Djinn Rummy

THIRTEEN

The fight was getting bogged down. It had, in fact, reached something of a stalemate.

“All right,” suggested Philly Nine, “try this. You let go of my throat, and then if I simultaneously take my teeth out of your left ankle…”

“I don’t think that’ll work,” Kiss mumbled after a moment’s thought. “All that’ll happen is we’ll fall over.”

Philly, who was turning purple, clicked his tongue. “Well,” he said, “we’d better think of something, unless we want to stay locked together like this for ever and ever.”

“Agreed. The sooner the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

“How about if—?”

Whatever Philly’s suggestion was, it never got a hearing; because before he could make it both genies were knocked spinning by a long-range intercontinental ballistic missile.

“Shit,” gasped Philly, who’d been winded, “what the hell was that?”

Kiss floundered his way out of the soft cloud-bank into which he had fortuitously tumbled. “Don’t ask me,” he replied. “It was long and metallic and—”

He broke off and ducked as a large and colourful carpet, flapping its edges frantically like a manta ray in a hurry, shot past, calling out, “Stop! I didn’t mean it!” at the top of a voice which Kiss only heard in the back of his brain. The two genies dusted themselves off and floated level with each other.

“One of yours?” Kiss asked.

“Never seen it before in my life.”

“Well, it’s solved one problem for us.”

“True. Shall we carry on, then?”

“Might as well.”

“Where were we, exactly?”

“Hmm.” Kiss stroked his chin. “Well, as I recall, you had me in a scissor lock and were trying to bite my leg off, and I—”

“Not a scissor lock,” Philly interrupted. “More of a Polynesian death-grip, surely?”

“No, you’re wrong there. Isn’t that the one where the left knee comes up under the opponent’s armpit?”

“You’re thinking of the Mandalay wrench.”

“No, that’s the one where—”

This time the bomb hit Kiss in the small of the back, catapulting him neatly into orbit. Philly had the presence of mind to duck, only to be swatted flying by the bunch of roses the carpet was frenziedly waving. He had just recovered his balance from that when a tall, thin apprentice carpet salesman landed around his neck, jarring his spinal column and sending him spiralling towards the ground. He couldn’t have been more than ten feet off the ground, and travelling at a fair pace, when he managed to break the spin and pull out of it.

He landed and shrugged off the apprentice carpet salesman, who landed in a gooseberry bush and lay still, making faint whimpering noises. Philly looked down at him.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Heeeeeeeeeeeeeelp!”

Philly considered for a moment. “Yes,” he said, “you’re all right. Don’t go away, now.”

“Have they gone?” Kiss asked, when they were once more face to face.

“I think so,” Philly replied cautiously. “Can’t see them, at any rate.”

“You got any idea what they’re playing at?”

“Not really, no. Looks like the rug’s got the hots for the bomb, if I’m any judge.”

“How can a rug be in love with a bomb?”

“Dunno. Still, one of them’s colourful and flat and the other one’s dull grey and round, and they do say opposites attract.”

Kiss bit his lip. “I ought,” he said, “to go and defuse that bomb before it does any damage.”

“It’ll keep. Looks like the rug’s doing a pretty good job, anyhow.”

The genies shook their heads, as if to say that they wouldn’t mind fighting to the death over the destiny of the world if only the world would show a little respect.

“Right,” Philly said at last, “back to the job in hand. What say we start again from scratch?”

Kiss raised an eyebrow. “You sure?” he asked. “I had you ahead on points.”

“Did you?”

“Sure.” Kiss nodded. “I was giving you six for the head-butt, nine for the savage blow to the left temple with the giant redwood and seven for the combined half-nelson and stranglehold on the windpipe.”

“OK,” Philly replied dubiously, “but I wasn’t counting that because of the nutcracker hold you had on my right elbow at the same time.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Maybe you had other things on your mind. Anyhow, I put us more or less dead level, so…”

“That’s very sporting of you, Philly.”

“Don’t mention it.”

They drifted a little way apart, each looking for an opening. Somehow the aggro seemed to have gone out of the whole thing, and both genies started to feel just a trifle sheepish.

“This is the point,” suggested Kiss, putting the mutual feeling into words, “where one of us should say, ‘This is silly, there must be a better way of settling things’.”

“Doesn’t that come later?”

“Could do. Or we could do it now.”

