Wha — ?
I shook myself awake. What the – ?
Had I been dreaming? No. It was Philip, my electric sheep-butler. It opened its jaw parts, revealing an old Mark Seven voice synthesiser, which was all I could afford when I bought it.
How’s it goin, Boss? I knew that voice, though I could barely hear it above the din of the Bullet’s manic guitar-playing.
Bullet! Turn down that fuckin amp, I screamed lovingly. Zucchini? That you?
Yeah. Who’d you think it was – Mother Teresa?
All right. All right. Sorry – I was asleep, and the Bullet was playing Pantera covers very loud.
Listen, he said. I have a bit of news for ya.
If it’s about the Paisley – Adams thing, I know. It was all over the telly.
Never mind that shite, he dismissed me.
Well, I continued, if it’s about the guy with the magnet up his arse –
No, said Zucchini, though I heard he wasn’t charged.
Not even assault and battery?
No, said Zucchini. Anyway, that isn’t why I called you.
Then why – ?
Rugby, he announced.
Ah fuck it, Zucchini, I protested. That was two weeks ago.
Not that fuckin rugby, I could distantly hear Zucchini pounding his fist on the table. I’m talkin about the real rugby!
You mean – ?
Exactly, he said. Munster versus Llanelli. I have news for you.
I knew it, I sighed. It was too good to be true. The trip’s off, right?
Eh, no, actually.
Well what then?
We have a place for the Bullet.
The Bullet. We have a ticket for him, and a seat in the bus.
Excellent, I said. Bullet, come down you fucker.
What’s up? Zucchini sounded worried
Nothing, I said. It’s just Bullet stuck to the ceiling. I’ll have to scrape him off.
Related : Off Again