"Robert Rankin - They Came and Ate us" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

The network helicar levelled out at five hundred and buzzed the line of stopped traffic.'. . . And
for all of you travelling to work on the M25, my advice is don't do it. We have a toxic waste
spillage with extreme bio-hazard causing five-mile tailbacks both east and west. Stay home and
make love, good people. And back to you in the studio Ramon.'

'Well, not too much joy there I'm afraid, and very little joy in Red China at the present by the
sound of it. Reports are coming in that the government now has the entire population jumping up
and down on the spot in unison for five full minutes every morning. Nothing to do with the health
of that benighted nation, we understand. But

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a concerted effort to alter the axis of the Earth and shift the ever-widening ozone hole directly
over Washing-ton . . .'

A manicured hand flipped the dial of the in-car TV and it moved back into the dash. On the wrist
was a watch like a gold tattoo. A peerless pin-striped cuff led up a sleeve of likewise confection
to a shoulder clenched by red elastic. It was a short haul to the receding perfumed chin, the
pampered cheeks and the sun-bleached tresses.

The Porsche was deep in the tailback. The driver deep in the kind of cold fury that only one who
has paid out 35K for a car to go zoom and finds it going nowhere can really experience.

John Timothy clenched the racing wheel and ground his expensive caps. He slumped back in the
bucket seat and did some Oming. It didn't help one little bit. He thumbed open the electric
window. Took a deep breath. A leathern fist swung in and smashed across his face.

'Christ.' John spat blood down his designer shirt-front. He turned in horror to view his attacker.
A second fist joined the first and both began to pound upon him. The passenger door was flung
open. A bald-headed woman forced her way into the car. The leathern fists had hold of his club
tie, drew it up. His head struck the sunroof. The bald woman snatched up the car phone, wrapped
the cord about his throat, and began to apply her strength.

John fought to free himself, climb from the car. The bald woman tapped the window button and the


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window swished up severing three ringers from John's right hand. He opened his mouth to scream.
His Filofax was rammed into his jaws, penetrating deeply into his throat. Credit cards spilled
from the open end. The bald woman snatched one up, drew it across his filled throat. Sliced his
head from his body . . .

Jack Doveston's wife leant over his shoulder and perused

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the word screen. 'Voodoo Yuppie Killers,' she read. 'The new bestseller from the author of They