"Robert Rankin - THe Suburban Book of the Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

'It certainly looks like him,' said Fido, who had been observing the feverish activity. 'Curly lip
and everything. Nice big hole, by the way.'

'Give me a hand then, we'll lift it out.'



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The dog gave Rex what is called 'the old fashioned look'.

'Well, fetch a rope or something. I'll rig up a block and tackle.'

'To hear is to obey, oh master.'

Rex spat on to his palms and rubbed them together. 'Soon have you out,' he said.

14

It was somewhat late in the afternoon when the statue of Elvis came to stand upright. And the
garden that it now stared down upon was no longer the pretty and picturesque thing it had earlier
been. This was now a garden littered with broken timbers, snapped ropes and fractured pulleys. A
garden tainted by words of pro-fanity.

The owner of the garden sat exhausted, his feet dangling in the hole of his own making. 'There,'
said he, when finally he could find breath. 'A piece of cake.'

Fido cocked his head on one side and gazed up at the statue.

'It's a killer,' he said. The lad himself.'

'Certainly is,' Rex gasped.

'Cosmic, man. Dead cosmic.'

'And to find it right here in my own back yard.'

'Like I said, cosmic.'

'I wonder how it came to be here.' Rex climbed to his feet and perused his find.

'Probably went under in the Nuclear Holocaust Event. Hey, man, do you know what this means?'

'What?'

'It means that you probably built your house on the very spot where Graceland once stood.'

'No kidding?' Rex was well impressed. 'Some co-incidence, eh?'