“Get it over with, you mean?”

“We could skip it if you like,” Kiss replied accommodatingly. “After all, you’re trying to destroy the planet, I’m trying to save it, so there’s not all that much scope for creative bargaining. On the other hand…”

Something, Philly noticed, had gone in his back. He winced. “Quite,” he said.

“I mean, it’s a bit daft when you think about it.”

“Two intelligent beings…”

“Two supernatural beings…”

“And not just your average thing that goes bump in the night,” Philly added. “I mean, Force Twelves, not many of them to the pound avoirdupois, if you get my meaning.”

“Better things to do with our time, wouldn’t you say?”

“Exactly.”

Philly looked down at the world beneath him. From the vertiginous height they were presently occupying, he could see all the kingdoms of the Earth spread out before him like a giant map. Hmmm, he thought. Bloody untidy, with all those green and brown splodges and the blue stuff just slopping about anyhow. Not a straight line to be seen anywhere. On the other hand…

Kiss looked down at the world beneath him and thought of bottles, and all the time he’d had to spend in them over the years. No more earth, he thought, no more bottles. No more women. No more having to fetch and carry after snot-nosed mortals who happen to unscrew a cap.

“How about,” suggested Philly, picking his words carefully, “I just destroy a bit of it?”

“Which bit had you in mind?”

“Well…” Philly peered down through the swirling clouds. “How about Australia?” he said. “I mean, nobody’s going to miss Australia, are they?”

“Not immediately, certainly,” Kiss conceded. “But it’s a big place, Australia. And somebody’s got to be fond of it,” he added doubtfully.

“All right, then,” said Philly. “What would you say if I left you Queensland?”

Kiss pursed his lips. “Don’t know if that’d work, actually,” he said. “I mean, geography’s not my strong point. Could be that the other bits are holding it up or something.”

“All right then,” Philly replied. “How about Tasmania? That’s just an island, for pity’s sake.”

Kiss remembered something he’d heard once. “No man is an island,” he said sagely.

“Well, of course not,” Philly responded. “I don’t know about you, but I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of flat people with frilly edges entirely surrounded by water that I know to speak to.”

“I didn’t mean it literally,” Kiss replied. “What I was getting at is, you can’t really go knocking off hundreds of thousands of people, even if they are Australians. I think it’s something to do with divine justice.”

“Divine justice!” Philly sneered. “Don’t you give me divine justice. Fifty talents they fined me, and I was only doing ninety-five, top whack. And they made me blow into a little bag.”

Kiss frowned. “I’m not saying I hold with it,” he said. “All I’m saying is, it’s there. And—”

“And what?”

Kiss shrugged. “I’m not sure, really. Only it’s probably a good idea. On balance. In the long run. I mean, I think things tend to come out in the wash, in the fullness of time.”

“I see. And because of that, you’d begrudge me Tasmania?”

“Look, Philly, if it was up to me you could have Tasmania in — a paper bag with salt, vinegar and a lemon-scented napkin. But you’ve got to face facts. Destroying Tasmania would be…”

“Would be what?”

“…antisocial.” Kiss scooped up a handful of cloud and began picking at it. “Not a very nice thing to do. A bit unnecessary.”

Philly sighed. “All right,” he said. “Tell you what I’ll do. Scrub round Tasmania, how’d it be if I just destroyed a bit nobody wanted at all? Some desert or something? Now nobody could object to that, could they?”

Kiss scented a chink in the argument. “In that case,” he said quickly, “why bother at all? I mean, if nobody’s going to mind? Like, if it’s a desert anyway, surely you’d be wasting your time. And how could anyone tell the difference once you’d finished?”

Philly frowned. “I would,” he replied. “It’s a matter of principle, really. Something I promised myself a long time ago.”

Kiss stared. “A matter of principle?” he repeated incredulously.

“Yeah. What’s so funny about that?”

“Genies can’t have principles. If they could, what’d be the point of having humans?”

“To be honest with you, Kiss, old mate,” Philly said, with a slow smile, “I never could see the point in having humans. That’s why I decided, a long time ago, to do something about it.”

There was a long silence.

“Well,” said Kiss at last, “I suppose we’d better carry on with the fight, then.”

“Reckon so.”

“Pity, though.”

“It always is,” said Philly, and hit him with a railway station.

