“You fucking pig!” I yelled. “Let go of me now or I’ll bleed all over your precious shirt. I’ve been known to trigger nosebleeds by willpower alone.”
“I agreed to shag LACEY, but no, Raymond Gunt got greedy.”
“Fuck off and die, Neal. My price is my price.”
There was a noise in a back hallway, and when Neal turned to see what it was, he gave me enough room to wiggle free and grab a white plastic trash vortex chair. I whacked him in the face, making his nose fountain with blood.
“I’ll fucking kill you, Gunt.”
“No, you won’t, Neal, because if you get blood on this garment, it’s officially not collectible anymore, and neither you nor nobody else will ever want it.”
Checkmate.
I stepped back. “Now hand me that piece of red plastic and I will hand you your T-shirt. I won’t even make you fuck LACEY first.”
“You are a cruel bargainer, Raymond Gunt.”
“Just piss off and give me the plastic.”
I removed the shirt while gazing into a salt-crusted old mirror that sat beside the room’s principal decoration: an orange and black NO SMOKING sign. I was as red all over as a Halloween devil.
That was when we heard shrieks coming from outside. Neal and I forgot our trade transaction and went to look. A collection of villagers had circled the hotel, armed with baseball bats, car antennas, coconuts and coral chunks. A woman wailed, “Vakubati! Vakubati!”
I stormed out to confront them. “Now just one fucking minute!” I yelled. “You have some nerve to try to blame me for the problems of this wretched fucking world.”
They chanted: “Vakubati, take your dreadful fuckpeople and leave our gracious islands now!”
“You have got to be kidding.”
From behind the angry villagers, I saw two more forms of wrath incarnate emerge: Fiona, dressed as if for tea at Wimbledon, and LACEY, still dishevelled after hours of God only knows what unspeakable things we’d done together.
Fiona shouted, “Thanks a fucking lot, Raymond! We finally get to visit Eden, and you get us all kicked out!”
“I did no such thing. These doughy-ankled lagoon rats are living in some ancient era before science or rationality.”
Fiona used the same X-ray face she had used when she figured out it was me who’d caused Matt Bradley’s death. Her eyes screwed up intensely. “I don’t know how, Raymond, but I know, in some way I’m unable to fathom, that it really was you who started this nuclear war.”
“Fi, are you totally fucking crazy? And how the fuck can you side with these oily trolls at a moment like this?”
“Did you, Raymond?”
“Did I what? Start a nuclear war? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“You’re not answering my question.”
“I don’t believe this.”
At this point, LACEY interjected, “Fi, how did the two of you meet, anyway?”
“How did we meet? Raymond threw an empty lager can at me.”
35
Well, then.
We’ve all been in a pickle at least once in our lives, haven’t we? One is born, one grows up. One gets in a pickle. The pickle is resolved and then one dies. Snap!
At that point, the Zodiac that had brought Neal to shore offloaded another wave of crew to retrieve their belongings from the hotel, and of course Stuart would have to show up just then, Sarah at his side.
“Herry Potter, you asshole—now we have to leave the island because of your fuckheadedness.”
“Oh, hello, Stuart. I’ll thank you not to swear; there are ladies present.”
“I’ll deal with you later,” Stuart threatened. “Everyone grab your things and get on the bus to the dock. We’re headed to location, and the yacht leaves in one hour!”
As if in a zombie movie, the show’s production staff converged around from all directions, thus defusing our confrontation with the locals.
Fiona passed by me, snarling. “Trust me, Raymond, I will find out how you started the war.”
“I love you, too, Fi.”
“Come along, LACEY. You can help me pack.”
LACEY went past, sniffling. “Raymond, I did things with you that I wouldn’t even do with the Russian guys who run the airport limousine service.”
Then Sarah approached, her face grave. “Raymond, I heard all about your erotic holiday with LACEY. I think it’s terrific that you’re finding love. You richly deserve it.” She sounded like a gracious yet saddened contest loser. Fuck. Any chance I might have had with her was out the window. How to undo this mess?
I pleaded my case: “No, Sarah, it wasn’t an erotic holiday at all.”
Cue the chanting natives: “Dreadful vakubati, take your fuckpeople and leave our gracious island, now!”