The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse

13

It is a fact, well known to those who know it well, that there is scarcely to be found anywhere a society which does not hold to some belief in a supreme being.

A God.

A Divine Creator.

Toy City is no exception.

In Toy City a number of different religions exist, each serving the spiritual needs of its particular followers. Four of the more interesting are The Church of Mechanology, The Daughters of the Unseeable Upness, Big Box Fella, He Come, and The Midnight Growlers.

Followers of The Church of Mechanology are to be found exclusively amongst members of Toy City's clockwork toy population: wind-up tin-plate barmen, firemen, taxi drivers and the like.

These hold to the belief that the universe is a vast clockwork mechanism, the planets revolving about the sun by means of extendible rotary arms and the sun in turn connected to the galaxy by an ingenious crankshaft system, the entirety powered by an enormous clockwork motor, constantly maintained, oiled, and kept wound by The Universal Engineer.

The Universal Engineer is pictured in religious icons as a large, jolly, red-faced fellow in greasy overalls and cap. He holds in one holy hand an oily rag and in the other, the Church's Sacred Writ, known as The Manual.

The Manual contains a series of laws and coda, but, as is often the case with Holy books, these laws and coda are penned in a pidgin dialect of unknown origin, which leaves them open to varied interpretation. An example of its text is Winding is not to facilitate in counter to the clockways direction for tuning the to.

Followers of The Church of Mechanology consider themselves special and superior to all other varieties of toy, in that, being clockwork, they are in tune and at one with the Universe.

A number of sub-sects, breakaway factions and splinter groups exist within The Church, with names such as The Cog- Wheel of Life, The Spring Almost Eternal and The Brotherhood of the Holy Oil. These are End Times Cults, which subscribe to the belief that, as individual clockwork toys enjoy only a finite existence due to the ravages of rust, corrosion, spring breakage and fluffin the works, so too does the Universe.

Their prophets of doom foretell The Time of the Terrible Stillness, when the great mechanism that powers the Universe will grind to a halt, the planet will no longer turn upon its axis, the sun will no longer rise and even time itself will come to a standstill.

If asked what The Universal Engineer will be doing at this momentous moment, they will politely explain that He will be cranking up a new Universe elsewhere, powered by something even greater than clockwork.

If asked what this power could possibly be, they will like as not reply, 'And there you have it! What power could be greater than clockwork?'

The Daughters of the Unseeable Upness is a movement composed entirely of dolls — but only those dolls that have weighted eyes which automatically close when the doll's head is tilted backwards. Such city-dwelling dolls can never see the sky, as their eyes shut when they lean backwards to look upwards. These dolls therefore believe that the sky is a sacred place that must not be seen, and that all who do see it risk instant damnation.

As with clockwork toys, dolls enjoy only a limited existence before they eventually disintegrate, and as the onset of disintegration in dolls is inevitably marked by one of their eyes sticking open, followers of this religious persuasion invariably wear large, broad-brimmed, sanctified straw hats, or have their eyes glued in the half-shut position.

According to the followers of Big Box Fella, He Come, as everything new, especially a toy, always comes in a box, then so too did the universe.

The universe, they claim, is a construction kit, which God assembled with the aid of his little helpers. It is God's toy. One day, they claim, God will tire of his toy, disassemble it and, being a well-brought-up God, put it back in its box.

And that will be that for the universe.

This particular religious belief system is predominant amongst Jack-in-the-boxes. They consider themselves to be special and blessed because they are the only toys that actually remain within their original boxes, the toy nearest to perfection being the toy that has never been taken out of its box.

They believe that the universe is cubic, the shape of its original box, and so see themselves as microcosmic. The assembled universe consists of a number of boxes, one inside the other, the smallest of these containing the Jack himself. This exists within a larger cubic box, the city, which stands upon a cubic world, within a boxed solar system.

Mortals, they claim, cannot travel between the separate boxes: only Big Box Fella can do that — he and his nameless evil twin.

Big Box Fella is one of God's little helpers. He and his brother were given the task of assembling the city, which was part of the Universe Kit. It was God's intention that, once the city had been correctly constructed, Big Box Fella and his brother would tend to its upkeep and protect its also-to-be-assembled population (you have to remember that the universe is a very complicated construction kit).

