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Nymphomation(10)

By:Jeff Noon


‘Right,’ said Dopejack, ‘like what does half a joker do to you?’

‘Thankfully, we shall not find out. Enough! What shall we partake of?’

‘May I recommend the Chef’s Special?’ enquired Jazir.

‘Good thinking, my man. Open all channels; connect to everything. Surprise us! Only not too greasy, mind. I don’t want that English crap. Nice and dry and full of marination.’

‘Of course, Mister Joe! Just like my mother makes it at home.’

Nobody knew exactly how old Joe Crocus was, although the campus connection placed him at forty-five orbits of the sun. All the punters were looking over to the table, the men and the women both, because Crocus was finely carved for both male and female desire. Loverman supreme. With his braided, long, ebony hair; his frockcoat of many colours; his cut of Byronic swath.

Jaz took their orders. ‘Three Chef’s Specials for Crocus and Dopejack and Sweet Benny Fenton!’ Cried in earnest, as he banged through the kitchen door. ‘And easy on the grease this time.’

‘What’s that?’ gasped the underlings and the brothers. ‘Easy on the grease?’ Like it was some kind of sacrilege.

‘Just fucking cook it!’ shouted Jaz. At which sound, his father howled down the kitchen, ‘How dare you be cursing on my premises?’ And Jaz had to run for cover, back to the feeding floor.

Five minutes later, a drunken party of five ladies, slumming it from leafy Poshtown, came falling through the Golden Samosa’s door, letting a rogue blurbfly in with them, singing about how the next domino game was the best-ever bet. ‘Buy your numbers early! Make a wish on the future. Play to win!’ The other diners protested at the disturbance, and it was Jaz’s job to swat at the blurb, to urge it back outside with the fanning of an extra-large naan bread. All that wafting in vain, because the blurb refused to leave the premises. It was going crazy with its own messages, obviously thinking it was a lone hunter. And that’s when the rugby blurb launched itself.

‘English schools for English tools! No foreign muck. Vote for Purity!’

Advert war!

The two blurbs fought it out, slogan against slogan above the diners, sparking the air as their messages clashed. Horrible message flies, trying to bite each other. Blue and cream flashed the stripes of one beauty, rugby-shirt style; whilst white dots on black pulsed along the domino fly. Poor Malik could only apologize dearly to the ducking-down customers, as the rugby-fly twisted and turned like a purist bastard with medical knowledge, until the domino fly retreated through the doorway.

Jazir made some more deliveries, and pretty soon the medical students were sweating under the extra spices included in their King Prawn Rogans. ‘What the fuck is this?’ Nigel Zuze cried. ‘We’re burning our guts out on this shit!’

‘Is it too hot for the mightiest, sir?’ Jazir asked with concern.

‘This isn’t a Rogan. This is a Thunderloo! Take it away. I can hardly breathe!’ The big medical student threw his plate on to the floor, then stood up to grab Jazir by the collar. ‘You’re playing some fucking Paki joke on me!’ And with a vicious head-butt Jaz was laid out on the Golden Samosa’s shagpile carpet.

Joe Crocus strode over from his table. ‘Fellow learner,’ he said to the Zero captain, ‘you have imparted damage to an innocent chap. A friend of mine. For this mishap you must surely be punished.’

‘Eh? What fucker’s saying so, fuckface?’

‘The loverman is saying so,’ said Benny Fenton, quietly, from his seat.

‘And what are you? Some kind of a black queer? Ought to be a law against it.’ One of his compatriots informed Zuze that there was already a law against it and was told to ‘shut the fuck up’ for his trouble. The rest of the crew laughed along, standing tall in defence of their leader. Meanwhile, the rugby-fly hovered aloft, ready for battle time.

Six medical rugby players and a blurbfly against two mathematicians and a physicist, and made up to a paltry quartet when Jaz Malik finally managed to raise himself from the restaurant’s floor, bleeding from his eyebrow.

No contest. The rugby fuckers were primed to kill.

But then Saeed, the boss, and his two younger sons came out of the kitchen, followed by all the underlings, all the waiters, and suddenly the rugby players were surrounded. ‘Fuck the lot of you and get back to the jungle!’ Nigel Zuze shouted to the circle, before pushing his way through them, towards the door. ‘Compatriots, retreat!’ With a last notice that he’d be back ‘in vengeance one fucking day’. Out onto the pavement. The curry crew followed them.