Free Apocalypso by Robert Rankin

Porrig.
    ‘Only I
really do enjoy a bit of violence. It’s in my nature, you see. I come from a
broken home.’
    ‘I’m
sorry about that,’ moaned Porrig. ‘I really am.’
    ‘Oh,
don’t be. It was me who broke it.’ The youth made unpleasant sniggering sounds.
‘Come on, take another pop at me. You never know, you might strike lucky.’
    ‘Lucky?’
Porrig gave a sickly laugh. ‘Me, lucky? I don’t think so.’
    ‘Oh
well, as you please. Do you want a cup of tea then?’
    ‘A cup
of tea?’ Porrig uncurled a little and peeped up at his tormentor. ‘You’re
offering me a cup of tea?’
    ‘Or
coffee, whichever you prefer. It’s decaff, of course. Gotta look after your
health.’
    ‘My
health?’ Porrig clutched at his ribs. They were broken, he was sure.
    ‘I
stick to a wholefood diet,’ said the youth proudly. ‘Strictly vegetarian and
macrobiotic.’
    ‘That’s
probably why you have such a spotty face,’ observed Porrig and the boot went in
again.
    ‘Oh, I’m
so sorry,’ said the youth in a genuine tone. ‘You’ve got a lairy mouth and I’ve
got a short temper. Not a very good combination, is it?’
    ‘No,’
Porrig groaned.
    ‘So we’ll
both have to try a little harder. Would you like a cup of tea?’
    ‘Yes
please,’ said Porrig, through gritted teeth. The youth helped Porrig up, led
him into the kitchenette and set him down on the chair. ‘I’ll put on the
kettle,’ he said.
    Porrig
sat and hugged at his ribs. The youth filled up the kettle. ‘My name’s Wok Boy,’
he said. ‘Though I won’t tell you why. And yours is Porrig, of course.’
    ‘You
what?’
    ‘I’m
sorry I had to nut you at the station. We got off to a bit of a wonky start,
didn’t we?’
    ‘How do
you know my name?’
    ‘Well,
I was supposed to meet you and extend you a warm welcome.’
    ‘You
what?’ said Porrig once again.
    ‘Meet
you and bring you here. But I didn’t know it was actually you until I had a
look in your suitcase. But then when I went back to the station, you’d gone. I
figured you’d show up here eventually, so I just dossed about for a bit. I
didn’t want to be here in case that slag Phart-Ebum came inside. He didn’t, did
he?’
    ‘No he
didn’t. Look, what’s going on?’
    ‘I
really am sorry I had to nut you at the station, but you did ask for it, didn’t
you?’
    What is
going on?’ Porrig asked once again. What are you doing here? Why were you
supposed to meet me? How do you know about Phart-Ebum? Why—’
    ‘One
thing at a time. What sort of tea do you like? Orange Sunset or Peach Truffle?’
    ‘Peach
Truffle?’
    ‘Oh
good, that’s my favourite too.’
    ‘Stop
fucking me about,’ said Porrig.
    ‘Easy,
pal,’ said Wok Boy, displaying a well-made fist.
    ‘All
right,’ said Porrig. ‘Just one question. The stuff downstairs. Who does it
belong to?’
    ‘You,
of course.’
    ‘It’s
really mine?’
    ‘It’s
really yours.’
    ‘I don’t
get this.’
    ‘It’s
really simple,’ said Wok Boy. ‘There’s no great mystery.’ He lit the stove and
put the kettle on to boil. ‘This old bloke employed me to clean up the shop.
Clear out all the old crap that was in it. Give the place a lick of paint.
Bring down all these cartons of comic books he had stored in London. Restore
the printing press. I’ve been working here for months getting everything
prepared for you.
    ‘For
me?’
    ‘He
wanted everything to be exactly as you’d have wanted it to be. It’s all yours,
all of it. All he wants you to do for him is draw him a comic.
    What
comic?’
    ‘I don’t
know what comic. He didn’t tell me everything. But it’s something very
special. He’s got a real bee in his old bonnet about it. You are an artist,
aren’t you? You can draw?’
    ‘Of
course I can draw. Didn’t you see my stuff when you nosed through my suitcase?’
    ‘Oh
yeah. Gyp the Crip, wasn’t it?’
    ‘Jazz
the Spaz.’
    ‘You
wanker,’ said Wok Boy.
    ‘How
dare you!’
    Well,
get a