However, things did not go quite as planned, because Big Box Fella's brother refused to follow the instructions, thereby committing the first ever act of evil. He improvised, with the result that certain things were incorrectly assembled, other things had parts left out and a city that would otherwise have been perfect was anything but. -

Big Box Fella cast his brother out of the city and attempted to put things right, but, out of spite, his brother had taken the instructions with him, and so the task was impossible.

Some followers of this cult think that Big Box Fella is still in the city, tirelessly working to correct all his brother's mistakes. Most, however, believe that he left the city and went in search of his evil twin, to retrieve the instructions, and that he will return one glorious day and make everything perfect.

This, they hope, will happen before God tires of his toy universe, takes it all to pieces and puts it back in its box.

The Midnight Growlers has been described as 'a robust and rumbustious cult, more a drinking club than a religion, characterised by rowdy behaviour, the swearing of mighty oaths, the imbibing of strong liquors in prodigious quantities and the performance of naughtiness, for the sake of naughtiness alone'.

For the greater part, the teddies of Toy City (The Midnight Growlers is a teddy bear cult) are law-abiding model citizens, who picnic and go \valky-round-the-garden, behave with good grace and exhibit exemplary manners. That within this dutiful ursine population such a wayward faction as The Midnight Growlers should exist is a bit of a mystery.

An investigative reporter from the Toy City press sought to infiltrate this cult. He donned an elaborate teddy costume and managed to pass himself off as a bear, and spoke at length to the Grand High Muck-a-muck of the cult, who referred to himself as The Handsome One. The Handsome One explained many things to the reporter, but the reporter, who was finding it difficult to match The Handsome One drink for drink in the downtown bar where the meeting took place, became too drunk to remember most of them.

The reporter did manage to recall that there was a great deal of convivial camaraderie within the cult, and The Handsome One constantly told him that he was 'his bestest friend'.

The reporter was eventually unmasked, however, when he fell from the barstool, on which he was attempting to balance upon his head, and passed out on the floor.

In none of these religious movements, it is noteworthy to note, is the kindly loveable white-haired old toymaker worshipped as a God. Although he is feared and revered, those toys inclined towards religious belief consider him to be a doer of God's work, but not actually a God in his own right.

The Handsome One declared that he didn't have any particular views on the subject of God, but that as far as the toymaker was concerned, he was 'his bestest friend'.

Then he too fell off his barstool.

At this present moment, however, The Handsome One and Grand High Muck-a-muck of The Midnight Growlers Cult (indeed, if the truth be told, the only member of The Midnight Growlers Cult) was a most unhappy bear.

He lay downcast and best-friend-less upon the cold damp floor of a cold damp cell, and he dearly wanted a beer.

The coldness and dampness of his circumstances did not concern him too much, but other things concerned him greatly.

The nature of his being, being one.

And this is not to say the cosmic nature of his being.

It was the physical nature of his being that presently concerned him. And the nature of this being was, to say the very least, desperate.

Eddie Bear raised himself upon a feeble paw and gazed down at the state of himself. It was a state to inspire great pity.

Eddie was no longer a plump little bear. He was a scrawny bear, an emaciated bear, a bear deeply sunken in the stomach regions. A bear with only one serviceable leg.

This leg, the right, was a weedy-looking article, but was superior to its companion, which was nothing but an empty flap of furry fabric.

Eddie groaned, and it hurt when he did so. Eddie's throat had been viciously cut and his head was all but severed from his body.

Eddie surveyed the bleak landscape of himself. This was bad. This was very bad. Indeed this was very, very, very bad. Eddie was in trouble deep, and such trouble troubled him deeply. Eddie Bear was afraid.

'I am done for,' mumbled Eddie.

And it hurt very much as he mumbled it.

Eddie tried to recall what had happened to him, but this wasn't proving an easy thing to do. The contents of his head were slowly leaking out through the gash in his neck. Eddie settled carefully onto his back and tried to scrape some in again.

What could he remember?

Well...

