made haste along the counter and brought a knobkerrie into play。 Rex peeped over a tabletop。 Just don't let it be Rambo Bloodaxe； he prayed without shame。
'I'm only doing my job；' wailed a small voice。
'Look at my Goddamn suit；' came a larger voice。 A small head was soundly cuffed； and its owner； the pail…toting lounge boy； entered the inner flap with a kind of awkward cartwheel which terminated in concussion against the bar counter。 The owner of the head…cuffing hand now followed the inadequate acrobat into the bar。 He was a tall； handsome young man； wearing a magnificent； if now slightly sodden； gold lame suit。 And Rex knew that face immediately。 It was the face of the mystery man himself。 The face of the photograph。 Killer sideburns； thought Rex。
'What's your game then？' The barman shinned over the bar counter and bore down upon the lounge boy's attacker； knobkerrie raised。
'Take a hike buddy。' The mystery man threw an unusual punch； which came with as much surprise to the barman as it did to Rex。 Only more painfully so。 He then brought a blue suede foot into action。 Rex watched in fascination。 Old Adam Earth favoured the ancient Tibetan fighting technique known as Dimac； when disposing of the Dalai's would…be assassins； but this was something far more convincing。
'Goes with the sickle；' said the mystery man； enigmatically。 Rex pondered upon a course of action。 However the large amount of Tomorrowman Brew now burning its way through his stomach lining made cogitation difficult。
'That's him； chief。' Rex heard the curious voice； although he couldn't see its owner。
'You certain？' The mystery man addressed this question to the air。
'Sure thing chief。 The old dame in the bunker showed us the picture； remember？'
'He looks like shit。'
'Hardly surprising。 Best tackle him now； eh？'
'No sweat。' Elvis approached Rex Mundi。 Rex sought invisibility without success。 'Hey fella； I'd like a word with you。' Rex weighed up his chances。 The barman was down and out； the punters； momentarily interrupted from their viewing； had now returned to it。 This was what was once called a one…to…one situation。 Rex raised an unconvincing fist。
'Have a care；' he said。 'I know Dimac。'
Elvis raised calming palms。 'I ain't looking to fight。 I just want to move mouth with you； is all。'
'Eh？'
'Talk。 Sit down； no problem。' Rex sat down。 He almost made the chair。 Elvis helped him up on to it。 'There。 You OK？'
'I don't feel all that clever as it happens。'
'You'll be OK。 The name's Rex； right？'
Rex nodded carefully。 'I don't think we've been formally introduced。'
'The King； just call me the King。'
Why？ wondered Rex。 'As you please；' he said。 'So what do you have on your mind； your majesty？'
'Revolution；' said Elvis Presley。
20
。。。 the records？ You mean the albums； right？ Everybody always asks about the albums。 A quarter； maybe half a million of them； I guess； and growing all the time。 And he kept them moving around； never in the same place for long。 They were stored at the foundation at the first off； he had them guarded day and night。 Then he said that they should be moved out。 They went into containers； we worked on shifts； took us nearly three weeks to load them up。 Then they travelled。 All over the country。 All new； all mint condition； still in the cellophane wraps； never played。 Imagine a collection like that and he never played them。 This would be late in sixty…eight and he was getting real reclusive by then。 We'd get phonecalls and stuff； nothing in writing of course。 Some times we wouldn't hear from him for weeks。 And there were a lot of hassles。 A lot of people asking awkward questions； and none of us had any answers。 Things got real bad about then。 People stopped smiling； do you know what I mean ？
The Suburban Book of the Dead
'Kidnap the Dalai Lama？' Rex clutched at his narcotized head。 'That is what you are saying？' He examined his fingers； between them were small knots of dead hair。
'Sure thing； buddy。'
'I would suggest that it was anything but。 But why him； why not Pope Joan or L。 Ron Hubbard the twenty…third？'
'All in good time。 I gotta personal score to settle。'
Rex co