Free The Brentford Triangle by Robert Rankin

whom the word tolerance meant about as much as the rules of backgammon, snatched up the squirming malcontent by his badge-covered lapels and held him high at arms’ length. “We don’t want to go threatening the management now do we?” he asked.
    “Ooh, I got one,” said Pooley suddenly. “Blew him right out of the sky. And there goes another,
Bitow
. There’s a knack to it you see.”
    Omally let the dangling lad fall from his grasp. “Any sign of damage yet?” he asked.
    “I’m damaging their invasion fleet, look that’s a hundred points, got the mother ship, you score double for that.”
    Omally looked on in wonder. “Come now, Jim,” he implored, “try harder, apply a little more force.”
    “I am, I am, there, took one straight out, you duck away to the side then, they can’t get you there.”
    “That’s it,” said the fallen Raffles Rathbone. “Count five from the last saucer across and the scout ship comes straight, down, you can get five hundred for him.”
    A look of dire perplexity appeared upon Omally’s ruddy face. “Jim,” he said earnestly, “what is happening here, Jim?”
    “Nice one,” said Raffles Rathbone, “When you get up to one thousand points you get an extra man. There, you got it.”
    “No sweat,” said Jim Pooley.
    Omally turned away from the machine and stalked over to the bar. Neville met his approach with a face like thunder. “What is all this?” the part-time barman demanded. “Treachery, is it?”
    Omally shook his head ferociously, his honour was at stake here. “Psychology,” he informed Neville.
    “Oh, psychology is it, well silly old me, I could have sworn that he was enjoying himself.”
    Omally smiled a sickly smile and tapped his nose. “Leave it to Jim,” he counselled. “He knows what he’s doing. Wins over the machine’s confidence, probes its defences, finds the weak spot and
Bitow
”
    “
Bitow
,” said Neville giving the Irishman what is universally known as the old fisheye. “
Bitow
it had better be.”
    Omally grinned unconvincingly and ordered another pint.
    Bitow Bitow Bitow Bitow Whap…
“What?”
    “Aha,” yelled Raffles Rathbone, “forgot to tell you about their strike ships. They got you that time. Care for a game of doubles?”
    “Certainly,” said Jim, “last to ten thousand gets the beer in.”
    “You’re on,” said the lad.
    Omally hid his head in his hands and groaned.
     
    At ten-thirty Neville called time, just to see what might happen. As ever the response was minimal. A few lingering tourists, up to enjoy the tours around the derelict gasworks, upped and had it away in search of their coaches, which had left an hour before. But by the local colour the cry was unheeded as ever. John Omally, whose face was now contorted into an expression which would have put the wind up Rondo Hatton, sat upon his barstool sipping at the fourth pint of Large he had been forced into buying himself during the course of the evening. Jim Pooley had spent the last four solid hours locked in mortal combat with the ever-alert invaders from the outer limits of the cosmic infinite.
    For his part, young Nick had never been happier. He had borne the old slings and arrows of outrageous fortune regarding his involvement with the videotic projection of the alien strike force for a goodly while. To be teamed up now with Jim Pooley, a man he had for long admired, gave him a definite feeling of invincibility. Together they would score maximum high points and get the mystery bonus. “Get that man,” he yelled, dancing like a demented dervish. “Give that lad some stick… nice one.”
    Pooley paused at long last to take breath. His neutron bomb release finger had the cramp and he was beginning to suffer withdrawal symptoms from his self-imposed spell of drinklessness.
    “I must rest now,” he told Rathbone. “I heard our good barman calling for the towels up and the habits of a lifetime cannot be set aside in a single evening. I am called to