“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” he beamed, “is everyone having one last wonderful time?”
“Yes,” called out the sort of people who call out “yes” when comedians ask them if they’re having a wonderful time.
“That’s wonderful,” enthused Max, “absolutely wonderful. And as the photon storms gather in swirling crowds around us, preparing to tear apart the last of the red hot suns, I know you’re all going to settle back and enjoy with me what I know we will find all an immensely exciting and terminal experience.”
He paused. He caught the audience with a glittering eye.
“Believe me, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “there’s nothing penultimate about this one.”
He paused again. Tonight his timing was immaculate. Time after time he had done this show, night after night. Not that the word night had any meaning here at the extremity of time. All there was was the endless repetition of the final moment, as the Restaurant rocked slowly forward over the brink of time’s furthest edge and back again. This “night” was good though, the audience was writhing in the palm of his sickly hand. His voice dropped. They had to strain to hear him.
“This,” he said, “really is the absolute end, the final chilling desolation, in which the whole majestic sweep of creation becomes extinct. This, ladies and gentlemen, is the proverbial ‘it’.”
He dropped his voice still lower. In the stillness, a fly would not have dared cleat its throat.
“After this,” he said, “there is nothing. Void. Emptiness. Oblivion. Absolute nothing…”
His eyes glittered again or did they twinkle?”
“Nothing… except of course for the sweet trolley, and a fine selection of Aldebaran liqueurs!”
The band gave him a musical sting. He wished they wouldn’t, he didn’t need it, not an artist of his calibre. He could play the audience like his own musical instrument. They were laughing with relief. He followed on.
“And for once,” he cried cheerily, “you don’t need to worry about having a hangover in the morning because there won’t be any more mornings!”
He beamed at his happy, laughing audience. He glanced up at the sky, going through the same dead routine every night, but his glance was only for a fraction of a second. He trusted it to do its job, as one professional trusts another.
“And now,” he said, strutting about the stage, “at the risk of putting a damper on the wonderful sense of doom and futility here this evening, I would like to welcome a few parties.”
He pulled a card from his pocket.