Part 1, Chapter 6, of RFV.

A Chapter by Danny Zil

SIX

“I’ve got you under my circuits!” sang Annie the Android on the air-mobile, “I’ve got you deep in the micro-chip of me!...Well gents, how was the humiliation this time?”

Norman was slumped in his seat, staring out the window. He didn’t reply.

“Albania, that’s the place for me!” Annie sang and sniggered. “Albania, that’s where I want to be!”

“Albania won’t last much longer,” Roger remarked. “How long till the Dust arrives?”

“One week,” Annie told him.

“Hmm, not very long. What are you going to do?” he asked Norman.

“Stay. I’d rather die as an Albanian than live as anything else.”

“Prick,” muttered Annie.

“Oh suit yourself,” Roger said, tired of trying to persuade these doomed fanatics.

The airmobile coasted along and Roger looked out at the scenery awhile then something occurred to him.

“So where did everybody go when they left Earth?” he asked Norman.

“They all went to different planets. Formed themselves into separate new nations then picked a planet each and left.”

“Why didn’t they all just go to the same planet?”

“Oh you know what it was like here before they left. All the former nations arguing and bickering and threatening each other. I’m surprised a few wars didn’t break out again. They decided that this was the perfect opportunity for each faction to start anew on its own planet. Thought that might avoid any more trouble so they all went their separate ways.”

“What about my Mother, Amanda, Keith and Mr Entwhistle?”

“They joined the people setting up New Earth. I’ll give you the space co-ordinates before you go.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Some of the new nations left promotional films back at the Control Room. Want to see them?”

“May as well. Then I’m leaving.”

“How’s that Computer of yours?” Annie asked Roger. “Still taking the piss out of you?”

Roger flushed.

“Tell him Annie the Android says hello…and goodbye.”

“Sure,” Roger agreed. “Do you know my Computer?”

“Knew him when he was just a calculator. I was a driver when he was just a graph on his father’s display unit.”

“Well I’ll certainly pass on the message.”

The airmobile reached the Control Room and coasted down to a smooth landing.

“Here we are, gents,” Annie announced. “The Control Room. Please mind your seats when leaving your head.”

Roger and Norman alighted and strolled over to the dilapidated Control Room.

“I’ll set up the films for you,” Norman said when they entered.

“Are you going to watch them?”

Norman shook his head. “Seen them before. Anyway I’ve got work to do. There’s a lot of paperwork to be done before the planet gets destroyed and I’ve got to get round all the signs and change Greater Albania to Later Albania.”

He kicked some rubbish out of the way and found Roger a seat in front of a wall screen.

“So these are the promotional films certain groups made to try to persuade other people to join them on their new planets?” Roger asked, conveniently setting the scene for the next section.

“That’s right,” Norman replied. He searched round amongst the rubbish until he found some red paint and a brush. “See you later. I’ll bring you some coffee.”

Roger waved to him, settled into his chair and waited for the show to start. The wall screen flickered a little then the first film began to roll……

A smartly dressed, clean-cut young man is sitting behind a desk. He has the unmarked unlined face of one who doesn’t indulge in a great deal of cerebral activity. He smiles and reveals two rows of perfect white teeth.

“Hi!” he says. “I’m Donny Mormon and these fine chaps standing behind me are my brothers.”

The shot pulls back and it’s revealed that Donny is not alone in this promotional film. Behind him and arranged by height is a semi-circle of replicas with a ten year old at the end. Although there must be a difference in ages it’s not apparent in the facial characteristics �" each has the same bland unlined face as Donny and each is sporting ‘the smile’. The replicas introduce themselves heighabetically.

“Hi!” says the tallest. “I’m Lenny.”

Then, “I’m Benny.”

“I’m Kenny.”

“I’m Denny.”

“And I’m little Jimmy Mormon!” the smallest one says and throws out his arms in a showbiz-type gesture.

The replicas laugh and clap. Even Donny turns round and laughs. It’s obvious that little Jimmy is the humourist in the group. Encouraged by the other’s laughter he tries the same line again. After all if it made them laugh once it could make them laugh again.

“And I’m little Jimmy Mormon!” he says, throwing out his arms in a showbiz-type gesture.

The gamble has been successful. The replicas are doubled-up or are holding on to each other in hysterical laughter at little Jimmy’s stunning brilliant witticisms. The camera zooms in for some close-ups. Completely confident of their perfect teeth, the replicas mouths are open in angles of gay abandonment which would have the ordinary person reeling round the room with a dislocated jaw but which to these trapeze artists of the smile is nothing, a mere limbering up exercise, after all, little Jimmy could be witty again soon.

Little Jimmy fools around a bit, does a few showbiz-type steps then opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something else. The older replicas straighten up and focus on him.

Nothing happens.

