The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 49
‘The toilets at a bacchanalian feast,’ replied Homer from memory. ‘So, what is our plan? How do we want to do this?’
‘Well, he’s got to be pretty bloody hungover, surely?’ replied Andronicus. ‘Isn’t that going to help? We’ll have him in a weakened state.’
‘Probably used to it,’ answered Homer. ‘Go and fetch the relic, and let’s get on with it … before he gets his wits back.’
Andronicus dashed away, returning quickly with both the box containing a fragment of the Trojan Horse, and the mighty Achilles.
‘What do you need me to do?’ asked the Greek hero.
‘We want you to hold him down,’ answered Homer. ‘He might fight back once he realises what’s happening, so pin him to the bed. As soon as he’s locked down, I’ll start my incantations. Yes?’
‘Yeah,’ confirmed Achilles, rolling his eyes. ‘I think a Greek hero can handle that.’
‘Right then,’ said Homer, as they gathered outside Viktor’s bedroom. ‘Shall we?’
Achilles threw open the door.
They caught Colonel General Viktor Nahrapov half in and half out of his dishevelled bed, pouring himself enough hair of the dog to create an entire labradoodle.
‘What the fuuuuuu…!’
‘Grab him!’ shouted Andronicus, as Viktor sat up, revealing his sagging boxers.
Achilles dashed forward, ready to grab the Russian’s wrists and throw him back on the bed as Andronicus headed optimistically for the legs.
Viktor had other ideas.
Blessed with a street brawler’s instincts, he met Achilles head-on with a shocking punch to the jaw. Poleaxed, the hero of Troy flew backwards, dimly aware that Andronicus had also been stopped in his tracks, as one of Viktor’s varicose-decorated legs shot out, slamming into the former emperor’s still-bruised loins.
‘ARRRRGGGGH!’
‘What you think you doing, bitches?’ yelled Viktor, struggling across his vodka-blurred room to find where he’d thrown his sidearm. ‘I kill you!’
‘What’s happening!?’ exclaimed the fearful Homer, backing away to the nearest wall, the relic cradled protectively to his chest. ‘Restrain him!’
‘We’re trying!’ protested Achilles, throwing himself after the colonel general. ‘He’s not as hungover as we thought.’
Achilles wrapped himself around the Russian’s blotchy legs. Viktor went down, frantically wriggling as the Greek struggled to tighten his grip. Turning around, the Russian bunched his fat fingers into a ball, then repeatedly hammer-punched Achilles in his woefully exposed face.
‘Don’t just … arghhhh …. stand there …. Arghhhh … you …. Ooof … coward!’ yelled Achilles, seeing Andronicus uselessly nursing his loins. ‘Get hold … arggghh …. of his arms!’
Reluctantly, Andronicus lunged back at the colonel general, braving a whirlwind of punches. After taking some wicked whacks to his jaw, Andronicus finally had both arms in his grip, pushing down hard to pin the gyrating Viktor Nahrapov to his sock-covered floor.
‘Got you!’ declared Andronicus.
‘Fuck you!’ snarled the Russian, headbutting Andronicus so hard in the nose that blood exploded in a liquid rosette. His face a red mess, the former emperor reeled backwards, fingers clasped tightly over the injury. Hands once again free, Viktor reached for his gun. Instead of his gun, he found one of his knee-high parade boots, which he promptly swung, slapping it across the side of Achilles’ head with shocking force.
CRACK
Then again.
CRACK
And again.
‘ARGGGHHHHH.’
‘Damn you!’ screamed Andronicus, wading in with Nahrapov’s other boot. “Will … ye … never … yield?’
But this time, Andronicus hit the bullseye. His brain thrown off its mountings, Viktor dropped the left boot. Weakened by the onslaught, the semi-conscious Russian slumped backwards, exhausted.
‘Bind his arms!’ yelled a badly bruised Achilles. ‘Bind the bastard’s arms!’
‘With what!?’ demanded the bloodied Andronicus.
‘There,’ replied Achilles, nodding towards the colonel general’s dressing gown. ‘On the toga! Take that cord!’
Viktor, too battered and hungover to resist, was finally subdued.
‘Have you done it?’ asked the quivering, fearful Homer. ‘Is he … secure?’
‘He is,’ said Andronicus, wiping the still-flowing blood from his chin. ‘Stubborn Russian bastard. Loog at my nose. And, oh Lord … my poor plums! Why does everyone keep kigging my plums?’
