The Toyminator (25 page)

“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.

“Oh no, no, no,” said the other Eddie, returning to the cabin with a beer. “The last thing we need right now is for something extraordinary to occur – we are running to a tight schedule.” And he lifted Eddie’s paw from the ignition button. And the powerful engines stuttered and died and all was at peace once more.

Much peace.

“You see,” said the other Eddie, and he grinned at Eddie Bear, “it is this way and …” The other Eddie paused. Eddie Bear was slumped back in the pilot’s seat. His button eyes were crossed and his mouth drooped oddly at the corners.

“Eddie?” went the other Eddie, shaking Eddie Bear. “Eddie, wake up now. We can’t have you dying on us just yet. We haven’t kept you alive all this time, when we could simply have killed you, for no purpose. There are things we need to know from you. Eddie, wake up. Eddie?”

But Eddie Bear would not wake up.

Eddie Bear could not wake up.

His head rolled forward, his shoulders sank.

Eddie Bear was dead.

“That is most inconvenient.” The other Eddie called out to the chicken crew who had now returned to their duties tinkering with electronic doodads and ticking things off on clipboards. “Toss him out of the hatchway, will you? No, on second thoughts, dump him in the hold. We’ll deliver him home, toss him out when we make our first pass over Toy City.”

The chickens cackled with laughter, the way chickens will, and two of their number hauled the lifeless Eddie from the pilot’s chair and carried him away to the hold.

“Right then,” said the other Eddie, seating himself in the pilot’s chair and strapping himself in for good measure. Because you should never pilot a flying saucer without following all safety procedures, which include wearing your seat belt, putting your beer into the little holder on the arm of your chair, extinguishing your cigarette, of course, switching off your mobile phone and knowing where the exit doors are in case of a crash. Oh, and that business regarding the inflatable life jacket with the little whistle attachment, although no one ever really pays any attention to that because everyone knows full well that when whatever means of flying transportation you happen to be travelling in falls from the sky and hits either the ground or the sea, there really aren’t going to be any survivors to inflate their life belts or blow their little whistles.

“Calling all craft,” said the other Eddie, slipping a pair of bear-stylie headphones over his ears. The ones with the little face-mic attachment. “Calling all craft.”

Headphone speakers crackled, chicken voices cackled.

“Oh goody,” said the other, well, now the
remaining
Eddie. “All present and correct, splendid. Well, ladies, you have all been briefed for this mission. It is of the utmost importance, in order to put overall plans for the domination of this world and our imminent expansion into the world of Toy City into action, that this mission goes without a hitch. I want this done by the numbers, ladies, smooth formation following my lead. Through The Second Big O of the Hollywood sign, full speed ahead to Toy City, then on with the evil soul-sucking death rays, hoover up the population. And then nuke Toy City.”

Rather surprised chicken cackles crackled through the remaining Eddie’s headphones. There had been no previous briefings regarding any nukings.

“I know, ladies, I know. But let’s face it – Toy City is something of a dump. The clean-sweep approach is probably for the best. Negotiating with the humans there will be such a long-winded process that I feel we should simply take the lot of them out in one fell swoop and have done with it. What say you?”

Chicken voices cackled in the affirmative.

“Splendid, splendid. My call sign will be Great Mother-Henship and this operation, as you know, is Operation Take Out Toy City. So, gangways up, hatchways sealed and then we’ll run through the safety procedures. I want everyone to be certain that they know how to inflate their life jackets and use their little whistles. These things matter.”

Although it might appear to be a somewhat tenuous link, it did have to be said that certain
things
were at present really
mattering
to Samuel J. Maggott of the LAPD.

Staying alive in the face of a mad robot’s onslaught being foremost amongst these.

Sam pumped bullets at the robot’s head, but the thing was moving so swiftly about that he mostly missed and shot up the coffee machine.

“You’ve broken that for good this time,” said the engineer who had come to fix it. Ducking as he did so to avoid being struck by the troubled young detective as the robot Jack flung him through the glass of Sam’s partition door.

Sam ducked down behind his desk as an officer flew over his head and left via a window, taking much of the faulty air-conditioning unit with him.

“Eat lead, you son of a bitch!” cried the feisty young female officer, bringing out her own special weapon, the one that was
not
police issue, and blasting away like a good’n.

