18.
Emperor Zhark Again
President George Formby Opens Motorcycle
Factory
The President opened the new Brough-Vincent-Norton
Motorcycle factory yesterday in Liverpool, bringing much-welcomed
jobs to the area. The highly modernized factory, which aims to
produce up to a thousand quality touring and racing machines every
week, was described by the President as “Cracking stuff!” The
President, a longtime advocate of motorcycling, rode one of the
company’s new Vincent “Super Shadow” racers around the test track,
reportedly hitting over 120 MPH, much to his retinue’s obvious
concern for the octogenarian Formby’s health. Our George then gave
a cheerful rendering of “Riding in the TT Races,” reminding his
audience of the time he won the Manx Tourist Trophy on a prototype
Rainbow motorcycle.
Article in The Toad, July 9, 1988
Forget something?” I asked.
“Yes. What was that cake of your mother’s?” “Yes.
What was that cake of your mother’s?”
“It’s called Battenberg.”
He got a pen and made a note on his cuff. “Right.
Well, that’s it, then.”
“Good.”
“Right.”
“Is there something else?”
“Yes.”
“And . . . ?”
“It’s . . . it’s . . .”
“What?”
Emperor Zhark bit his lip, looked around nervously
and drew closer. Although I’d had good reason for reprimanding him
in the past—and even suspended his Jurisfiction badge for “gross
incompetence” on two occasions—I actually liked him a great deal.
Within the amnesty of his own books, he was a sadistic monster who
murdered millions with staggering ruthlessness, but out here he had
his own fair share of worries, demons and peculiar habits—many of
which seemed to have stemmed from the strict upbringing undertaken
by his mother, the Empress Zharkeena.
“Well,” he said, unsure of quite how to put it,
“you know the sixth in the Emperor Zhark series is being written as
we speak?”
“Zhark: End of Empire? Yes, I’d heard that.
What’s the problem?”
“Well, I’ve just read the advanced plotline, and it
seems that I’m going to be vanquished by the Galactic Freedom
Alliance.”
“I’m sorry, Emperor, I’m not sure I see your
point—are you concerned about losing your empire?”
He moved closer. “If the story calls for it, I
guess not. But it’s what happens to me at the end that I have a few
problems with. I don’t mind being cast adrift in space on the
imperial yacht or left marooned on an empty planet, but my writer
has planned . . . a public execution.”
He stared at me, shocked by the enormity of it
all.
“If that’s what he has planned—”
“Thursday, you don’t understand. I’m going to be
killed off—written out! I’m not sure I can take that kind of
rejection.”
“Emperor,” I said, “if a character has run its
course, then it’s run its course. What do you want me to do? Go and
talk the author out of it?”
“Would you?” replied Zhark, opening his eyes wide.
“Would you really do that?”
“No. You can’t have characters trying to tell their
authors what to write in their books. Besides, within your books
you are truly evil and need to be punished.”
Zhark pulled himself up to his full height. “I
see,” he said at length. “Well, I might decide to take
drastic action if you don’t at least attempt to
persuade Mr. Paige. And besides, I’m not really evil—I’m
just written that way.”
“If I hear any more of this nonsense,” I replied,
beginning to get annoyed, “I will have you placed under book arrest
and charged with incitement to mutiny for what you’ve just told
me.”
“Oh, crumbs,” he said, suddenly deflated. “You can,
can’t you?”
“I can. I won’t because I can’t be bothered, but if
I hear anything more about this, I will take steps—do you
understand?”
“Yes,” replied Zhark meekly and, without another
word, vanished.