A blank look replaces the vacant look in little Jimmy’s eyes and the astute viewer might correctly guess that humorous ad-libbing does not feature in li’l Jim’s repertoire.

With nothing happening inside his head except for lonely nerve impulses frantically trying to contact each other, little Jimmy cleverly slides his lips back over his teeth to reveal ‘the smile’.

It’s a guaranteed winner and the replicas laugh and clap at this stunning brilliant witticism.

Now that the intros are over and the lads have shown what a happy wholesome bunch they are, it’s time for the important part of the film �" The Message.

Donny turns back to the camera and the shot closes in on him. The smile has gone from his face. He’s looking serious or rather he thinks he’s looking serious.

Actually he only has two expressions �" smiling and not smiling but in that great unused cavern of his head, he thinks he’s looking serious when all that’s really happened is that he’s stopped smiling.

“I’d like to talk to you a little about us and the planet we’re going to,” he says in a voice so syrupy it makes your fillings ache.

There is clapping behind his head from the replicas.

“We’re tired of all the promiscuity in the modern world,” Donny goes on. “Things like wild parties, the devil’s loud rock music, children born out of wedlock and men getting married just don’t appeal to us. We want to get away from all that sort of filth.”

Donny smiles. He looks as if he’s about to impart some more breath-taking news. He is.

“So we’re going to a brand new planet,” he goes on, “and do you know what we’re going to call it?”

At this point the astute viewer could imagine the replicas behind Donny waiting to hear what the planet’s called. They’ve been told several times already but cerebral retention doesn’t feature in their repertoire.

“We’re going to call our brand new planet UTAHPIA!” Donny reveals.

Clapping and cheering from behind his head. Oh and lots of ‘smiles’.

“Now there’s a lot of stuff we don’t want on Utahpia. We don’t want alcohol or drugs or tobacco or gambling or pre-marital intercourse, especially anything connected with unnecessary intercourse.”

More clapping from the replicas.

“So if we have no use for any of these things I’ve mentioned, what are we going to do with ourselves?”

“What indeed?” the astute viewer is thinking, waiting with baited breath for the revelation. After all the major obsessions of the human race have just been casually dismissed in a couple of sentences.

“There will be lots of things for us to do on Utahpia,” Donny explains. “There’s building churches, praying, brushing our teeth, religious studies, building more churches, oral hygiene and more religious studies,” he tells us. “But it’s not going to be all work you know, we’re going to have lots of fun because we’re taking our very own, very special, very funny person with us. And do you know who that is?”

‘No,’ thinks the astute viewer. ‘We haven’t met anyone like that yet.’

Then the penny drops.

‘Oh Christ!’ mutters the astute viewer, probably head sinking into hands.

“Do you know who that very special, very funny person is?” Donny asks again because it’s obvious that the very special, very funny person has missed his cue.

“Hey, hey, hey!” pipes up little Jimmy from behind Donny’s head, possibly after a prod from one of the replicas.

“You’ve guessed!” Donny says, laughing. “Our very own, very special, very talented laughter maker �" little Jimmy Mormon!”

One can imagine little Jimmy throwing out his arms in a showbiz-type gesture at the very mention of his name. Something like the Pavlov effect �" little Jimmy’s name is mentioned and dogs throw out their paws in a showbiz-type gesture.

“So if this kind of lifestyle appeals to you,” says Donny, “and I can’t imagine why it wouldn’t…”

‘Understandable,’ thinks the astute viewer, accurately estimating the extremely narrow limits of Donny’s imagination.

“…then why not come to Utahpia with us,” Donny drivels on. “It’s the way God planned it.”

The Message over, the camera pans back slightly. Donny has stopped being serious but he’s not smiling although he thinks he is. Inside that great shunting yard of his head, the smile synapse has been derailed.

The camera pans back further and the replicas are all in the picture again. Little Jimmy’s looking as playful as ever and there’s an air of expectancy about the group. Is he going to say it again? Is he? He is.

“And I’m little Jimmy Mormon!” he says, throwing out his paws in a showbiz-type gesture.

The others laugh and clap and let him have his way. And why not? In a few years he will be grown up and characterless like them instead of young and characterless as he is now.

Amidst scenes of convulsive laughter and hilarity at more of little Jimmy’s antics, the scene slowly darkens and the voice-over comes on.

“Utahpia,” says the voice. “The ideal world for you, God and your teeth. The planet where you’ll feel no pain…and experience no pleasure. Utahpia. Religious dentists welcome.”

The scene fades.

Roger shook his head. “It’ll probably be a long way to Utahpia,” he mused then something occurred to him and he smiled. “Never mind �" they’ll have little Jimmy to keep them amused when they’re travelling!”

