"Robert Rankin - The Greatest Show Off Earth" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

accident, not the firework); Military Dave, who was something in the refinement of engine
oil, hunched above a triple vodka dreaming of Brooklands; the Scribe, who apparently wrote
for a living, although none could ever find his books in the shops; two fragrant checkout girls
from the supermarket in the high street. And so on and so forth.
Simon knew them all, many from as long ago as school. Same old faces. Same old
jokes and, Andy willing, same old rounds of drinks.
But here sat he. And he was no longer the same. He had seen his best friend sucked
away to Venus by a flying starfish. He could never now be quite the same again.
And so he sat and sipped and sidled mentally about the best way he could capitalize
upon this knowledge that was known to him alone. It would have to be handled with care as
the precious package it was. If he could persuade a Sunday newspaper to believe his story
there might well be large cash payments to be had. But there was the far greater likelihood of
being branded a nutcase.
Simon set in to do some serious thinking.
And then he was clouted in the ear.
'Ouch!' went he, collapsing to the floor.
The sudden silence born to this appalling breach of social etiquette died an equally
sudden death as its cause became apparent. It was Liza, Simon's long-suffering girlfriend, and
as she struck down the lad on a more or less regular basis, even Andy turned a Grecian-
sightless to it. He drew the line at her putting the boot in though.
'Nine o'clock!' cried Liza as the regulars returned to their merry converse. 'You'd be
round at nine, you said.'
In his head upon the floor Simon's memory struck a sexual chord. But as his face was
now receiving the unwelcome attentions of Dick's lurcher, he was a bit stuck as yet to voice
an eloquent apology.
'I've been dangling in that bloody split-cane basket for an hour. My bum looks like a
barbecued beefburger.'
'Get your dog off my face, Dick,' Simon spluttered.
'Up, boy,' said the poacher. 'Come to heel.'
Simon struggled to his feet. All sickly smiles. 'I thought we agreed to meet here, Liza.
I wondered why you were late. I was just coming round.'
'You lying . . .' Liza tried to swing a foot. 'Get your bloody dog off my leg, Dick.'
'Listen, Liza, please.' Simon spat out pubic dog hair. 'Something unexpected came up.
I'm very sorry.'
'Very sorry?' Liza flexed her nostrils. Fine young nostrils they were too. Set where
nostrils should be set, beneath a pretty nose upon a pretty face, framed all about by an
extravagance of fine young auburn hair. 'What is that smell?' she asked.
'Smell? What smell?' Simon began to fan at himself.
'Smell,' said Liza.
Around the bar the regulars began to sniff. Though the smiting of Simon hadn't been
much of a thing in itself, the mention of the split-cane basket and the barbecued bum had
drawn some interest. This latter talk of smells now had them hooked.
Hooked, as in fish, possibly.
'Fish!' said Liza. 'It's fish. You stink of fish.'
'Fish?' said Simon. 'No I don't.'
'It is fish,' said Andy. 'I noticed it when you came in. I was far too polite to mention it,
of course.'
Sniff sniff sniff, went the regulars and, 'Fish fish fish,' they said.
'It's not me,' wailed Simon. 'It's Dick's dog.'
'It bloody is you, boy.' The poacher leaned all too close and savoured Simon's wang.