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

physical condition. He'll provide well.'
Provide? Raymond wondered about provide. Provide, as in working? Slavery, then?
Or some other kind of provide. Provide as in offspring? Stud farm work? Yes, he'd be
prepared to give stud farm work a try,
'Are the Georges always this unpleasant blue colour?' asked Mrs Dumpty.
'Oh no, madam. Not when you warm them up. They're quite pink then.'
'That's nice, pink. I like pink. What's the best way to warm them up?'
'Slow grilled over charcoal,' said Mr Chameleon. 'They're best cooked live, of course.
With the mouth glued shut and a chilli pepper stuck up the bum for seasoning.'
Raymond bit right through a filling.

But he sat very quietly throughout the auction. It didn't teach him much about the Venusian
way of life. It was just like any auction on Earth. Any cattle auction say, or one where porker
pigs are being sold for bacon.
Mr Chameleon extolled the virtues of each specimen, the flavour, the tenderness of
the special cuts. Raymond's blood ran colder and colder. He did learn that there were one
million pennies in a Venusian pound, but he didn't learn what a Venusian penny was worth.
And he really didn't care.
All he cared about was how to escape from this dismal planet in one piece. And
preferably before the chilli pepper was inserted.
'Here you go then, sir.' Raymond peeped once more through his fingers. The auction
was now over. The bloody Humpty Dumpty family had got him, and for the knock-down
price of г4.99,999?.
'A porter will roll the containment sphere to your car for you.' Mr Chameleon was all
smiles. 'Handle it with care. As you know, the spheres are virtually indestructible from within,
but a sharp tap on the outside will shatter them. Wear gloves, we wouldn't want you to cut
yourself.'
'Can I cut George's balls off?' asked the darling daughter.
'Of course, dear,' said her doting dad. 'But put them on the barbecue to cook with
George. They won't taste very nice if they're raw.
'I really, really hate these bastards,' Raymond muttered. 'And now, at least, I know
just why I do.'

4
Simon woke early and took another shower. He'd taken two the previous night, but he felt
sure that the unsavoury taint of the flying starfish still clung to him like a mildewed body-
stocking.
In a curious way, however, he found the smell almost comforting. Without it he felt
certain he could have quite easily convinced himself that all which had occurred with
Raymond was nothing more than the product of his over-active imagination.
Simon recalled an article he had once read whilst sitting in the dentist's waiting-room.
It was part of a handprinted pamphlet affair published by an organization with the enigmatic
acronym B.E.A.S.T. and it was all about how the human brain tended to filter out things that
didn't fit into the everyday. For example, seeing a ghost. You saw the thing when you were
stone-cold sober and you were definitely certain you'd seen it. But the next day your memory
began to fade and in no time at all you'd convinced yourself that you'd never really seen it at
all.
 The article hinted darkly that subtle influences were at work which came from
beyond the brain. Possibly emanating from the ghost itself, or the UFO, or whatever. It was
all part of some evil psychic smokescreen to keep mankind from learning some terrible truth.