He could remember the kitchen. And Madame Goose. And asking her what she knew about an agile woman in a feathered bonnet who was capable of leaping over the locked gates of the chocolate factory.

Now why had he been asking about that?

Eddie gave his head a thump.

Ah yes, the woman was the suspect. The serial killer.

What happened next?

Eddie gave his head another thump and it all came rushing painfully back.

That was what happened next.

Eddie recalled it in all its hideous detail:

The door of the broom cupboard opened and Eddie was the first to see her emerge. He was impressed by the way she moved. It was smooth, almost fluid. And you couldn't help but be impressed by the way she looked. She wore a feathered bonnet, but it wasn't so much a bonnet, more some kind of winged headpiece, which fitted tightly over her skull and covered the upper portion of her face: a mask with cut-away eyeholes and a slender beak that hid her nose. The mouth beneath was painted a pink that was as pink as. And this was set into a sinister smile. The teeth that showed within this smile were very white indeed.

Her body was, in itself, something to inspire awe. Eddie had never been an appreciator of the human form. All women looked pretty much the same to him (apart from the very fat ones. These made Eddie laugh, but he found them strangely compelling). This •woman wasn't fat anywhere. She was slim as a whispered secret, and twice as dangerous, too.

Her body was sheathed in contour-hugging black rubber, held in place by many straps and buckles. Eddie had never seen an outfit quite like it before. It looked very chic and expensive, but it also had the down-to-business utility quality of a military uniform about it. It flattered in an impersonal manner.

She hadn't spoken a word. And this made her somehow more terrifying — because, if she inspired awe in Eddie, she also inspired terror.

She leapt right over the table and she wrung the neck of Madame Goose with the fingers of a single hand. And then she picked up a kitchen knife and cut Eddie's throat with it.

The rest was somewhat hazy.

Eddie vaguely recalled being hauled up by his left leg, dragged along an alleyway and flung into the boot of a car. Then there was a period of bumping darkness. Then a horrible light. Then dark corridors. Then here. The cold damp cell.

And oblivion.

And now he was awake again. And gravely injured.

And very scared indeed.

Jack wasn't so much scared as furious.

He had been wrongfully arrested. And he had been beaten about and thrown into the rear of a police van. And now he was being driven uptown at breakneck speed. And there was a big policeman sitting on his head.

'Get your fat arse off me,' cried Jack. 'You're in big trouble. You can't treat me like this.'

Officer Chortle, whose bottom it was, laughed loudly. 'We have you bang to rights, meaty-boy,' he said. 'We've all been waiting for this one.'

'What do you mean?’ Jack asked.

'For the chance to bring one of your lot to justice.'

'I don't have a lot,' said Jack. 'I'm just me.'

'You're a man,' said Officer Chortle. 'And men think, they're above the law. The law is for toy folk, not for men. But you've killed your own kind and we have you now.'

'I demand my rights,' Jack demanded. 'And I demand to see a solicitor.’ Jack had read about solicitors in a Bill Winkie thriller. Suspects always demanded to see their solicitors. It was a tradition, or an old charter, or something.

It was a suspect thing.

'No solicitor for you,' said Officer Chortle, who read only weapons manuals. (Though mostly he just looked at the pictures.) 'You're going uptown and we'll lock you away until all the paperwork's done. Then I think we'll take you to pieces, to see what makes you run.'

'No!’ Jack shouted. 'You can't do that to me.'

'Tell it to Bellis,' said the officer.

'Is he here?'

'No, he went on ahead. Probably to warm your cell for you. He left me to act on my own initiative. I love it when he does that. It means that I can hit things.'

'Listen,' said Jack, trying to think straight, 'can't we make some kind of a deal?'

'Are you trying to bribe an officer of the Law?'

'Frankly, yes,' said Jack.

'Go on then,' said the officer of the Law.

'All right,' said Jack. 'You hate meat-heads, don't you?'

'I do,' said Officer Chortle. 'We all do.'

'So you don't really care about them being killed.'

'Not at all,' said the officer.

'So the more that get killed, the happier you'll be.'

'That's true,' the officer agreed.

'So let me go and I promise to kill loads more of them. I'll kill them all, if you want. What could be fairer than that?'