“Sorry to interrupt,” said Asaf, “but there’s something going on.”

“Hmm?”

The interruption, Asaf admitted to himself, was not entirely unwelcome, because he was starting to lose the sensation in his lower lip. He untangled himself from Jane, got up and walked over to the window.

“Not to worry,” he said, having looked. “It’s only two genies fighting.”

Jane scowled and started to button up her blouse. “They’re starting,” she said, “to get on my nerves.”

“Who?”

“The genies,” Jane replied. “I think it’s time I did something about it.”

The word “You?” froze on Asaf’s lips. True, his experience of female facial expressions was limited, since where he came from they tended to go around with curtains over their faces (and no bad thing too, he remembered, calling to mind some of the blind dates his brothers had fixed him up with in times gone by. Actually, the blind ones hadn’t been so bad; it was some of the deaf-mutes who made him cringe with embarrassment, even now); there is, however, a basic defence mechanism built into the male psyche that reacts quickly to flashing eyes and deep frowns, and sends men of all races and creeds dashing out of the house in search of an all-night florist.

“Absolutely,” he said, therefore. “If you don’t mind, though, I’ll just—”

“Get your coat, it’s turned cold.”

It occurred to Asaf, as he scuffled after Jane down the stairs, that he still had an indentured genie of his own on the payroll, with at least one ungranted wish still in reserve. “I wish,” he muttered to himself, “she wouldn’t go dashing off getting us both involved in things.”

Sorry, mate. This time you’re on your own. G’day.

“In that case,” he said aloud, “you’d better give us a lift.”

Jane stopped at the foot of the staircase, looking impatient. “Come on,” she said. “We haven’t got all day, you know.”

“Sorry. I was just arranging us some transport.”

“Transport?”

“G’day.”

The Dragon King materialised, filling the stairwell and substantial parts of the up and down stairs as well. Huge, Asaf noted, magnificent, brutal and stuck. Probably better off with a taxi.

“Good idea,” said Jane briskly. “You.”

The Dragon King winced. “G’day, miss. What can I do you for?”

“That fight. I need to stop it now. Take us there.”

“Um.” The dragon looked at her, mentally comparing the respective risks of going within a hundred miles of a fight between two crazed Force Twelves and refusing a direct order from Jane. “Straight away, miss,” he said. “No worries.”

They scrambled on to his back. A moment later, the stairway was empty.

Along time ago, when God created the world — A feature common to all building sites is the presence of many, many long pieces of timber with nails stuck in them. Nobody knows where they come from, or what they’re designed to achieve. What they actually do is — wait until the grass has grown up round them and then spring out on passing builders, preferably when they’re carrying precarious loads of fragile objects. When the building is completed they are sometimes ritually burned, but as often as not they stay, forgotten and untouched.

It was just such a piece of timber, undisturbed since the Fourth Day (on which He dug out the footings and poured the concrete) that Philly Nine was using to batter Kiss about the head. Given the origin of the thing, it was not surprising that the bent, rusty nails were in fact made from extruded amethyst. This didn’t stop them hurting.

Kiss wasn’t taking this lying down. More sort of crouched on one knee, cleverly managing to ward off most of the blows from his body with his head, and groping with his left hand for a large chunk of rock (Malta) he’d noticed out of the corner of his eye a while back.

“Hey, you!”

Philly paused, club upraised, and looked round.

“You talking to me, chum?” he said to the Dragon King of the South-East, who was hovering sheepishly over his left shoulder.

The King shook his head vigorously. In Wisconsin, they thought the result was snow.

“Didn’t say a word, mate, straight up,” he said, smiling meekly.

“I thought you just spoke to me.”

“Nah. Try the sheila between me shoulder-blades.”

“What she… oh, her. What does she want?”

“Hey!”

Philly glanced down, lowering the club a degree or so. “Do I know you?” he asked. “Not that it matters much, but if we are acquainted, I shall send a wreath to your funeral. That’s,” he added, “always assuming they find enough of you to fill a coffin. Being realistic, though, a doggy bag might be more suitable.”

“Oh, shut up, Jane replied. “And put down that silly stick before you put someone’s eye out.”

