He hadn’t meant to, but Diller had managed only to add to the complexity of the issue. He wanted to see if they could bust out Rake, Finley and Lousy Louis Reed too. The guy was literally generous to a fault. Smithy might have changed his mind when it came to Muroe, but as far as he was concerned, the others could make their own way. He’d left it at ‘we’ll see what we can do’, but he wasn’t losing much sleep over rescuing the three musketeers from their boyhood-friend-turned-megalomaniacal-fruitcake.
Eventually, Diller had dozed off mid-sentence, joining the softly snoring Ms Muroe, who was over on the futon, in the land of blissful unconsciousness. That had left Smithy all alone. At least he really wished it had.
THIS IS GOING REALLY BADLY.
Tell me something I don’t know?
HOW TO GET OUT OF HERE.
Shut up.
They couldn’t see the sun out of their window, so Smithy had no idea of the time. The whole place was so disorientating. He hadn’t seen a clock since they had been there. In that regard, Nowhere was like Vegas. In many regards, really. Judging by the noises coming from outside throughout the night, it was a twenty-four-hour kind of place, and the management seemed more concerned about everybody having a good time than about following the rules. All this place was missing was an Elvis impersonator and Cirque du Soleil.
At some point in the morning, the door opened and three brown packages were tossed into the room. Diller picked one up and looked at it.
“These are MREs!” he said excitedly, before noting the blank expressions on the faces of his room-mates. “Meals, Ready to Eat. Army rations.”
“Really?” said Muroe. “I don’t suppose there’s a vegetarian option?”
“Let’s see … One of them is vegetable crumbles with pasta in taco-style sauce. Any good?”
“Sounds delicious,” said Muroe, who caught the package as it was tossed to her, and began to examine it.
“Wait,” said Smithy., “You ate the chili last night, didn’t you?”
“Did I?” said Muroe. “Or did I look like I ate the chili so as not to offend a coked-up megalomaniac? I’ve been to a lot of dinners over the years – you’ve no idea how many purses I’ve ruined by using them to stash meat.”
“Right,” said Diller. “Well, when I’m done processing all the other crazy stuff I’ve seen in the last couple of days, I really want to come back around and think about that some more.”
“You’re welcome,” said Muroe. “And if either of you ever tells anyone in New York I said that, I will end you.” She issued the threat with a smile.
Smithy chuckled. “Here’s hoping we get the chance to find out if you mean that.”
They sat on the bed to eat their meals, which were surprisingly decent. There was even a water-activated exothermic chemical heater that warmed the food, much to Diller’s geekish delight. Smithy had the hash browns with bacon, peppers and onions, and Diller had the shredded beef in BBQ sauce. Smithy had been finishing his remarkably edible granola when the door flew open. The immense figure of Zero loomed in the hallway. Smithy started shoving the remaining food sachets into the pockets of his trousers.
“Well,” said Smithy, “looks like our presence has been requested.”
They were afforded the same guard of honour as the night before to lead them back to the arena. The sun was blazing hot. Smithy could feel his skin cooking under the Hawaiian shirt that he deeply regretted wearing. It wasn’t the highest thing on his wish list, but some sunscreen would be nice.
Zero brought them into the arena through a small set of side doors. Their arrival was greeted with jeers and catcalls from the mob. The tables and benches from the night before were gone, and the space was back to looking exactly like an arena, complete with baying crowd. There were no bleachers, so the spectators were positioned on top of the piles of scrapped cars that made up the arena’s walls.
Zero led Smithy, Diller and Muroe towards the far side of the arena where something lay under a sheet.
“Whatever this is,” said Smithy, “it isn’t going to be good.”
“I haven’t seen Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome, but was it a bit like this?” asked Diller.
“I haven’t seen it either.”
“Me neither,” added Muroe.
“Feels like we might be missing a reference.”
“And I know you hate that,” said Smithy.
“No offence,” said Muroe, “but you two are a little odd.”
Smithy looked up at the walls of cars. Atop one of them stood a naked man. It appeared he had painted his various limbs in different colours. His unmentionables were a vibrant bright green. For his sake, Smithy really hoped that the paint also had a sun-blocking quality.
“Normally,” Smithy replied, “I’d agree, but we might just be the most normal people in this place.”
Everyone winced as a pained squeal of feedback from a PA system came from behind them.
“Oh,” said Diller. “This might be Tina Turner’s bit.”
“Seriously?” said Smithy. “And you’ve never heard of Lou Reed?”
Muroe raised her voice. “Hey! Tina is an American icon!”
Smithy and Diller exchanged a look. That’s you told.
The trio turned around. To the right of the main gates, scaffolding had been erected to form a viewing platform. At its base stood a three-piece band of guitar, drums and bass. At its top was a stage. Reed and Finley sat there looking awkward, Wilkins sat there looking bored, as only an Englishman can.
In front of them was Elvis – or at least what Elvis would look like if he’d been born in the back of a pick-up truck, run over by that truck, and then dragged behind it for a couple of hundred yards. While the man bore some kind of similarity to the King in the hair department, and he was wearing the sparkly jumpsuit, Elvis had looked considerably better than him on his worst day. Indeed, on his last day. At a push, this guy looked like what Elvis might have left in the toilet bowl in those fateful final moments.
He did the voice. “Thank you very much, Nowhere! How y’all doing today?”
He was met with a mix of jeers, cheers and a couple of gunshots. Junkyard Elvis, slightly unnerved by the reception, leaned over the edge of the stage and looked down at the band. “Hit it, boys.”
They launched into what could best and very kindly be described as a death-metal cover of an Elvis song. Smithy wasn’t sure which song it was, and it didn’t sound like the band were either.
“Wow, just when you thought this place couldn’t get any worse.”
As they reached the end of the arena, Zero stood to one side and pulled a sheet away from what they had been heading towards. The three of them stood there in silence, looking at what sat in front of them.
“Are those …?” started Muroe.
“Yep,” said Smithy.
“What?” said Diller. “What are they?”
“Seriously?” said Smithy. “Have you never seen a ride-on lawnmower before?”
“Exactly how many large lawns do you think there are where I’m from? I refer you to the fact that I’ve only ever seen one cow.”
Zero and the rest of their ‘guard of honour’ moved off, after indicating that they should stay where they are.