“That was swag, for Christ’s sake,” I protested. “Nobody ever pays for fucking swag at conventions. You should have put it on the entertainment tab the way everyone else does.”
Shelley raised her bloody hand to slap me, and I reflexively extended my own hand to ward off the blow. My fingers unclenched, revealing the skin tag pasted onto the meat of my thumb. Shelley screamed. “You monster! You stole my goddamn skin tag! I don’t believe it!”
Fiona smiled. “I knew it: good old Raymond, wrecking everything again.”
Sarah raced over to us as Shelley continued to scream. “Good lord, Shelley, you’re hurt—you’re bleeding!” She placed a comforting hand on Shelley’s unsoiled other shoulder, vibrating with concern. (Oh! My Sarah! What an angel!)
Shelley attacked, clawing at me with her warty she-talons. “You fricking ghoul—stealing body parts! What the hell is wrong with a person like you?”
“Jesus, Shelley, I did you a favour.”
“What the hell?”
“I removed a piece of possibly carcinogenic tissue from your shoulder. I most likely saved your life, and what do I get from you? Nothing but shit. I’m a hero. I saved you from getting cancer, Shelley, that’s right—cancer!”
Neal leapt to my defence then, containing her flailing arms in a bear hug. “Best remove that shirt right now, Ray. I can’t stop this ticking time bomb forever, and I want my shirt in mint condition.”
“Right.” I doffed it and handed it to Sarah, who, sensing the need for a collective gear change, said, “Look! Brave and kind Raymond is removing his shirt so he can crawl under the bus and remove the victim!” She smiled at me. “You are a wonder, Raymond Gunt. LACEY must be so proud of you.”
On cue, LACEY entered our charmed circle. “Gallant, isn’t he?” She picked up a small chunk of coral and threw it at my chest. “You go, hero boy. Save our day, vakubati.”
Shelley spat at me: “You prick.”
Sarah looked at Shelley. “Calm down, Shelley. I’ll have my personal assistant, Scott, bring you some pre-moistened towelettes so you can clean yourself up.” She pulled a small walkie-talkie from her purse. “Scott, can you bring me the tub of baby wipes right now?”
Scott was five feet away. “Roger.” He walked three steps towards us and removed the plastic tub of wipes from his knapsack. He handed them to Shelley.
Sarah said, “Sweetie, don’t worry too much about the tropical parasites that sleep inside the fecal dust along the roadside. What matters most is that you feel fresh and comparatively safe.”
Lymphatic filariasis
Dengue virus type 4
Soil-transmitted helminth infection
Parastrongylus cantonensis
Plasmodium berghei
Trypanosoma cruzi
Leishmaniasis
Schistosomiasis
Multidrug-resistant falciparum
Simulium (Gomphostilbia) palauense
Stuart approached. “Gunt, get that goddamn corpse out from under the bus or we’re never going to get to the fricking dock before it’s totally dark out.”
Suddenly all eyes were on me. For better or worse, I had to lug the barbecue-grade carcass out from under the bus. Christ, it was like trying to drag a concrete-filled grand piano across a sandy beach. But after a sweat-soaked few minutes, the job was done.
Stuart barked, “Okay, everyone back in the bus.”
Sarah held up her hand. She said, “Scott, write a note to the authorities and attach it to the body with gaffer tape. His family will want to know what happened.”
“And serve him for dinner, too,” I added.
Sarah giggled. “You’re such an imp, Raymond. And possibly correct.”
Scott’s note:
We ran over him by accident.
We will file incident report with local authorities later.
Have an awesome day.
Scott
He taped it onto the speed bump’s chest, and then we hopped onto the bus.
I must say, I never paid too much attention in history class when they taught about the fight for civil rights in Mississippi in the 1960s, but for the first time in my life, I was able to sense how a black man might have felt accidentally walking into a ballroom cotillion of virginal, creamy white Daughters of the Confederacy3 in Tupelo, Mississippi, in 1961. As I got onto the bus, my busmates silently simmered at me.
Shelley led the attack: “I can’t believe you stole my skin tag. That is so disgusting. Why would anyone even do that?”
I glanced at my thumb, where it remained, stuck with blood. I peeled it away—it felt like masking tape—and discreetly dropped it on the floor.
“You are the worst human being I have ever met,” Shelley went on. “The. Worst. Person. Ever. And what in hell’s name are you even doing on our production bus? Don’t tell me you’re involved in this show!”