'Well,' said Officer Chortle, 'if you put it that way,' and he raised his bum from Jack's head.

'Thanks,' said Jack.

'Had you fooled.' Officer Chortle sat down once more. 'That's all the confession we needed. You heard what he said, didn't you, men?'

'Yes we did,' said the officers, laughing fit to burst.

The police van sped onwards through the night-time streets of Toy City, the bell on its top ringing loudly. The ringing of this bell gave Jack a headache. The pressure of Officer Chortle's bottom didn't help to soothe the pain.

'You've got the wrong man, you know,' Jack ventured.

'You've said enough,' said Chortle. 'Be silent now, or I will be forced to plug your mouth.'

Jack maintained another of his sulking silences.

At length a new sound came to Jack's ears. It was louder than the ringing bell and it caused Officer Chortle to raise his bum once more.

'What is that?' he shouted above the sound, which had grown to an all but intolerable din. It was now accompanied by a considerable grinding vibration.

The driver of the police van shouted back at Officer Chortle. 'It's a fire engine,' he shouted. 'A Mark 5 Roaring Thunderer. The deluxe model. It's trying to push us off the road.'

'What?' shouted Officer Chortle. 'That's outrageous. Push it back.'

'But sir, it's a Roaring Thunderer. It's bigger than us. Much bigger.'

Officer Chortle glared out through the police van's rear window. The Roaring Thunderer was much bigger. Very much bigger indeed.

'Do something, driver,' he ordered. 'I'm in charge here. Take evasive action.'

The driver took evasive action. He swerved onto the pavement, scattering pedestrians, including several who had, by coincidence, been earlier scattered by Jack.

'He's coming after us,' shouted the driver. And the Roaring Thunderer was.

It really was a magnificent vehicle. Constructed of heavy gauge pressed steel and finished in glossy red and black, it had a nickel-plated ladder, with wheel-operated rotating turntable and elevation extension, powered by a crank handle, pressed steel wheels and a cab-mounted bell. It normally came complete with six tinplate firemen, two with hose-gripping hand attachments.

Had Jack been able to see it, he would have admired it. And he certainly would have wanted to drive it. The reflected streetlights glittered on its polished bits and bots. It was mechanised by two extremely powerful double-sprung synchronised clockwork motors which took five clockwork firemen to turn its enormous key.

The Roaring Thunderer careered along the kerb, striking down lampposts and tearing the overhanging awnings from the shops and bazaars. It struck the police van once again. The driver of the police van took to praying.

'You're not a mechanologist,' shouted Officer Chortle. 'You're a bendy policeman. Cut that out and drive faster.'

'The van won't go any faster. Oh no!'

The police van overturned. Over and over and over it overturned.

Within the van, the officers of the Law and their captive revolved in a blur of blue bouncing bellies and long lanky limbs. The rear doors burst open and Jack found himself airborne.

And then things went very black for Jack.

Very black indeed.

Eddie moved once more into the black. Unconsciousness was never anything other than black for Eddie, for teddy bears don't dream while they sleep. They exist in a state of non-being which is truly un-conscious.

How long Eddie remained in this particular period of blackness he was unable to say, because he didn't have a watch. He had tried to wear one in the past, but it always fell off, his stumpy little arm lacking a wrist. This particular period of blackness ended in an abrupt fashion -when a bright light shone upon him.

Eddie peered up, shielding his eyes with a floppy paw.

A figure stared down upon Eddie.

Eddie flinched.

The figure said, 'Eddie, it's you.'

Eddie said, ‘ Jack? My bestest friend? Is that you?'

'It's me,' said Jack. 'It's me.'

'And you've come to save me. Jack, this is wonderful, how—'

But Eddie's words were cut short as Jack was suddenly propelled forward at considerable speed. He landed heavily upon the bear, raising a cloud of sawdust and causing Eddie's button eyes to all but pop from his head.

Before he passed once more into blackness, Eddie -was able to glimpse the force behind Jack's untoward propulsion.

Standing in the doorway of the cell was the woman in the winged headpiece.

She didn't speak a word. She just smiled.

And then she slammed the cell door shut upon both of them.