Mr Landen Has No Brain

‘Moo?’

‘Because only special people get a Spooder Yo-Yo. That’s what humans get to do. We get to sprawl naked across our car at sunrise and kiss it till it hurts. Cows just get to stand around chewing grass. It must look pretty flash to you.’

Sally assumed she meant the chrome-tube tangle that jutted from it at seemingly random angles.

Cthulha told Daisy, ‘My boyfriend’s souped it up with some weird technology of his. Now it does six hundred miles an hour and a thousand miles to the pint. How fast can you go?’

‘Cthulha,’ Sally said. ‘Not many people bother asserting their superiority over cattle.’

‘Says a woman who works for squirrels.’

‘I don’t work for squirrels.’ Suddenly she was looking everywhere but at Cthulha.

Cthulha looked upwards.

Sally looked upwards.

Mr Bushy was on the edge of the caravan roof. He looked down at them, wearing a little red crash helmet, with knicker elastic tied to his tail.

He bungee jumped off the caravan, boinged just above the ground, recoiled several feet into the air, plummeted again then hung there by the tail.

Sally turned red.

Cthulha said, ‘Even I can figure out what you’re doing.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Training it to do death defying stunts because you’re so desperate to be an entertainer’s assistant you’d even accept being assistant to a squirrel.’

‘And why shouldn’t I?’ she protested. ‘No one else’ll work with me, and I happen to be the best damn assistant this town’s got.’

‘Apart from that bit where you kill the turn.’

‘This is a showbiz town. I have to be in showbiz.’

Cthulha lowered her little round shades to the tip of her nose. She looked over their rims at her. ‘Sally, the fact that Charlie Williams once played a venue within ten miles of the place doesn’t make it a showbiz town.’ She prodded her sunglasses back into place. Hands in pockets, she watched the squirrel dangle. ‘Are you leaving this here?’

Sally said, ‘He likes hanging there.’

‘Says who?’

‘I can tell he does.’

‘Does it pay rent? I can’t see Uncle Al letting it stay for free.’

‘Mr Bushy pays three pence a week with dropped coins he finds under caravans.’

‘And Dobbin?’

‘Daisy.’

‘Does it pay rent?’

Before Sally could answer, Teena appeared from round the far side of her mobile home. Gaze fixed on the offices, jaw clenched, she strode towards them. If she’d been a bull (and not just engaged to one) she’d have been snorting.

Sally took it that things hadn’t gone well at the mobile home.

Hands in pockets, Cthulha watched Teena all the way; ‘Jesus. Imagine that spread naked across your car.’

‘I take it you mean Dr Rama.’

‘That’s a doctor?’

‘And she’s not a “that”. She’s a woman.’

‘Oh yeah. You’re still into that hardline feminist “women aren’t objects” crap aren’t you? No wonder you never have any fun.’

Sally rolled her eyes.

Teena reached the offices, pulled open the door and entered. Its lax spring pulled the door to behind her.

Cthulha watched the door, imagining getting up to God knew what. ‘So, what’s the story?’

‘That big mobile home.’

Cthulha glanced across at it.

Sally said, ‘Her assistant’s locked her out of it. So she spent the night with me.’

Suddenly impressed, Cthulha twisted her head round to stare at her, ‘You gave her one?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m heterosexual.’

‘Jesus.’ Cthulha shook her head in disbelief and again watched the offices.

Sally said ‘I thought you were into men now. Only two days ago you were boasting about this great new boyfriend you’d found in a ditch.’

‘I have, and he’s okay. But you know there are times when you need a woman. No matter how hard they try men don’t understand our needs. No man’ll ever know what it’s like to have your head swell up eight times a month.’

‘Cthulha?’

‘Yeah?’

‘What’re you on about?’