“Oh, that.”
“What do you mean, ‘Oh, that’?”
“It’s not just the ankle, Ray.”
“Oh?” Suddenly I felt like a bit of a shit as I pokerfacedly waited for Neal to tell me he had inoperable leprosy or one of those no-hoper diseases with its own dedicated coloured lapel ribbon. “Go on.”
“I’ve got pussy fatigue, Ray.”
My eyeballs exploded.
“It’s what happens when you have too much sex too quickly, Ray. Surely you’ve had it before.”
“I have never in my life even heard of pussy fatigue, Neal, and I seriously doubt it exists. You have no idea how hard I worked to get here to Thong Kong from the yacht, and now you tell me you’re pussied out?”
“It’s a real condition. Google it.”
“You know darn well there’s no Internet because of the nuclear war. You just don’t want to share.”
“That’s a bit harsh, Ray. I’d be happy to share, except the ladies have all gone off on a healing retreat this afternoon.”
I was so stricken by this news that tiny convulsed dinosaur noises emerged from my choked larynx.
Neal went on. “I don’t think they had dick fatigue—I think it’s more of a spiritual cleansing. Glorious girls, though. So giving. So concerned about my pleasure, never theirs. And their energy! Boundless. When they’re not servicing me, they’re off in the kitchen making me snacks or giving me foot rubs to get me through the worst of my sprained ankle. Oh, look.” He pointed to the TV screen, which displayed the messy aftermath of a particularly forceful brawl. “You can see the bone sticking out of that bloke’s leg there. Poor fucker. Good thing he’s not in Bonriki, though. He’d be on the spit in seconds. Care for some champagne, Ray?”
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This is real.
40
“Well, Neal, you certainly seem to have landed on your feet here, even with a sprained ankle. How, exactly, did you sprain it, anyway?”
“Come on, Ray, don’t be a dick. You could even move in, if you wanted. There’s a nice little hut out back I use as a storeroom. It’s a bit small, and you’d have to move some tinned goods and a deep-freeze to fit in a cot, but it’s a big step up from one of the tents in the crew village. Those tents give me the chills. Hermit crabs’ll come in at night and eat your face off.”
I remained disgusted. “How the fuck did you manage to become Boss Hogg here? How the fuck do you manage to bag the only decent air-conditioned accommodation between Guam and Bora Bora?”
“This house is a legacy of the people’s princess, it is. Brings a tear to my eye.”
My attention was temporarily sidelined by some truly astonishing Brie and a mound of pâté, while Neal fast-forwarded through the DVD. The sight of so many Australians rankled me. “Fucking Aussies. Fucking Kiwis. Smug, smug, smug. We’re so violent! Look at us! Fight fight fight! We have vibrant little economies shielded from pollution and immigration, and our restaurants are really good. Fucking Kiwis. Fucking Aussies.”
“Mind your language, Ray.”
“Have you turned into a fucking American?”
“Ray, we’re in Princess Di’s house.”
“What?”
“This was going to be Princess Di’s sanctuary from the world. One of her many rich boyfriends built it just for her. The most perfect house on the planet, as far away as it is geographically possible to be from intrusive cameramen.”
I looked at Neal with my coldest death-ray eyes. “Neal, are you rubbishing my occupation? My very way of making a living?”
“Ray, I’m not saying it was you in particular who murdered Diana.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much. I’m glad you hold me in such high esteem.”
“But every time I make love in here, I can’t help feeling a pang in my heart. She was so young. So good. Murdered by the media.”
“Neal, I hate to break the news to you, but you don’t have pussy fatigue. You have displaced royal bang syndrome.”