“Do we have…” he put up a hand to hold back the cheers, “Do we have a party here from the Zansellquasure Flamarion Bridge Club from beyond the Vortvoid of Qvarne? Are they here?”
A rousing cheer came from the back, but he pretended not to hear. He peered around trying to find them.
“Are they here?” he asked again, to elicit a louder cheer.
He got it, as he always did.
“Ah, there they are. Well, last bids lads and no cheating, remember this is a very solemn moment.”
He lapped up the laughter.
“And do we also have, do we have… a party of minor deities from the Halls of Asgard?”
Away to his right came a rumble of thunder. Lightning arced across the stage. A small group of hairy men with helmets sat looking very pleased with themselves, and raised their glasses to him.
Hasbeens, he thought to himself.
“Careful with that hammer, sir,” he said.
They did their trick with the lightning again. Max gave them a very thin lipped smile.
“And thirdly,” he said, “thirdly a party of Young Conservatives from Sirius B, are they here?”
A party of smartly dressed young dogs stopped throwing rolls at each other and started throwing rolls at the stage. They yapped and barked unintelligibly.
“Yes,” said Max, “well this is all your fault, you realize that?”
“And finally,” said Max, quieting the audience down and putting on his solemn face, “finally I believe we have with us here tonight, a party of believers, very devout believers, from the Church of the Second Coming of the Great Prophet Zarquon.”
There were about twenty of them, sitting right out on the edge of the floor, ascetically dressed, sipping mineral water nervously, and staying apart from the festivities. They blinked resentfully as the spotlight was turned on them.
“There they are,” said Max, “sitting there, patiently. He said he’d come again, and he’s kept you waiting a long time, so let’s hope he’s hurrying fellas, because he’s only got eight minutes left!”
The party of Zarquon’s followers sat rigid, refusing to be buffeted by the waves of uncharitable laughter which swept over them.
Max restrained his audience.
“No, but seriously though folks, seriously though, no offence meant. No, I know we shouldn’t make fun of deeply held beliefs, so I think a big hand please for the Great Prophet Zarquon…”
The audience clapped respectfully.
“… wherever he’s got to!”
He blew a kiss to the stony-faced party and returned to the centre of the stage.
He grabbed a tall stool and sat on it.