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'All right。' Mungo Madoc took himself over to the picture window and gazed down upon sunny green Phnaargos。 'We are all agreed。 We need a hero。 A brave and fearless Phnaargian； willing to travel back into the past and change history。 Prepared to risk all for truth； justice and the ratings。'
From where his ear was pressed； Jovil Jspht wasn't able to hear the laughter； only the applause。
'So；' Mungo continued； 'suggestions； gentlemen。'
'I think I know the very fellow。' Grypus Garstang held up a certain memorandum； which had appeared upon his desk； as upon many others； that very morning。 'If I was to mention 〃Killer Maggots from the Earth's Core〃。'
Outside the boardroom Jovil Jspht puffed out his chest。 So this was it； recognition at last。 He had always known that his time would e； that his talents would one day receive the merit they deserved。 This was going to be one in the eye for Haff Ffnsh。 Oh； happy day。
'The ideal pillock；' said Mungo Madoc； but by this time Jovil Jspht was well on his way to the canteen。
There may very well be a moral here somewhere。 But in the light of future events； it would be extremely hard to pin it down accurately。
Mungo Madoc buzzed down for some executive nosebag and a magnum or two from the reserve stock； Jovil Jspht blew his whole week's luncheon vouchers on a belly…buster of heroic proportions and down upon Planet Earth certain others took their midday repast。
'Luncheon；' said Rambo Bloodaxe； 'and pre…cooked。'
Deathblade Eric poked around in the wreckage of Rex Mundi's burned out air car。 'The reactor's still intact。 Non…contaminated meat。 Shall I carve？'
'Certainly not； Eric。 I can't abide dining alfresco。 Kindly haul him back to the hotel。'
Rex Mundi's mortal remains were unceremoniously dragged from the crumpled cab and deposited in the back of Rambo's in…town runabout； a vehicle constructed from corrugated iron and charred timber； camouflaged to resemble a thrown…together transient's hut。 Side slits housed hidden armoury and the whole caboodle was powered by a nuclear reactor； not dissimilar to the one Eric had now mandeered from Rex's defunct 801。
Rambo keyed the ignition and the hidden wheels plied their way along the rubble…strewn street； en route for the Hotel California。 Headquarters； high temple and Holiday Inn hideaway of the Devianti。
'A few prime cuts and then it's into the freezer for this boy；' said Rambo； swerving the vehicle to clip something which might have been a cat。 'That Rogan Josh is a decent enough cove。'
Eric opened Rex's purse。 'Ten credits； Josh said our lunch owes him！'
'Give him the lot； Eric。 Money is the root of all evil； you know。'
'The life force of God in action in the material world。'
'Forever the philosopher； Eric。'
'It's a gift；' said Deathblade Eric。
They were a likeable pair of rogues； these Devianti flesh…eaters。 Well spoken； nicely mannered； and decently turned out。 Personable young men。
Rambo was of old Sussex stock； with a triple…barrelled last moniker。 Eric； the hereditary heir to the Lambton Lairdee； his extremely great great…grandfather having slain the famous Worm and been bunged the title in perpetuity by the king。 Three hundred years of selective inbreeding had left its inevitable hallmark； but whatever they lacked in the chin department was adequately pensated for by their deportment and ingrained sense of style。
For instance； they always wore their radiation suits beneath their clothes； a vogue which hadn't as yet caught on amongst the general public； acid rain having the tendency to play havoc with one's mackintosh。
The Devianti favoured striped shirts； club ties； grey cords； Hunter Wellingtons and Barbour jackets。 Beneath their weatherdomes jaunty…looking tweed caps were the order of the day。 Despite their unconventional lifestyle they considered it essential to keep up appearances。 The manufacture of such upper…crust…schmutter had； needless to say； ceased fifty years before and so its 'just…bought' look paid a posthumous tribute to the exclusive tailors of old London Town。
It might logically have been presumed that the warrior bands of social outcasts currently stalking the streets would have e from the 'lower orders'。 But not a bit of it。 The 'lower orders' were all safely tucked up at home watching television。 It was Rambo and his ilk who had bee subject to Duke's Principle and were forced to take to the streets。
The upper classes had fared rather badly in the post NHE world。 Without Wimbledon； the Royal Tournament； three…day events and Gardener's World； they couldn't actually bring themselves to watch TV。 And so they became non…participants in the great EYESPI credit race。 Those of them who left the bunkers made futile attempts to reclaim their ruined estates。 But you just couldn't get the staff。
Soon； like closing credits； they faded from the screen。
The young； for their part； took to the antisocial behaviour which was their birthright； and bands like the Devianti were formed。 Within their ranks； they maintained a strict social order； reasoning that when society was eventually restructured； it would be for them to reassume their natural place at the top and govern it。 The fact that they had bee the plete antithesis of this society totally escaped them。
These were； as the Bard of Mersey had once unknowingly predicted； 'strange days indeed'。
Rambo swung the car towards another cat； but the six…legged moggy danced nimbly aside。 The in…town runabout bumped over the mangled wreckage of something which had seemed very important at the time it was built and trundled up to the door of the Hotel California。
'Home again； home again； jiggedy jig；' sang Eric； shinning down from the cab。 'Oh shit！'
'Language。' Rambo joined him at the rear of the runabout。 It was empty。
'Well； bless my soul；' said the cannibal chief。 'This is most unexpected。'
'This is most unexpected；' said the smiling Jovil Jspht。 'Now let me see if I have it right。 You have chosen me to travel back into the past and alter the Earth's history。'
Mungo Madoc nodded sagely。 When put like that it did sound pretty ridiculous at best。 'We think you are the man for the job。'
'And indeed I am。 So； I manifest myself as an angel before this Paisley。'
'Presley； Elvis Presley。'
'Convince him not to join the Army and then e straight back here。'
Mungo patted him upon the shoulder。 'What could be simpler？'
'Gosh。' Jovil flushed with sheer pride。 'An angel。'
'We will issue you with everything you will require。 There are several videos in the archives made after Presley's death。 They will say it all to him。 Frankly we don't mind what you say to him。 Just convince him not to join the Army。 Leave the rest to us。'
'And once I'm done； I just press this little button。' Jovil reached for the black box which lay before him on the boardroom table。
Garstang hurriedly drew it beyond his reach。 'That's right； but not a minute sooner and only when you are a considerable distance away from Presley。'
Jovil looked puzzled。 'Why？' he asked。
'Because。。。 because why？' Mungo gazed about at his execs。 'Because why； Garstang？'