‘No one cares about your plums,’ snapped Homer. ‘Be silent and concentrate upon the matter at hand. Is this warlord ready for possession?’
‘Yes!’ growled Achilles, looking down at the man who’d given him the toughest combat since Hector of Troy. ‘Do him now, before I just kill the fat bastard … with my bare hands!’
‘I’m on it!’ Homer cautiously moved forward. ‘I must get … close.’
‘That’s close enough,’ warned Achilles, as the frail Homer leant into range. ‘We don’t want you getting a dose of what we just had. Do it from there.’
‘Very well,’ agreed Homer, opening the box and clearing his throat. ‘Thus, shall I begin. Oh, mighty Zeus, oh cruel vengeful Poseidon. Hear me, God’s one and all.’
‘To hell with you!’ barked the colonel general, waking back up.
‘Come, oh heroes,’ continued Homer. ‘Use the power of the Gods; the spirits of the slain and glorious, use their glory to propel you. Come back to this realm and take your rightful place. Páre tous klíro kai éla píso sti gi oi paníschyroi íroés mou, énas kai olio!’
‘Go fuck yerself … bitch!’ replied the colonel general.
‘Dammit!’ said Homer. ‘It usually works a bit faster than this. He must still be drunk.’
‘Keep going,’ yelled Achilles over a wall of Russian invective. ‘Come on. Do it!’
‘Oh, mighty Zeus!’ continued the poet. ‘Open the mind of this worthless mortal, that he may be a vessel across the ages. A home for the shade of our beloved, mighty, time-transporting hero.’
‘Shit!’ shouted Viktor, as the first signs of possession hit home. ‘What the hell are you doing to me? Get you to hell! Bitches!’
‘Oh, swift Hermes,’ chanted Homer, persisting above the swearing, ‘watery Poseidon, beautiful Athena … bear our final spirit upon your shoulders to this wretched, modern realm.’
‘Bitches!’ screamed the writhing, furious Russian. ‘What the hell is happening?’
‘Help me, mighty Zeus!’ continued Homer, ignoring the question. ‘Help me to unleash again this spirit of antiquity. Párte aftoús tous thnitoús tóra tous chálkinous íroés mou!’
There was a surge of purple gunk from the box. A swift tendril shot out with a savage determination then walloped into Viktor Nahrapov, centre mass. Achilles rolled away, releasing the doomed Russian as he let out his last hideous cry for salvation.
‘NIIIIIIIIEEEEEETTTTTTTT!’
*****
‘Well, this is going well,’ sighed Gabby, looking at their would-be saviours languishing in the cellar beside them.
‘Oh, my goddamn head,’ muttered Valenti, from his blanket on the floor.
‘How long till the real cavalry gets here?’ asked Viv, helping him to sit up. Then after a pause, ‘Newton, I just asked you a question. When does the real cavalry get here?’
He didn’t respond at once, the greater part of his brain still digesting recent revelations.
‘Oh, sorry, yes, sorry, sorry, yes,’ said Newton. ‘If by cavalry, you mean a bunch of Orthodox monks in an oversized rowing boat, then the answer is probably “too late”, if … at all.’
‘Wish I hadn’t asked,’ lamented Viv.
‘Even if they did get here,’ continued Newton, ‘there’s a large army camped in the garden. I know the Purgs are dreadfully enthusiastic and have right on their side, but the moment they land, they’ll be blown to tiny, righteous pieces.’
‘There’s no point being so negative,’ suggested the crash-ravaged Bennet.
‘Why do people always mistake realism for negativity?’ sighed Newton. ‘Why is that?’
‘Same old miserable Newton Barlow,’ sighed Bennet.
‘No, actually,’ replied Newton, remembering his recent visitation. ‘Most definitely not the same. Not now. It’s time for some positive action. Let me think.’
‘Be my guest.’
‘Look,’ continued Newton. ‘We have to do this on our own. We’re a long, long way from help, so it’s down to us. Down to me.’
‘Ok then … what do you suggest?’ asked Bennet.
‘No idea,’ said Dr Newton Barlow.
*****
What used to be Colonel General Viktor Nahrapov was sitting forlornly at the end of his bed in his muffin-top smalls, staring blankly into space.
‘Did it worg?’ asked Andronicus, tilting his head back to stop an award-winning nosebleed. ‘He’s not looging good.’
