Link Arms with Toads! by Rhys Hughes Read Free Book Online Page A

tumbling like a drunkard, Nascent shouts: “I sabotaged your tank! I wanted you to perish! But when we collided after Vespas, our fruit got mixed up. You received one of my Schopenhauerian kumquats; it made you bold enough to risk a Vindaloo. I gnawed on a notion of goodness, which gave me a conscience. It then became imperative to precede you here.”
    Mondrian weeps, partly from grief and partly from steam. Now he has the reason for Nascent’s absence at his launch. The yoghurt tank rapidly carries them away from Nascent’s floundering form. To be saved by such a glib fellow! As Nascent vanishes over the chutney-horizon, he closes his eyes. His scream is as brief as the protest of pounded cumin. The scared waiter sees Mondrian’s original table; when they pass near, he leaps for it and clings to the tablecloth. This reduction in mass accelerates the Khormanaut to a frightful velocity; he works the controlling valve, but it is jammed. He is unable to arrest his motion as he steers through the tables for the plate glass re-entry window. Mission Control flee in all directions as he connects horribly…
    He wakes to find himself in his bed at the Spice Centre, swathed in bandages. He is quite alone; but he can hear muted voices emanating from the common room. Throwing back the sheets, he climbs to his feet and out the door. The stairs make few allowances for his condition; by the time he reaches the bottom, the conversation has stopped. Weiner glances up as he enters the room. Mondrian blushes. “I’ve made a complete phaal of myself,” he mutters. Weiner nods in agreement. The spiceman rotates his splinted thumbs. “How long have I been unconscious? I’ve got a stereo to demonstrate. I mustn’t be late.”
    Weiner chuckles. “That was weeks ago. You’ve lost your job with the company. Ancient Electronics Ltd don’t want you. I’ve taken your place. I was working for them anyway. Old Speckled Henrietta and myself have a thing between us. It’s not a growing concern, though.” At this news, the Khormanaut wipes his cheeks with his plaster sleeves. “Don’t cry!” snaps his superior. “You must have known she was unfaithful. I dropped enough hints to that effect. I told you I was allergic to lager. Old Speckled Henrietta is dark and full bodied.” He licks his lips. “She’s using me to pick up gold coins with a magnet…”
    Mondrian slumps in a chair under his portrait. Weiner ignores him and growls into the picture’s ear. “You destroyed Nascent! You set back the Biryani program by a decade! But we’re not finished with you. We discovered another restaurant this morning. The biggest yet.” Lifting the portrait, he carries it to a window. “Look up there! Seems a colony of spicemen have been living on that crescent since classical times. They finally decided to open a curry house. We’ll get you to it before prices go up. We’re converting the moped, adding wings, a pressurised cabin.” The real Mondrian lumbers over and squints into the lunar glow, soft as ghee. He silently mouths the question, “The name?” With a sneer, Weiner whispers it to the picture, but not to him.
    (1996)

 
    Lunarhampton
     
    (i)
    The city was tugging at her elbow.
    It felt like that, as if the fumes, litter and rain were conspiring to irritate her. She liked cities, but this one mistrusted her. Flyovers clapped hands above, falling away in exhausted parabolas, shadowing her car but doing nothing to keep the elements at bay. The convertible was a bad idea, she realised, as she changed lanes to avoid an ancient tanker, windows tinted like a blind man’s glasses, which kicked up whole puddles of oily water to baptise her anew.
    On the edge of her vision, she was aware of addicts skulking in the shadows of tenements, needles catching her headlamps and signalling like heliographs. Was there substance in these messages, ironic insights from beings who closed down veins like television channels? She passed a huddle of