Philly frowned and lashed out with the club. What with residual particles of self-doubt and guilt, combined with extreme irritation at not being able to make much impression on Kiss’s head with one of the nastiest blunt instruments in the cosmos, he had just about reached the stopper of his bottle (genies don’t have tethers), with the result that his sense of chivalry was down there with the Polly Peck shares. Fortunately, the King’s nose came between Jane and the plank.

“Missed,” Jane called out. “You want to saw that thing in half.”

“Do I? Why’s that?”

“Then you’d have two short planks. Company for you.”

“Very droll.” He tried the reverse sweep, but this time the King ducked and suffered no more than a slight scratch to his right ear from one of the nails. With a sigh, Philly swept round on his heel and belted Kiss again, knocking him back off his feet.

“Missed again,” said Jane smugly.

“Third time lucky.” Philly swung the plank, feinting high and then changing tack in mid-blow. The resulting impact missed Asaf’s head by a few thousandths of an inch and found its mark on the King’s back.

“Fair go, mate,” the King squealed. “What harm have I ever done you?”

“Call it pre-emptive revenge,” Philly replied. “In the meantime, could you try and hold still? It’s harder than it looks, swatting something that small.”

Jane bristled and turned to Asaf, giving him what used to be known as an old-fashioned look.

“Well?” she said. “Don’t just sit there. Do something.”

The bomb was confused.

It was dizzy, sick, miles and miles off-course and beginning to see spots in front if its eyes. Furthermore, it had the feeling that running away from an amorous carpet wasn’t really the sort of thing self-respecting atomic bombs are supposed to do.

It slowed down and activated its rear-view sensors. The carpet was nowhere to be seen.

Bombs are nothing if not logical. This goes with the territory. A fat lot of good an emotional, sensitive, caring bomb would be to anybody. Probably cry all over its own fuse.

The logical argument was this:

It sniggered, and armed itself.

“What,” Asaf asked, “did you have in mind?” By way of reply, Jane just looked at him. “Right,” he said, “fine. Just leave it to me.”

Kiss, meanwhile, had dragged himself back up to cloud level, having collected on the way a massive charge of static electricity which someone had left lying about in the bottom of a cloud he’d passed through. Observing that Philly was preoccupied with trying to brain the Dragon King with his oversize telegraph pole, he took the opportunity to connect his new plaything up to the inside of Philly’s knee.

The results were quite entertaining.

Doctors, he recalled, as he watched Philly soar steadily upwards, use a similar technique to test their patients’ reflexes. Nothing wrong with Philly’s reflexes, as far as he could make out.

He waited where he was for a moment or so, on the off chance that gravity might have something to say about Philly’s movements. He counted to twelve. Probably safe to assume that gravity knew when to leave well alone.

“Hello,” he said.

“Where the hell were you?” Jane replied.

“I—” He checked himself. Oh woman, he murmured to himself, in our hours of ease uncertain, coy and hard to please; when pain and anguish rack the brow, an even greater nuisance thou. “Sorry,” he said.

“And you just sat there,” Jane continued, “while that great oaf tried to hit me.”

“Yes.”

“And you call yourself a genie!”

“I tend to exaggerate.”

“Aren’t you going after him?”

“No.”

“You mean you’re afraid.”

“Naturally. I do also have a nuclear missile to see to, but that’s only a flimsy excuse. Really it’s because I’m a coward.”

“You haven’t heard the last of this.”

“I should think not. Excuse me. “Bye.”

“I haven’t finished with you yet!” Jane called after him, as he dwindled away into a tiny dot on the horizon. “Honestly!” she summarised.

Beside her, Asaf made a vague oh-well-never-mind noise. “Any how,” he said, “that’s sorted that out. Can we go home now, please?”

Jane looked around and noticed, as if for the first time, that she was sitting between the wings of a dragon thousands of feet above the surface of the earth. “Gosh, yes,” she said. “Let’s do that right away.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Well, go on, then. It’s your stupid dragon.”

“Sorry, yes. Now then, I wish—”

As he said the words, he chanced to look up; and the terms of his wish changed slightly. In its amended form, which he didn’t actually vocalise, it consisted of, I wish the other genie, the one who got hit by the electric shock and jumped up miles into the air, wasn’t coming back.

Unfortunately, as the Dragon King hastened to point out to him, that one was asking a bit too much.

“Here, bomb,” Kiss called. “Here, nice bomb. Bommybommybommybommy.”

