From Casts

SHYLY, A BEGARLANDED ROBIN LUKE BEGINS HIS THIRD SONG, THEN TWO DISASTROUS THINGS HAPPEN. FIRSTLY, A MASSIVE SPIDER DROPS FROM THE CEILING ONTO THE NECK OF A PASSING CARVER AND BITES HER TO DEATH WITH POISONOUS FANGS; SECONDLY, A GREASY-HAIRED MAN TOTTERS THROUGH THE DOOR WITH HIS BLOODSTAINED HANDS CLUTCHING HIS STOMACH AND SETTING THE WHOLE AUDIENCE WONDERING: WHAT ON EARTH IS JOHNNY STOMPANATA DOING AT THE SLADE?

HE ORGANISES HIMSELF AND HIS WEEK VERY WELL: MONDAY AND TUESDAY NIGHTS HE WORKS ON THE ISOLATION OF THE BIRDMAN; WEDNESDAY NIGHT IS GIVEN OVER TO EXPLORATION AND TECHNOLOGY; THURSDAY - JOE'S CAFE (WHERE THERE IS AN EXCELLENT JUKEBOX); FRIDAY NIGHT IS MAQUETTE NIGHT; SATURDAY NIGHT THERE IS DANCING DOWN AT THE TERRITORIAL ARMY HALL; AND ON SUNDAY HE GOES TO THE REGAL WITH A FEW FRIENDS. "IT'S ALL A GIGGLE," HE TELLS THEM.

HE SWAGGERS AROUND THE TOWN, APPEARING TO OWN IT. HE HAS DONE THIS FOR SOME WEEKS, EVER SINCE RETURNING FROM THE BRUSSELS INTERNATIONAL FAIR. HE STOPS EVERYONE HE MEETS, TELLING THEM THAT CRUSHERS AND THE LIKE ARE RIGHT OUT AND THAT THEY OUGHT TO GET THEMSELVES UP-TO-DATE AND GET THEMSELVES THE NEW MARINO MARINI LOOK. HE CONTINUES TO DO THIS UNTIL HE RECEIVES A SCAR ON HIS CHEEK FROM A SQUADDIE WIELDING A CLAW-BIT HOLDER.

"NUMBER THREE," SAYS THE MAN. SHE ENTERS CUBICLE THREE AND WAITS FOR THE MUSIC, TAPPING HER TOE IN ANTICIPATION. AN AROMA INSIDE THE CUBICLE DISTURBS HER BY CONJURING UP STRONG FEELINGS OF DEJA VU. THEN SHE REMEMBERS, AND YELLS OUT: "MY ART TEACHER AT SCHOOL ONCE TOLD ME THAT THE SMELL OF SHELLAC WAS MOST ENJOYABLE, AND ALTHOUGH I'VE ALWAYS TRIED TO APPRECIATE IT, THAT PARTICULAR AROMA ALWAYS LEAVES ME COMPLETELY COLD."

SHE STOPS RASPING, CLOSES HER EYES, OPENS THEM AGAIN AND FEELS TERRIBLE AS A CLICHÉ APPEARS, SPITTING GOLDEN-SELLING LYRICS IN ALL DIRECTIONS. THE NOISES OF THE STUDIO-WORKSHOP CEASE AS SHE EMITS A DUST-CHOKED SCREAM. SHE DROPS TO HER KNEES AND TELLS EVERYONE THAT SHE CAN SEE IT IMMEDIATELY ABOVE HER HEAD AND THAT IT IS FLOATING THERE, MAKING SPIKED SPATIAL FORMS; SEEMINGLY GREY, BUT SO FAR AWAY THAT IT COULD BE ANYTHING.

THE SLOUCHING SQUAD OF NATIONAL SERVICEMEN LINES UP IN FRONT OF THE DRILL-SERGEANT. HE GLARES ICILY AT THEM. "GET THIS INTO YOUR THICK SKULLS!" HE ROARS AT THE BEDRAPED RANKS, "YOU'RE GOING TO MARCH TILL YOU DROP ACROSS STONY GROUND!" HE POINTS AT ONE OF THE MEN. "WELL HARRIS, AND WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THAT?" "WELL SARGE," REPLIES THE POWDERED HARRIS, "THAT CONCEPT IS CLOSELY RELATED TO THE AIMS OF MUCH CONTEMPORARY ART."

A SMALL CROWD OF WOMEN CRITICS (ALTHOUGH MIDDLE-AGED THEY ARE IN TRAPEZES) STANDS AND SCREAMS UNINTELLIGIBLE OBSCENITIES AT THE HUGE AND TERRIFYING FIGURE OF FRANK MITCHELL. HE WEARS SANDALS AND IN ONE HAND WIELDS A NO.7 FISH TAIL AND IN THE OTHER A MASSIVE BLOOD-DRENCHED AXE. HE STARES AT THE WOMEN, SHOCKED AND INTERESTED. THEN, SWINGING THE AXE AROUND HIS HEAD, HE LUNGES AT THEM WITH A LAST HOARSE CRY. THEY SCATTER.