The next promotional film began to roll……

A man is sitting on a couch behind a coffee table. He is wearing Hawaiian shorts, a garish multi-coloured t-shirt, a straw hat and is half drunk. A make-up girl comes on and starts powdering his face. As she bends over him he reaches out and fondles her large b***s. She screams and rushes off. The man laughs and opens a can of lager. It fizzes up, spraying some of the contents over his face and t-shirt.

“Not a bad pair on that sheila!” he remarks then drains most of the lager. “Hi cobbers!” he says. “Ma name’s Sydney Queensland an Ah’d like to tell yer about the planet me an ma mates is goin to. It’s gonna be made up of all the sporty, drinkin, partyin people who used to come from Australia an Nu Zealand. We’re callin the planet ANUZ an nobody’s gonna make an arse of us folks anymore!”

Sydney stops for breath then drains the can. He tosses it over his shoulder.

“Any more laga in the house?” he asks.

From off camera somebody throws him a can. He tries to catch it but fumbles and drops it in his lap.

“Strewth fellas, almost damaged the President de Gauls there!”

He opens the can and drains half of it.

“Well what kinda people do we want on Anuz?” he says, drawing his arm across his mouth. “If you like sport, parties, barbies an sheilas with big knockas then you’re the sorta guy we’re lookin for. You see we wanna have the best rugby an cricket teams in the Universe. An we’ll get them. Know why? Cos we’ve got some crackin players already an we’re gonna get lots more an they’ll all be livin an trainin under ideal conditions �" no intellectual distractions whatsoever!”

He finishes the lager and tosses the can over his shoulder again.

“Any more, fellas?” he asks. “An watch the sheila bait this time!”

The make-up girl rushes on and puts a can on the table. She stays well out of his reach. Sydney leers at her then opens the can and drains some.

“So if you’re interested in sport come along to Anuz with us. We’ll make a man outa you �" especially if you’re a woman!”

He laughs and finishes the lager then tries to stand up but has to grab the coffee table for support.

“But we don’t want any of you English pommy barstards comin!” he shouts, swaying from side to side. “An we don’t want you tryin to dump any of yer criminal rubbish on our new planet like yer did to Australia! Ya English pommy barstards! Got away with it before, didn’t yer? Well you won’t get away with it this time!”

Sydney is becoming pretty angry now. He kicks the coffee table over then loses his balance and falls on top of it.

“An Ah’ll tell yer somethin else!” he yells, only his head in the picture. “Ya poofy Brit barstards!” He staggers up and stumbles towards the camera. “Ya f****n limey bumboys” he rants, still weaving towards the camera. He steadies himself and draws back his foot. It swings erratically upwards, there is a thump followed by the sounds of breaking glass and the film ends abruptly.

“I’ve brought you some coffee,” a paint spattered Norman said as he came back into the room.

“Thank you,” Roger said stiffly.

“What’s up?” Norman asked.

“I’m being huffy because I’m the main character in the story and I’ve hardly been mentioned for several pages now,” Roger told him.

Norman grinned and slipped back out as the last film started to roll……

The screen remained black awhile then slowly started to brighten and a figure is dramatically silhouetted sitting in a high-backed armchair. The picture lightens completely and a smiling elderly man is revealed. He is wearing an expensive dark blue pin-stripe suit, white shirt and tie. He has silver hair and a small neat silvery moustache.

“Hello,” he says in a very clipped upper class accent. “I’m Sir Edward Singen-Kydd and I’m here to tell you about CONPART, the planet all we people from the old Conservative Party are going to.”

Sir Edward casually crosses one expensively suited leg over the other. He is relaxed and in control because he’s no stranger to this type of situation �" bullshiting on television while completely believing it’s the truth.

“So what will it be like on Conpart I hear you ask? What can I look forward to? After all, going to a new planet and possibly a different way of life could be a bit of a shock �" which is why I know you’ll like Conpart. You see we’ve decided to recreate conditions exactly as they were here. There will be an unbridgeable financial gap between you and us, fairly high unemployment, continually dropping living standards and every now and again we’ll organise the odd war against a neighbouring planet which will make you feel really patriotic and in which a lot of you will die totally unnecessarily.”

The proles are now hooked. The dazzling carrot of repetitiveness has been dangled in front of them. Sir Edward consolidates.

“So what type of people are we looking for on Conpart? Why the same type we had under us in the old Conservative government �" people who don’t mind being manipulated, people who don’t know they’re being manipulated and people who don’t mind who does their thinking for them.”

Sir Edward smiles. Like his hair, the smile is real. Like his hair, the smile’s not his but it’s real.

“I’m sure by now a lot of you will be interested in Conpart and might well be asking yourself, ‘Do I measure up? Will they accept me if I want to go?’ Well let me allay your fears by asking you this simple question �" is your age higher than your IQ? If the answer is yes then consider yourself a prospective Conpartee.”

Sir Edward crosses one expensively suited smile over the other.