‘Yeah, but in all fairness,’ replied Homer, ‘his host didn’t look good, anyway? Did he?’
‘Good point,’ nodded Andronicus. ‘The man was a mess.’
‘Fear not,’ said Homer. ‘For the spirit of our hero will lift him up, like Pegasus!’
‘By the Gods,’ groaned the spirit within Viktor Nahrapov. ‘I’m soooooooo flippin’ drunk!’
‘What was that?’ asked Homer. ‘What did he say?’
‘He said he was drunk,’ answered Achilles, leaning down to the possessed Russian before slapping his face to clear his senses for him. ‘You. Are you one of us? Who are you?’
‘Why, brave Achilles,’ said the possessed Russian. ‘It is I, Podalirius, son of Asclepius.’
‘Ah, yes!’ exclaimed Achilles. ‘I remember you. You were in the horse, right?’
‘I was,’ confirmed Podalirius. ‘I was by your side the night we took Troy. I tell thee, I thought I was hungover the day after that, but this is in a different league. My mouth tastes like a Cyclops’ arse.’
‘Ewwwww,’ said Andronicus. ‘That’s disgusting.’
‘Tell me about it,’ continued Podalirius. ‘And my head. It is afire!’
‘Well, hangover or not, I need you up and about, sharpish,’ ordered Homer. ‘You have important work to do.’
‘I hope you don’t want me to go to war in this body,’ added Podalirius, feeling his rippling beer gut. ‘Because, quite honestly, it’s a mess. Just look at this fat. I’ll be lucky to go a week without my liver crossing the River Styx … all by itself.’
‘We don’t need you for more than a day or so,’ explained Homer. ‘We need you to play the part of the Russian commander, in whose body you now reside.’
‘You doooop?’ asked Podalirius, burping up a mix of vodka and fishpaste.
‘We do. For he commands a great army, an army we need to control … for us.’ Homer waved away the aroma. ‘Only the command of this alcoholic warlord will do it, for his soldiers will obey none other. Now you have possessed him, you have that control for us.’
‘I see,’ said Podalirius. ‘I can do that.’
‘But you must use his language,’ continued Homer. ‘Look inside yourself, brave Podalirius. What words can you hear?’
‘Vodka. That’s the first thing that I hear. I also keep hearing the word … “Marlboro”.’
‘Keep feeling for his native language,’ urged Homer. ‘It should be in there, for the brain retains language, even when the soul … has gone.’
‘Spokoinoi nochi!’ burbled Podalirius. ‘There’s a bit.’
‘Ok,’ said Homer. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Sweet dreams. How about … Sadis, vypei chayu!’
‘What’s that?’
‘I think it’s “sit down, have some tea”,’ offered Podalirius, ‘It’s coming easier now.’
‘Good, but useless,’ declared Homer. ‘Try something less polite.’
‘Delai kak ya skazal, suka, ili ya vykiny tyebya iz okna s desayatogo etazha!’
‘What’s that then?’
‘Do as I tell you, bitch,’ barked Podalirius, ‘or I’ll throw you out of a tenth-floor window.’
‘Wow,’ gasped Andronicus. ‘That really does sound Russian.’
‘Thanks …,’ said Podalirius. ‘It’s fully on tap now. Horosho, Comrades! Let’s do this!’
‘Yes … let’s,’ exclaimed Andronicus. ‘So, here’s the plan. We need you to go out the back and tell the army to attack Constant… Con… Istanbul!’
‘Gotcha,’ replied Podalirius. ‘Let’s go.’
‘No, no, no, wait!’ urged Achilles. ‘He needs cleaning up first. Look at the state of him!’
‘I am pretty rank,’ agreed, Podalirius, lifting an arm to sniff his armpit. ‘Didn’t you say I was a general?’
‘Colonel General,’ corrected Andronicus. ‘In charge, basically.’
‘Then why do I wear a loincloth?’ asked Podalirius, looking down at his grey Y-fronts. ‘And shouldn’t I have a helmet with a brush on the top, like Agamemnon?’
‘There’s some clean stuff in this cupboard,’ observed Achilles, pulling out a dress jacket. ‘These must be his ceremonial robes. He should probably have these on if he’s going to start ordering people about.
’
Chapter 38
Iskander
Cleaning General Colonel Nahrapov’s body had taken a lot longer than expected. The residual cologne of tobacco and cheap vodka still stubbornly lingered on despite every bathroom product they could throw at it. Still, by the end of the afternoon, Andronicus and Homer finally felt that Podalirius was ready.
