Snuff Fiction by Robert Rankin

fourth beer, went ‘Aaaah’, and smacked my lips.
    ‘It grows on you, doesn’t it?’ said the Doveston.
    ‘Pardon?’ I replied.
    ‘I said
it grows on you.
    ‘Oh, yeah.’
I shouted too, as the music was now very loud indeed and the hustling and bustling in the crowded kitchen made it almost impossible to talk.
    ‘Go and dance,’
the Doveston shouted.
‘Enjoy the party.’
    ‘Yes. Right.’
And I thought I would. After all, it was
my
party and there seemed to be an awful lot of girls. I pushed my way back into the hall, rubbing up against as many as I could. There were girls here dressed up as princesses, page boys, panel-beaters and Pankhursts —mostly as Emmeline Pankhurst (1858—1928) the English suffragette leader, who founded the militant Women’s Social and Political Union in 1903.
    I squeezed by a girl who was dressed as a parachute and elbowed my way into the front sitter. The joint was a-rockin’ and I was impressed. There were popes here and pilots and pit lads and pastry chefs. Even a couple of Pushkins. Whoever Pushkin was.
    I was about to get in there and boogie when someone tapped me on the shoulder.
    ‘Hey, homes,’ a voice shouted in my ear. I turned. It was Chico.
    ‘I’m not Sherlock Holmes,’ I shouted. ‘I’m President Kennedy.’
    ‘President who, homes?’
    ‘Eh?’
    ‘Forget it.’
    I looked Chico up and down and all around. He had a bath towel over his head, held in place by a fan belt. He was robed in chintzy curtains, secured at the waist by a dressing-gown cord. His face was boot-blackened and he wore upon his chin a false goatee fashioned from what looked like (and indeed turned out to be) a pussycat’s tail.
    ‘Who are you supposed to be?’ I shouted.
    ‘Che Guevara,’ he shouted back. The light of realization dawned.
    ‘Chico,’ I shouted. ‘That’s
Che
Guevara, not
Sheik
Guevara.’
    ‘Curse this dyslexia.’
    Oh how we laughed.
    Chico had brought the new gang members and he hauled me outside into the street to make the introductions.
    ‘Your costumes are great,’ I told them. ‘You look just like Kalahari Bushmen.’
    ‘But we
are
Kalahari Bushmen.’
    Oh how we laughed again.
    Chico winked in my direction. ‘I also brought one of my sisters.’
    ‘Not the one with the moustache?’
    We would no doubt have laughed again, but Chico chose instead to hit me. As he helped me back to my feet he whispered, ‘Just for the benefit of the new guys, no offence meant.’
    ‘None taken, I assure you.
    And then there was a bit of a crash as someone flew out through the front sitter window.
    ‘Neat,’ said Chico. ‘Where’s the booze?’
    I gaped in horror at all the blood and broken glass.
    My parents wouldn’t be happy about this.
    The Doveston appeared in the front doorway. He came over and handed me another beer. ‘Don’t worry about the damage,’ he said.
    ‘But—’
    ‘Here,’ said the Doveston. ‘Have this too.’
    He handed me a large fat cigarette. It was all twisted up at one end.
    ‘What is that?’ I asked.
    ‘It’s a joint.’
     
    My first joint. I will never forget that. It tasted... W O N D E R -FUL
     
    I drifted back towards the house and was met by two girls dressed as pixies who were patting at a big and soppy Labrador.
    ‘Is this your dog?’ one of them asked. I nodded dreamily.
    ‘What’s its name?’
    ‘Well,’ I said. ‘When I got it I thought it was a boy dog and so I named it Dr Evil.’
    ‘Oh,’ said one of the pixies.
    ‘But it turned out to be a girl dog, so my mum said I had to call it something else.’
    ‘So what’s its name?’
    ‘Biscuit,’ I said.
    The pixies laughed. Rather prettily, I thought. And I was aware of the pale pink auras that surrounded them and so I smiled some more and swigged upon my beer and sucked again at my joint. ‘Try some of this,’ I said.
    I suppose things really got into full swing around eleven o’clock. Up until then only one person had been thrown out through the front