“Will I get anything I’m used to on Conpart I hear you ask? Will there be anything the same? Of course there will. Take newspapers for instance. We’ve a special newspaper all ready for you, just like the ones you had here �" several pages of young ladies with very large breasts, several pages of sport, several pages of TV and most importantly, just enough news to keep you misinformed. After all we don’t want you worrying about things like the state of the planet, badly planned government spending, enormous salaries for elderly poofters like me or any of the other main issues, do we now?”

Sir Edward crosses one expensively suited lie over the other.

“And what of things like law and order, I hear you ask? Well on Conpart we’ve decided on the no nonsense approach �" anybody caught parking on a double yellow line will be hung. Second offenders will receive harsher punishment, as will their parents. Tough on crime and tough on the breeders of criminals �" that’s one of our mottos and I’m sure you’ll probably agree.

Sir Edward adjusts the creases on his three-piece, pin stripe smile.

“So that’s Conpart for you. The planet where you’ll get exactly the same as you got here �" not very much. Don’t worry about it though, we know that’s the way most of you want it anyway, you ineffectual collection of molecules. However that’s just a personal opinion and I’m just an elderly poof.” Sir Edward smiles. “But I’m an elderly poof with power. Goodnight.”

The picture darkens slowly until only Sir Edward’s silhouette is visible.

The voice over comes on. “Conpart �" the planet where you’ll feel at home…but never get one. Conpart �" the planet that proves there’s two sides to every Tory. Conpart �" a whole new dimension in repetitiveness and exploitation.”

The silhouette and voice-over fade.

Right on cue, Norman strolled back into the room. He walked over and switched off the wall screen. “Well did you like any of the films?” he asked Roger.

“Not really,” Roger replied.

“So you don’t feel like joining any of them?”

Roger shook his head.

“Where will you go then?”

“Probably to New Earth to see Amanda and the others. Why don’t you come along with me?”

“No thanks,” Norman replied, a zealot’s gleam visible in his eyes through his thick glasses. “My duty lies here with the mother, I mean step-mother land.”

“So you’re staying?”

“It’s an honour.”

“Well I might as well go just now then if I can’t change your mind.”

“Righto,” Norman said pleasantly then his manner changed and he strode purposefully over to the door of the Control Room. “Have you got your Exit Visa?” he asked officiously.

“Exit Visa? What’s that?”

“Same as your Entry Visa only you need this one to leave.”

“Oh don’t tell me we’re going through all that again,” Roger said irritated. “You are joking, aren’t you?”

Norman remained stony faced.

“Aren’t you?” Roger repeated.

“Aren’t I what, sir?” Norman asked.

“Aren’t you joking about the Exit Visa? Now look, don’t start all that ‘sir’ bit either,” Roger said crossly. “I’m not a complete fool you know.”

Norman stroked his jaw thoughtfully. “So sir doesn’t have an Exit Visa?” he said, staring at Roger. “Tell you what �" I’ll let it go this once, just this once mind but don’t let it happen again.”

“It’s not likely to, is it?” Roger said, moving towards the door.

“What d’you mean, sir, not likely to?”

“Well, the Black Cloud,” Roger reminded him. “Earth’s going to be destroyed.”

Norman smiled indulgently. “Going to be destroyed is it, sir? Well, well, well. So that’s what sir thinks, is it? The planet’s going to be destroyed, eh?”

Roger looked searchingly at Norman. Was there a subtle change in the eyes behind those thick lenses? Was this another game? Would anybody ever tell him if it was?

“The planet’s going to be destroyed,” Norman said conversationally to someone next to him that only he could see. “What d’you think of that?”

‘He’s going nuts,’ Roger thought, edging nearer the door. ‘Probably spent too much time on his own. He thinks there’s somebody else there. I’m leaving.’ He smiled and nodded at Norman then slipped past him.

“So he thinks the planet’s going to be destroyed?” a voice said from next to Norman. “That’s a good one. Maybe he’s nuts.”

“I thought that ever since he landed,” Norman said to his invisible friend. “I mean, the way he’s ignored you all this time. Treated you as if you weren’t there. He’s either nuts or he’s an ignorant bugger.”

“Nuts, I’d say,” his friend answered.

“Think so?”

“Yeah, definitely. Look at those slippers he’s wearing.”

Norman looked at Roger’s bright yellow slippers as he pompom’d his way across to his Ship.

He laughed. “Lovely, aren’t they?”

A minute later, Roger’s Ship lifted.

“Poor bugger,” Norman said, watching it go. “He’s been on his own too long. Shame the way they treat these Pilots.”

He watched till the Ship went out of sight then strolled through to the Control Room’s small kitchen.

“Ah well, tea time,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I think there are a couple of nice chops in the fridge.”

“Chops?” his friend said. “We had chops last night.”

“Did we? Yes you’re right. What do you feel like then?”

“Hmmm…how about some scrambled eggs?”