Fast ran the
car through the night. The highway was empty, the sky clouded over, devoid of
moon and stars. The only light came from the twin headlights, painting the road
with a pale wash of yellow – and the tip of the driver’s cigar, glowing red
like an inflamed eye.
The driver was in no hurry. He had far to
go, but the night was long, and he did not have to be there before morning. He
could even have a bath, a shave, a snooze and breakfast before presenting
himself to the underboss at his office.
Yes, the police might know that he was
coming. The police might track him, and might even try to find some excuse to
search him. But they wouldn’t get anything. They never had, and they never
would.
Especially not this time. This time he was
on the most important mission of his career. By this time tomorrow night,
billions would have been made – and he, Robby the Mook, would have earned
enough to be a millionaire himself, several times over.
No longer would he be a lowly bagman and
gambling runner. By this time tomorrow, Robby the Mook would be among the rich
and mighty, the hardships and dangers of his life all behind him.
In his head, buried where no policeman
could get to it, were the details of every single bet placed over the past week
in the Great Big City – every single bet riding on the results of the Grand
Election tomorrow. Robby the Mook, who had a brain cursed by a literal
inability to forget figures, had long ago found a way to make it work for him.
And not just for him, but for the Organisation.
The Organisation was not ungrateful.
But this time it was more than this. Robby
the Mook had placed discreet bets this time, carefully spread out among the
Great Big City’s illegal bookies, in many false names – each a small bet in
itself, nothing to draw any attention, but together they would pay out a massive
sum if he won.
And he would
win. Careful work over the years, payments made and contacts sedulously
cultivated, had all finally borne fruit. Robby the Mook knew exactly who had been selected to win the Grand
Election tomorrow. He even knew exactly by how many votes, within the nearest
thousand, the final total would be.
Oh, Robby the Mook would be a rich man
indeed.
Puffing at his cheap cigar, contentedly
reflecting on the fact that by this time the day after he could afford better
smokes and a better car, he roared on through the darkness, and switched on the
car radio to listen to some music.
He’d have to keep it quiet for a while, of
course. The Organisation would have no mercy if it discovered that he’d known
what was about to happen and not tipped it off. But after a few months had
passed, he could arrange to disappear, change his name, and turn up with false
papers in a South American country. It would not be hard, when he had money. He
might even get plastic surgery to change his appearance. He’d always disliked
his nose...
But he would not delay in buying a better
car and better cigars. And new shoes. He loved new shoes. Black, gleaming, with
pointed toes and that leather smell.
His dreams of the future were so absorbing,
and so comforting, that he did not notice until it was too late the brilliant
light lowering through the clouds above him.
*****************************************
The caab-ship
from Glnthorr had passed the orbit of the moon before the captain summoned her
second in command to the control tub.
“Senior Lieutenant Vicious Rimmer,” she
snorkled, moving her tentacles in the tub’s green and purple liquid. “How was
the harvest this time?”
Senior Lieutenant Vicious Rimmer opened his
voice flap. “Excellent, Most Honourable Caab-Captain,” he bloggered back at top
volume. “We have never had a better one.”
“Really?” Caab-Captain Lindispercy thrashing
around her tentacles in confusion. “I thought you’d said that it was shaping up
to be a really poor harvest this time.”
“That was true enough, O Honourable
Caab-Captain,” Vicious Rimmer blooted. “The
first collections were severely stunted, almost useless. As you may recall, I
decided to make one last attempt. And we struck, as the apes on that planet
call it, gold.”
“Gold.” Caab-Captain Lindispercy’s left
front upper tentacle flicked some of the fluid so high that it splashed on the
ceiling. A crawling tiktiki lizard instantly slurped it down before it could
dribble back into the tub. “That heavy yellow metal. Oh yes, I remember that
these apes like it. So it went off well?”
“Most well, O Delicious and August Mistress
Caab-Captain,” Vicious Rimmer gnokked, his voice-flaps distended at full
opening. “This last collection was better than all the rest put together. The
harvest collection tanks are filled to brimming, and the memoworms and mathafungi
are already seeded and growing.”
“Very good.” Caab-Captain Lindispercy
smacked her beak appreciatively. “It’s been a long time since we could eat our
fill of memoworms and mathafungi. With full tanks we will all get medals and
promotion. Set course for home.”
Lying back in the tub, she watched the
tiktiki on the ceiling and dreamt of the honours to come.
*****************************************
“Reports of UFO activity have increased over the last few days,” the
radio said. “People have reported seeing strange lights in the sky, and some of
them have alleged that their vehicles stopped working, after which they
remember nothing.
“Scientists have explained away these as mass hallucinations arising from
anxiety over the results of tomorrow’s election, which has been stated to be
the most significant in a generation. In political news, the candidates...”
Robby the Mook blinked. The car radio
blattered meaninglessly. He looked out blankly through the windscreen at the
empty highway, and at the steering wheel in front of him. There was the burnt
end of a cigar on the dashboard. He looked at it, picked it up, bit it, and
threw it away.
He was still sitting there when the police
car stopped beside his and a torch shone in through the open window. “You,” a
voice said. “Who are you? What are you doing sitting in your car in the middle
of the highway? Are you ill, or drunk, or trying to cause an accident?”
Robby the Mook stared at the torch. “Blub?”
he inquired.
“I said,” the policeman repeated, his voice
rising in exasperation. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing?”
“Glop,” Robby the Mook said. He raised his
hand and grabbed at the light, surprised when he couldn’t catch it. “Brok?” he
asked. “Brok dok mok?”And then, with an effort: "Who are you? Where am I?" He frowned. "Who am I?"
And it was at that point that the policeman
began to scream.
Copyright B Purkayastha 2017