The robot Jack, impervious even to such superior firepower due to the nature of his hyper-alloy combat chassis
[45]
, flung officers to every side, stormed straight through the partition door, causing much distress to the coffee-machine engineer, then stormed through the outer office and through the outer wall.

“After it!” bawled Sam to those who still remained conscious. “Get that motherfu –”

But none seemed too keen to oblige.

Sam snatched up what was left of his telephone receiver and shouted words into it. “Is my helicopter still on the roof?” he shouted. “Right, then rev the son of a gun up,” he further shouted. “And call every car, call everything – there’s a robot on the loose.”

There was a moment’s pause. As well there would be.

“Yeah, you heard me right!” shouted Sam. “I said
robot
!
No
, I
didn’t
say
Robert
. Yes, I
have
been taking my tablets. Get the … what? Oh, you can see it now, can you? It just burst out through the front of the building. Right. Then get everything you can get – we’re going after it.”

“Generally speaking,” said Wellington Bellis to Amelie as he accepted two more free drinks from Tinto, a triple for Amelie, a diet swodge
[46]
for himself, “on the surface, as it were, police work might seem mundane and everyday – petty theft, toys pulling bits off each other, that kind of thing. But once in a while something really big happens. And that is when I get personally involved. I’m a
special
policeman, you see. Supercriminals fear my name. Is that drink all right, my dear?”

Amelie hiccuped prettily. “Do you have your own car and a
special
expense account?” she asked.

“Oh yes, I’m well taken care of. Don’t be put off by all these perished bits, by the way. I’ve booked in for a makeover with the kindly, lovable white-haired old Toymaker.”

“I’ll bet you’re not perished
all
over,” purred Amelie.

“Excruciating,” said Tinto.

“Quiet, you,” ordered Bellis. “I’m only postponing your arrest for crimes against toyanity until closing time because I am so enjoying my conversation with this fascinating young dolly here.”

“Fascinating?” purred Amelie. “Jack never said that to me.”
And what of Jack
, Amelie wondered.

What of Jack, indeed.

The other Jack, or perhaps he should now be referred to as the
remaining
Jack, was making good progress through the streets of Los Angeles. He was doing all the things one might reasonably expect, in fact, unreasonably demand, of such a robot in such a situation. He was thrusting innocent passers-by aside, some, with inclinations to seek positions as Hollywood stuntmen, through plate-glass windows, and others of a frailer disposition into those piles of cardboard boxes that always seem to be there to conveniently cushion one’s fall in such situations. Should such situations occur.

And then there was the lifting up and overturning of automobiles that got in his way. There’s always a lot of mileage to be had from that kind of thing.

And then there was the kind of thing that we all really like. In fact, if it didn’t come to pass, we’d all be bitterly disappointed.

And that is, of course, the climbing into the cab of a great big truck, flinging the driver out of the door, settling down behind the wheel and taking-and-driving-away.

Oh, and it needs to be a truck with a
significant
bit-on-the-end sort of jobbie, a great long canister on the “bed” containing twenty tonnes of liquid oxygen, or highly volatile solvents, or toxic waste, or even nuclear nasties.

Or something.

Joe-Bob, the driver of the Sulphuric Acid Truck, made loud his protests as the robot Jack hurled him out through the windscreen and took the steering wheel.

Now in his helicopter, Police Chief Sam heard the call-in from the traffic cop who had witnessed the taking-and-driving-away. Witnessed it while parked on his bike beside a Golden Chicken Diner, munching upon a Golden Chicken burger family meal and admiring the little clockwork giveaway cymbal-playing monkey toy that he intended to take home for his daughter. There was something really special about that monkey.

“Westbound on Route Sixty-Six,” Sam told the pilot. “I’ll bet the S-O-B is heading back to Area Fifty-Two. After him.” And Sam thrust on headphones of his own with the little microphone attachment and shouted orders to all and sundry. Adding for good measure, “And call up the Air Force, just to be sure.”

Call up the Air Force, just to be sure! Well, why not? You always have to call up the Air Force sooner or later. And there’s always this troubled young pilot, who might well be black and want to be a space pilot, but keeps getting kicked back and is looking to prove himself and …

“Calling all craft,” went the remaining Eddie through his little fitted microphone. “Follow my lead. Open outer launch doors.”

Up, up on the desert floor, great doors slid aside.