No reply. And no sign of the poxy thing, as far as the eye (even his) could see. How do you attract bombs, exactly? Bomb-nip? Raffle an empty uranium canister?

“Oo vewwy naughty bomb,” He experimented. “Oo come here this minute, or else no…”

He paused. What do bombs like best?

He squirmed. No prizes for guessing what bombs like best.

“If you don’t come here this very minute,” he essayed, “the nasty Peace Movement will get you.”

Of course, he rationalised as he swung low over San Francisco, it might just be that he was looking in the wrong place. But he didn’t think so, somehow; he could smell bomb — a strong, not very pleasant smell drifting back from the possible future — and it was definitely coming from this direction.

“Come out with your fins up,” he shouted (but it turned into a whimper somewhere between his larynx and the atmosphere). “I have this planet surrounded.”

He heard a click. It was a tiny sound, no louder than, say, a safety-catch being thumbed forward or a life-support machine being switched off. But he heard it, because it was the sound he’d been listening for.

“Now then,” he wailed, “there’s no need to take that attitude.”

Think, you fool, think. Somewhere out there is a bomb, armed and dangerous — a small, functional intelligence, probably scared and confused, trying to know what’s the right thing to do.

Get real, Kiss told himself, this is a fucking bomb we’re talking about here. Bombs aren’t like that. When was the last time you heard of a three-hundred-megaton warhead being talked down off a twelfth-storey parapet by highly trained social workers?

There it was, a little high-pitched whining of artificial brainwaves, like a gnat in a sandstorm. And what was it saying?

It was saying, No thing personal.

Swearing under his breath, Kiss did a back somersault that would have ripped the wings off even the latest generation of jet fighter and doubled back, head, down, in the direction of Oakland.

Thirty seconds, and counting.

“You’re too late,” Jane said, arms folded, face a study in defiant satisfaction. “He’s gone to catch the bomb, and he’ll defuse it. You’ve—”

“Did you just hear something?” Philly interrupted.

“No. What?”

“Sounded to me like a faint click.”

“That’ll be Kiss,” said Jane, smugly, “defusing the bomb.”

Nine seconds, and counting.

Mortals, who tend to think of their lives as the shortest distance between the two points Birth and Death, have a bad attitude towards Time. They accuse it of being inflexible, doctrinaire, officious. In the collective imagination of the human race, Time wears a peaked cap and carries a thick wad of parking tickets.

This is unfair. Time does, in fact, have a considerable degree of discretion. True, it rarely exercises it in favour of mortals (because of their bad attitude), but even so, most of us will have experienced moments when Time has seemed to slow down or stop altogether. The tragedy is that in those moments we’re usually sailing through the air, staring at an oncoming car on our side of the road, or realising with a feeling of sick horror that the sound of key in lock means that our spouse has come home earlier than anticipated. We therefore lack the leisure and the objectivity to give Time its due.

Nine seconds and counting. Kiss, being a genie (and having done Time an enormous favour years ago in a rather shabby incident involving yogurt, rubber tubing and a goat) kept his head and called in, so to speak, his marker.

Sniff, sniff, sniff. The smell of bomb was overpowering, but still he couldn’t see the bloody…

Gotcha! Big steel tube, leaning nonchalantly against a row of other steel tubes, which Kiss identified as liquid nitrogen canisters propped up against the wall of some factory or other. He braked sharply, leaving pale grey skidmarks on the sky, and swooped down.

The bomb saw him and flinched.

“There, there,” he said, “it’s all right, I’m not going to hurt you.”

That, replied the bomb, must be the stupidest remark I’ve ever heard.

Kiss blinked, and then realised that what he was hearing was his own brain’s instantaneous translation of the subtext of the bomb’s computer intelligence’s extraneous drive-chatter; the equivalent of the dead-cat-dragged-over-velvet noise you get when you switch on the tape deck to full volume with a blank tape in it. Gosh, he said to himself, I’m so much cleverer than I ever realised.

“OK,” he replied, “point taken, let’s approach this from a different angle. What harm have we ever done you?”

I’m sorry?

