Worst. Person. Ever(57)

Skin tags are more common in people who are overweight and in pregnant women. Acrochorda have been reported to occur in forty-six percent of the general population.

Because tags are benign, treatment is unnecessary unless the tags become irritated or present a cosmetic concern. If removal is desired or warranted, a dermatologist or similarly trained professional may use cauterization, cryosurgery, surgical ligation or excision to remove the acrochorda.

They’re gross.

The way things turned out, you’d think I’d single-handedly gang-raped the woman with the skin tag—Shelley, it turned out her name was. These Americans and their puritanical fucking fussiness. I mean, it’s not like I was getting any jollies out of reaching towards the infinitely menacing, cruel and unforgiving incubus of mottled skin that was feeding on her shoulder. And, given the force of evil that was embedded within the vile wattle, it took some guts to do what I did. And I might also add that I was helping Shelley fulfill a sexual fantasy at the same time. Yes, give, give, give. That’s me, Raymond Gunt.

Eventually, with utmost fortitude, I clamped my right thumb and forefinger on Shelley’s skin tag just at the moment our bus driver chose to run over a drunken Samoan, who quickly came to reside behind the bus’s front right tire. There was a catastrophic bump, and in the blink of an eye, Shelley’s skin tag ripped away from her shoulder, prompting her to shriek like a smoke detector. Dazzling Carrie-esque crimson fountains geysered upward. Shelley dashed for the door, as did our driver. I looked at my hand: in the shock of it all, my finger and thumb had seized up, leaving me unable to drop my newly liberated satanic flesh nubbin.

Neal yanked me away from the appalling mess on Shelley’s seat back: “Ray, for God’s sake, don’t get any blood on the Cure shirt.”

Shelley was out on the roadside shrieking, as was our driver, who then quickly fled on foot.

The TV production staff couldn’t wait to see the carcass beneath us and quickly left the bus like Muppets vacating a vaudeville stage. Fortunately, everyone assumed Shelley had a nosebleed or some other form of collateral damage from the collision and completely ignored her.

Neal whispered, “Ray, maybe Miss Skin Tag doesn’t remember what happened—you know—post-traumatic shock from our bus having run over a Samoan.”

Beneath the bus, the corpse had an almost cartoon-like dusty tire tread overtop his kidneys and lower back.

“He’s a goner, he is,” said Neal. “Saw lots of accidents like this back in my paramedic days—mostly after sunset at the end of bank holidays.”

“Isn’t there anything you can do for him, Neal?”

“Nope. Can’t comfort him, because he’s dead.”

The crew was now photographing the scene with their iPhones. Shelley, thank Christ, had stopped shrieking and joined the rubbernecking crowd, her right hand clamped to the wound on her left shoulder.

Fiona, now out of the bus, dragged her attention away from her phone and was also staring at our dusty, motionless, unfortunate speed bump. She looked towards me, made an ugh noise and then went over to Shelley. “You: what happened to your shoulder?”

“I—I used to have a skin tag there, and now it’s gone. I’ve no idea what happened.”

“You lost a skin tag in the accident?”

I glanced ever so casually Shelley’s way and Fiona caught me. “Raymond Gunt, you come over here right now.”

I thought, You festering twat, yet I couldn’t help but obey.

“What do you know about this woman’s shoulder?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Fiona X-rayed my soul. “This woman here—”

“My name is Shelley,” Shelley said.

“Shelley here lost a skin tag during the accident, and you were sitting directly behind her.”

I played it cool. “I’m sorry to hear that. Nothing too painful, I hope. Nasty things, skin tags. The devil’s doorbells.”

Shelley stared at me. From within her pain-cramped face, recognition emerged. “Raymond Gunt? Ray?”

I was baffled. “Um, yes …?”

“It’s me, Shelley.”

“Shelley …” I scoured my memory banks.

“Kodak Shelley. Los Angeles Airport. 1985.”

Dear God … This was the Shelley I’d banged in the executive lounge’s men’s lav at LAX back in 1985. “Shelley! Yes, Kodak Shelley. Lovely to see you again. How are you?” I was desperately trying to remember that 1985 shag and whether there was anything iffy about it.

“You two know each other?” Fi asked.

“Intimately,” said Shelley. “And not only that, after he had his way with me in the airport lounge toilet at LAX, Raymond here stole a set of wide-angle lenses from my display case. I had to replace them, and it cost me eight hundred bucks, and I almost lost my job, too.” Shelley’s eyes had become snaky and vengeful.