“And away we go!” And the remaining Eddie pawed the ignition,
brrmmed
the engines, put the saucer into gear and with a hum and a whiz and a whoosh and a swoosh, the saucer did its liftings off and dramatic sweepings away.

“Tally ho!” shouted the remaining Eddie. “Onward, follow me.”

And up they went, those saucers all, off up the underground runway.

It was night-time now and the Californian sky was sprinkled over with stars. Were there worlds up there, one might wonder, with folk like us looking out at our sun and wondering, just wondering, were there folk like them down here? Well, perhaps, or then, perhaps not. Perhaps the Universe is nothing more than a great construction kit, given by God to his offspring and awaiting the day when his offspring will grow tired of it just sitting there and pack it up and put it back into its box.

Or is there really no Universe at all? Is it just an illusion, a dream, which, when the dreamer awakes, will cease to be?

Or perhaps the world
is
just an apple turning silently in space. Or a great big onion. Or a melting pot. Or perhaps, as has been mooted in many a public drinking house, some time after the ten-o’clock watershed, the real truth is that …

“Weeeeeee!” went the remaining Eddie as his lead craft shot up through the opening in the desert floor and into the star-speckled sky. “Now
this is
a rush!”

And up came the other craft one by one, up into that sky.

“Full speed ahead,” cried the remaining Eddie. “Make me proud of you, ladies.”

And aboard all the craft, the chicken crews did duckings and cacklings and such.

“And such a night,” said Wellington Bellis, standing in the doorway of Tinto’s and looking up at the dark and star-sprinkled sky. “Hardly the night for an Apocalypse, I think you will agree, my dear.” And his perished rubber arm strayed about the waist of Amelie. And laughing policemen peering out from the bar counter nudged each other, did lewd winkings and made suggestive remarks.

“Now, I just want to make this clear,” said Tinto, “in case any of you lot are thinking of truncheoning me senseless, I am
not
a super-criminal. I am a barman. And to prove this, I propose that I waive normal licensing hours on this occasion and continue to serve you fellows until all of you are too drunk to do any arresting at all. In fact, until you all agree that you are my bestest friends. What say you to this?”

The laughing policemen laughed some more and ordered further drinks.

“I don’t suppose you have any drink in the glove compartment?” Police Chief Sam asked the helicopter pilot, “because, by God, I could use some.”

“Certainly not,” the pilot replied. “That would be most unprofessional. We pilots
never
drink on the job. We do a bit of Charlie, of course, but who doesn’t? Piloting a helicopter is a very stressful job, what with all those power lines you might crash into and everything. I always have a couple of lines before I go up.”

“Got any left?” Sam asked.

“In the glovey, help yourself.”

“Why, thank you … Oh my God, what is he doing
now
?”

He, the robot Jack, was doing what one would expect of him. He was bothering other road users. The great big truck with its highly dangerous cargo swerved from lane to lane on the highway, swiping cars to left and right. “So,” said Sydney Greenstreet to Marilyn Monroe, whom he was driving home after the meal they’d just had together, “my agent says that the producers are very pleased with my performance so far. They thought that the scene where we were taken hostage at the Golden Chicken Headquarters might well be the one that earns me an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor.”

“Did he say anything about me?” asked Marilyn.

“He said you were okay.”

“Okay?”

“That’s a compliment coming from him, dear. Oh, and they’re changing the name of the movie now – did you hear that? They’re calling it
The Toyminator
, whatever
that
means. And we’re to do one last scene together. I have the revised script right here.”

Sydney handed Marilyn the revised script.

And she read it. “‘While driving home after a night out at the Golden Chicken Diner, where they enjoyed the Big Bird Munchie Special with extra fries on the side, the merits of which they are discussing whilst marveling at the special qualities of the giveaway clockwork pianist toy, they are run off the road by a speeding Sulphuric Acid Truck.’”

“I said no to that bit,” said Sydney. “That’s work for a stunt double, I told my agent.”

Marilyn perused the script. “There isn’t any actual dialogue,” she said. “It simply reads, ‘They scream.’”

“I know – it’s outrageous, isn’t it?”

And then Sydney and Marilyn were run off the road by a speeding Sulphuric Acid Truck.

They screamed.

And out into the desert went that truck. And after it in hot pursuit came many a black-and-white. And overhead now came Sam Maggott’s ’copter, all thrashing blades and bawling Sam.