Something Rotten (Thursday Next 4)

I waved goodbye as he and his two guards were beamed out of my world and back into theirs, which was certainly the best place for them. We had quite enough tyrants in the real world as it was.

I was just wondering what The Merry Wives of Elsinore might be like when there was another buzzing noise and the kitchen was filled with light once more. There, imperious stare, high collar, etc., etc., was Emperor Zhark.

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 modernised 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 long-time 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 Presidents 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, 9 July 1988

'Forget something?' I asked.

'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 had had good reason for reprimanding him in the past – and had 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?'

'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 conc

erned 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.'