Читаем The Tent полностью

As Chris was pronouncing the word ravaging, the husband sprang in through the French doors, in an advanced state of inebriation, with murder in his heart. Chris grabbed Amanda by the hand and made a dash for his own battered vehicle, a green Ford pickup: I’ve reconfigured the Volkswagen, it wasn’t muscular enough. Cut to the chase. (Chris will drive very skilfully despite the distracting screams let out by Amanda, and he will swerve at the last moment, and the husband, whom we have never liked—he was a dishonest oil-and-gas executive and a sadistic foot fetishist—will go over the cliff instead. Chris and Amanda will end up shakily but gratefully in each other’s arms, exactly where we want them to be.)

But maybe it wasn’t “Bottle Plunge.” Now that I think of it, the phrase may have been “Brutal Purge.”

Where does that get us? Down to earth. But which brutal purge? There are so many to choose from. Those in the past, those in the present, and, unfortunately, those yet to come. Anyway, if it’s “Brutal Purge,” I can’t see a way forward. Chris and Amanda are very likeable. They have straight teeth, trim waists, clean socks, and the best of intentions. They don??instst o C do?t belong in a book like that, and if they stray into it by accident they won’t come out of it alive.

TAKE CHARGE

I)

— Sir, their cannons have blown a hole in the ship. It’s below the waterline. Water is pouring into the hold, Sir.

— Don’t just stand there, you blockhead! Cut a piece of canvas, dive down, patch it!

— Sir, I can’t swim.

— Bloody hell and damn your eyes, what wetnurse let you go to sea? No help for it, I’ll have to do it myself. Hold my jacket. Put out that fire. Clear away those spars.

— Sir, my leg’s been shot off.

— Well do the best you can.

II)

— Sir, their anti-tank missiles have shredded the left tread on our tank.

— Don’t just sit there, you nitwit! Take a wrench, crawl underneath the tank, fix it!

— Sir, I’m a gunner, not a mechanic. Anyway that wouldn’t work.

— Why in hell do they send me useless twits like you? No help for it, I’ll have to do it myself. Cover me with your machine gun. Stand by with grenades. Hand me that spanner.

— Sir, my arm’s been burnt off.

— Well do the best you can.

III)

— Sir, their diabolical worm virus has infected our missile command system. It’s eating the software like candy.

— Don’t just lounge there, you dickhead! Get going with the firewalls, or whatever you use.

— Sir, I’m a screen monitor, not a troubleshooter.

— Shit in a bucket, what do they think we’re running here, a beauty parlour? If you can’t do it, where’s the nerdy spot-faced geek who can?

— Sir, it was him wrote the virus. He was not a team player, Sir. The missiles have already launched and they’re heading straight for us.

— No help for it, I’ll have to do it myself. Hand me that sledgehammer.

— Sir, we’ve got sixty seconds.

— Well do the best you can.

IV)

— Sir, the makorin has malfunctioned and set off the pizzlewhistle. That has saddammed the glopzoid plapoodle. It may be the work of hostile nanobacons.

— Don’t just hover there, you clonedrone! Dopple the magmatron, reboot the fragebender, and insert the hispeed crockblade with the pessimal-point attachment! That’ll captcha the nasty little biobots!

— Sir, the magmatron is not within my area of expertise.

— What pixelwit deployed you? No help for it, I’ll have to do it myself. Hand me the mutesuck blandplaster!

— Sir, I have been brain-napped. My brain is in a jar in Uzbekistan, guarded by a phalanx of virtual gonkwarriors. I am speaking to you via simulation hologram.

— Well do the best you can.

v)

— Sir, the wild dogs have dug their way into the food cache and they’re eating the winter supplies.

— Don’t just squat there, you layabout! Pick up your stone axe and bash them on the head!

— Sir, these are not ordinary wild dogs. They are red-eyed demon-spirit dogs, sent by the angry ancestors. Anyway, my stone axe has a curse on it.

— By my mother’s bones, what did I do to deserve such a useless duck-turd brother’s nephew’s son as you? No help for it, I’ll have to do it myself. Recite the red-eyed demon-spirit dog-killing charm and hand me my consecrated sacred-fire-hardened spear.

— Sir, they’ve torn my throat out.

— Well do the best you can.

POST-COLONIAL