‘How you feeling?’ asked Achilles. ‘Ready to roll?’
‘I think so,’ nodded Podalirius, still high from eight cans of Lynx Africa. ‘Just worried I won’t understand all the modern weapons talk. Homer was telling me they use machines instead of daggers and spears. Sounds pretty weird if you ask me.’
‘It takes a bit of getting your head around, that’s for sure,’ agreed Andronicus. ‘It’s not nearly as heroic as a good bit of hand-to-hand stabbing and strangling, I grant you, but you can do sooooo much damage by just flicking switches and pressing buttons. Glory is one thing; overkill is another.’
‘War is war,’ declared Achilles. ‘So long as there is blood on the rug, I don’t care how it got there. We can always just murder people face-to-face later as a hobby. Get it out of our system, in our leisure time.’
‘Exactly,’ agreed Andronicus. ‘I’d just let them talk for a bit, Podalirius, find out what each machine can do. Once we know that, we can decide which ones we want to take with us.’
‘Machines are better than men,’ said Homer. ‘At least until we get hold of more relics. These Russians don’t understand heroism; they’ll never join us voluntarily. They are far too scared of their overlords for that. When we can possess them in suitable numbers, then it will be another matter. So, for now, we take their machines of death. Once we have had our fill of slaughter, we can come back and take the souls of these Russian dogs at our leisure.’
‘I’ll be with you all the way, Podalirius,’ Andronicus assured him. ‘My host body spoke Russian too, so we can work as a team. Just remember that it is you who is supposed to be in charge, not me. Act like that at all times, or they may get suspicious.’
‘Da, Comrade!’ responded Podalirius.
‘Excellent,’ smiled Homer. ‘Finally, I feel like we are getting somewhere. I won’t come with you, for I will merely slow you down.’
‘What about me?’ asked Achilles. ‘I want to see the weapons too.’
‘You can come if you want,’ agreed Andronicus. ‘But you’ll need to keep your trap shut. You can’t speak the language.’
‘Yes, I can; I’m a defence minister, of course I can speak Russian.’
‘Well, look, it’s just too many of us. We don’t want to turn up mob-handed. Stay here and keep an eye on Homer.’
‘Whatever,’ pouted Achilles.
‘Time to go,’ declared Andronicus. ‘It’s going to be dark in a few hours. We want to be able to see these weapons clearly.’
Andronicus led them to the kitchen and then opened the French windows wide. In the dunes beyond, camo nets and radio aerials led their eyes to where Viktor’s army was lurking.
‘Ready?’ asked Andronicus.
‘Ready,’ replied Podalirius.
What had recently been Colonel General Viktor Nahrapov stepped outside.
‘Comrade General!’ barked a smartly dressed officer outside. ‘I was just on my way to see you.’
‘You were?’ asked Podalirius. ‘And who are you then?’
‘It’s me, sir,’ replied the officer, looking slightly crestfallen. ‘I’m your new aide-de-camp.’
‘Of course, you are,’ said Podalirius. ‘Er … what’s an aide-de-camp?’
‘I’m sorry, Comrade General, sir,’ apologised the officer. ‘It’s a French term. Sorry. Sorry. I am your personal secretary.’
‘Right. That’s like a servant or something, yeah?’
‘In all matters military, sir, yes. ‘Is there something you need help with now?’
‘Actually,’ answered Podalirius, ‘there is. Can we see the weapons? My weapons?’
‘Of course, sir. ‘Any particular weapons you will want to be seeing? The new infantry fighting vehicles have just arrived, actually, and they are fresh from the factory. A wonder of modern Russian military technology … with, er … French optics.’
‘Ask about missiles,’ whispered Andronicus.
‘What about missiles?’ asked Podalirius.
‘Oh, there’s so many missiles, sir,’ said the officer. ‘Where to start? There’s ground to air, air to ground, air to sea, air to air, ground to ground, satellite killers, multi-launch rocket systems, Grads, thermobaric and cluster, not to mention the Iskanders.’
‘What’s an Iskander?’ asked Andronicus. ‘They sound interesting.’
‘Iskander is a rocket system, Comrade General,’ explained the officer. ‘Launched from a specially designed eight-wheeled launch vehicle. Warheads can be high-explosive, fuel-air burst, fragmentation and, of course, nuclear.’