“Us. Sentient life forms. What harm have we ever—”

Let me see. You made me, for a start; that involved being hacked out of the living rock and run through heavy rollers and then heated in a blast furnace until I melted and then poured into a mould like I was jelly or something and then shoved through more rollers and then punched full of sodding great rivets and drilled full of holes with a drill that makes your dentists” drills seem like feather dusters and then packed full of horrible ticklish uranium and shoved down a long, dark tube in a submarine hundreds of feet under the sea and then shot out again, which feels like being farted out of God’s arse, let me add, and a fat lot you care about my vertigo and then…

This, Kiss realised, is starting to get a bit counterproductive. “Fine,” he said, “you’ve got real grievances, I admit, but is this really the best way to settle them? I mean, really?”

The bomb’s sensors treated him to a withering stare. I’m a bomb, for fuck’s sake, this is what I’m supposed to do. Why don’t you creeps make up your damn minds?

“Ah,” Kiss replied quickly. “The I-was-only-obeying-orders defence. That won’t wash, you know.”

So what? I’m about to be blown into my constituent atoms, right? And you’re suggesting that something bad might happen to me afterwards? Grow up.

Eight seconds and counting. More like seven and four-fifths. Fortunately, Kiss’s pores didn’t have enough time to start sweating, or he’d have been drenched.

“How would you feel,” he asked, “about bribery?”

There was a tiny flicker of interest in the readout patterns. How do you mean, bribery?

“We pay you, anything you like, if you don’t blow up. How does that grab you?”

Like I said, I’m a bomb. What the hell is there that I could possibly want?

Kiss turned up the gain in his brain. “I’m sure we could think of something,” he said. “Anything you like, anything at all. A velvet-lined silo. Raspberry-flavoured rocket fuel. A nice little land-mine to cuddle up to in the evenings?”

What’s raspberry?

“You see?” Kiss shouted, waving his arms. “A whole Universe packed with scintillatingly thrilling sensations, and you haven’t experienced any of them. You haven’t lived. But think how different it could all be, if you’d only—”

Of course I haven’t lived, I’m a bomb. And how the blazes am I supposed to experience all these wonderful sensations of yours? All I’m built to do is fly and go bang.

“We can fit you with new sensors, of course,” Kiss replied. “Audio, visual, sensory, you name it. Just think of it. Ice cream, music, the scent of primroses after a heavy shower, the sunset over the Loire valley…”

I could experience all that?

“No problem. And that’s just the start of it. If you’d just use your imagination, there’s no end to what we could show you.”

Fuck.

Kiss blinked. “What?” he said.

I said fuck. It’d have been really nice, I bet. Too late now, of course.

“Too late?”

Use your common sense. I’m armed and about to blow. You don’t think there’s anything I can do to stop it, do you?

“But—”

You honestly believe I can switch myself oft? Get real. As far as bombs are concerned, free will is a lawyer’s marketing gimmick. God, I wish you hadn’t said all that stuff about what I could have had. You’ve really upset me now.

Five seconds and counting. Time was doing its best, but there are limits. At the back of his cosmic awareness, Kiss could feel the world tapping its foot and saying, Come on, do something.

Do what?

Anything. Anything is better than nothing. Nothing. Generally defined as an absence of anything, nothing is usually produced by some catastrophically traumatic event; an atomic bomb, — say, going off in a confined space. Such as a galaxy.

Kiss thought, and something came. If he’d been a cartoon, a bubble with a light bulb in it would have appeared above his head.

Sugar and spice and all things nice, that’s what supernatural beings are made of. Among other things; including a pretty substantial amount of pure, crude energy. Kiss had never bothered to learn the physics (he’d spent physics lessons practising simple levitation on the underwear of the girl sitting next to him) but he had an idea that what he was mostly made of was raw power. Which accounted for his being able to fly and materialise physical objects, not to mention the chronic indigestion.

And to every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction; which he had only been able to understand in terms of a very fast car hitting a very solid lamp-post.

Indeed.

The trouble was, if he used himself as the lamp-post, he was likely to get seriously bent.

Omelettes and eggs. Three seconds and counting. Yes, he screamed in his mind, the complaint of every poor fool since time began who’d suddenly found out he’s been cast to play the hero, but why me? And the inevitable answer: because you’re here, and there’s nobody else. Because we didn’t think you’d mind. You don’t mind, do you?

Kiss moved.

Here, protested the bomb, what the devil do you think you’re playing at? It was bad enough with that goddamn nymphomaniac carpet…

“Shut up,” Kiss replied. He wrapped his arms tight around the bomb, and closed his eyes.

No seconds, and counting.