missed him. He went out the back door with two guys.”
I beat my way back through the crowd. Battering the beanfeast barn-dancers and shovelling sitophiliacs to the right and left of me. Certainly I would have liked to have indulged in a bit more alliterative whimsy, all that fellow in falafel and a flapjack fez kind of caper, but I was in a hurry here and when time is tight you don’t count sheep or lard the lambs, or even munch the mutton.
Now normally I open doors with caution. I mean, you never know what lies beyond them and like I’ve said before, I work only the four locations. My office, the bar, the alleyway and the rooftop. So I can’t go off kicking open every door that lies before me, no matter how big the temptation. But the way I see it is this, a bar’s back door
always
leads to an alleyway. So I put my boot to this one and kicked down the son of a—
BANG BANG BANG and BANG again.
The sound of gunshots came to me and they weren’t music to my play-my-ears. I pride myself that I can identify almost any handgun in the western world, simply by hearing it fire. And so I knew right off that the sounds of firing were coming from a pair of P37 Narkals, Greek army issue revolvers, pearl-handled probably, with the blue metal finish.
I took a peek round the doorpost to gauge the situation and then ducked back to regain my wits and then burst forth with my gun held at the ready.
BANG BANG BANG then BANG again.
There were two guys at the alley’s end, pumping bullets, thus and so, into a third on the ground. I didn’t ask any questions and I didn’t offer any deals. I let off just two straight shots and the two guys joined the third.
“Nice shooting, chief,” said Barry.
“Thank you, Barry,” said I.
I made it down the alley, checked out the gunmen to make sure they were dead and then turned over the victim who was lying face down in the mud and red stuff.
And then I leapt up all in a lather and damn near soiled my underlinen for a second time off.
“Oh God!” I cried. “It’s God! I felt His power and now He’s dead. Oh God! Oh God!
Oh God
!”
“Hold on to yourself, chief, easy now.”
“But God’s dead, Barry, He’s dead.” I began to do the wee-wee dance.
“Then he can’t have been God, can he, chief? God wouldn’t go getting Himself shot dead in an alleyway. That’s not how God does business. This must be some other Richard E. Grant lookalike.”
“Yeah, but if God was being a man. So He could pull the Jewish chicks and everything. He’d be vulnerable. He could be killed.”
“Well, chief, I suppose He could. But it’s not very likely, is it? God getting Himself shot in an alleyway.”
“So you reckon it’s the wrong guy? Do ya, Barry? Do ya?”
“Has to be, chief, has to be.”
I breathed a mighty sigh of relief. “That had me going for a minute,” I said. “I mean imagine if it really
had
been God. I’d be in really big trouble with His wife, wouldn’t I?”
“Big, chief. Bigger than big. The biggest that ever there was.”
“And what about the weather, Barry? What with God controlling the weather, the way He does. Imagine what might happen to the weather with Him no longer in charge of it.”
“It doesn’t bear thinking about, chief.”
“Well, phew,” said I. “All I can say is phew.”
“I’ll join you in that one, chief, phew.”
I straightened my hat and turned up my collar. “Let’s go back inside,” I said. “It’s getting chilly out here.”
“You’re right, chief, downright bitter.”
“And it looks like rain.”
“Snow, chief, looks like snow.”
“Not at this time of year, surely?”
Something hit me right upon the snap-brim. “Hail,” I said. “It’s hail. No, it is snow. No, it’s rain, no, it’s, oh, the sun’s come out again. No it’s not …”
“Chief,” said Barry.
“Barry?” said I.
And then the hurricane hit us.
8
Two hours prior to the terrible death of God and the rather unseasonable change
I beat my way back through the crowd. Battering the beanfeast barn-dancers and shovelling sitophiliacs to the right and left of me. Certainly I would have liked to have indulged in a bit more alliterative whimsy, all that fellow in falafel and a flapjack fez kind of caper, but I was in a hurry here and when time is tight you don’t count sheep or lard the lambs, or even munch the mutton.
Now normally I open doors with caution. I mean, you never know what lies beyond them and like I’ve said before, I work only the four locations. My office, the bar, the alleyway and the rooftop. So I can’t go off kicking open every door that lies before me, no matter how big the temptation. But the way I see it is this, a bar’s back door
always
leads to an alleyway. So I put my boot to this one and kicked down the son of a—
BANG BANG BANG and BANG again.
The sound of gunshots came to me and they weren’t music to my play-my-ears. I pride myself that I can identify almost any handgun in the western world, simply by hearing it fire. And so I knew right off that the sounds of firing were coming from a pair of P37 Narkals, Greek army issue revolvers, pearl-handled probably, with the blue metal finish.
I took a peek round the doorpost to gauge the situation and then ducked back to regain my wits and then burst forth with my gun held at the ready.
BANG BANG BANG then BANG again.
There were two guys at the alley’s end, pumping bullets, thus and so, into a third on the ground. I didn’t ask any questions and I didn’t offer any deals. I let off just two straight shots and the two guys joined the third.
“Nice shooting, chief,” said Barry.
“Thank you, Barry,” said I.
I made it down the alley, checked out the gunmen to make sure they were dead and then turned over the victim who was lying face down in the mud and red stuff.
And then I leapt up all in a lather and damn near soiled my underlinen for a second time off.
“Oh God!” I cried. “It’s God! I felt His power and now He’s dead. Oh God! Oh God!
Oh God
!”
“Hold on to yourself, chief, easy now.”
“But God’s dead, Barry, He’s dead.” I began to do the wee-wee dance.
“Then he can’t have been God, can he, chief? God wouldn’t go getting Himself shot dead in an alleyway. That’s not how God does business. This must be some other Richard E. Grant lookalike.”
“Yeah, but if God was being a man. So He could pull the Jewish chicks and everything. He’d be vulnerable. He could be killed.”
“Well, chief, I suppose He could. But it’s not very likely, is it? God getting Himself shot in an alleyway.”
“So you reckon it’s the wrong guy? Do ya, Barry? Do ya?”
“Has to be, chief, has to be.”
I breathed a mighty sigh of relief. “That had me going for a minute,” I said. “I mean imagine if it really
had
been God. I’d be in really big trouble with His wife, wouldn’t I?”
“Big, chief. Bigger than big. The biggest that ever there was.”
“And what about the weather, Barry? What with God controlling the weather, the way He does. Imagine what might happen to the weather with Him no longer in charge of it.”
“It doesn’t bear thinking about, chief.”
“Well, phew,” said I. “All I can say is phew.”
“I’ll join you in that one, chief, phew.”
I straightened my hat and turned up my collar. “Let’s go back inside,” I said. “It’s getting chilly out here.”
“You’re right, chief, downright bitter.”
“And it looks like rain.”
“Snow, chief, looks like snow.”
“Not at this time of year, surely?”
Something hit me right upon the snap-brim. “Hail,” I said. “It’s hail. No, it is snow. No, it’s rain, no, it’s, oh, the sun’s come out again. No it’s not …”
“Chief,” said Barry.
“Barry?” said I.
And then the hurricane hit us.
8
Two hours prior to the terrible death of God and the rather unseasonable change
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