Worst. Person. Ever(77)
“Oh, all right—lead me to Fiona’s surprise.”
Billy pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt and whispered into it. We passed through some coconut shrubs and emerged into what resembled a children’s playground painted in garish colours.
“This is actually the site of the contestants’ next challenge.”
“What is it?”
“To quote the tent full of producers I overheard, the challenge is ‘to show as much jiggling side boob as is legally permissible.’ ” Billy stopped us. “Right then, here we go.” He made a small flourish, then bowed and said, “Raymond Gunt, may I please present to you your ex-wife, Fiona, and your very own mother, Chantelle Brittany Gunt.”
The unholy duo emerged from behind a huge cable spool painted bright orange. “Surprise!” they shouted.
My mind began to spin as it considered the treacheries these two had cooked up. And then my legs were … itching? What the fuck? I looked down to see my entire lower body covered in a cloud of angry winged Pringles.
“Raymond!” shouted Neal. “Your entire lower body is covered in angry winged beetles. Good lord! I think they have teeth!”
I’m not proud of it, but I shrieked. “Get them off of me, Neal! Get them off me!”
“They’re attracted to the coconut milk he spilled on his lap,” said Billy. “Sugar in concentration makes Pringles even angrier than they normally are.”
Neal shouted, “They don’t have teeth, Ray!”
“I don’t give a fucking shit—get them off of me.” I was doing frantic jumping jacks.
“Ray, what I meant to say is that instead of teeth they’ve got pincers! Like those shears you use to trim hedges!”
I screamed some more, then fell to the ground and rolled over and over, squishing hundreds of the nasty fuckers—which, in turn, seemed to attract even more furious Pringles.
Finally Neal managed to strip the pants off me, and with them, the rest of the Pringles. I lay there panting, and looked up to see Fiona and Mother staring at me, mouths agawp, their stunned silence interrupted only by Mother taking a lusty drag from her filter-tipped cigarette while she simultaneously ate the very last of a package of crisps. She dropped the bag onto the ground, where it was immediately enveloped in its own cloud of angry winged Pringles.
Fiona said, “Jesus, Raymond, I’ve never seen you look worse in all the years I’ve known you. I’m actually in awe of your ability to hit new lows.”
“Thank you, Fiona.”
Mother sized me up. “Son, you look like the pavement beside Mr. Chandra’s kebab shop at three a.m. on a Saturday night. You’re a living puddle of sick, is what you are.”
“Yes, well. Moving forward, why don’t you tell me why you brought me here tonight.”
The two women looked at each other. Mother squealed, “I can’t wait anymore, Fi!”
“Okay, fair enough,” said Fiona. “I’d hoped the scene would be a touch more dignified—and sanitary—than this, but here goes. Raymond Gunt, I’d like you to meet …” She made a what-the-hell gesture.
* *Drum roll* *
“Your biological son and daughter!”
From behind the orange cable spools emerged a boy and a girl—they were sixteen, maybe.
“Nice to meet you,” said the young man.
This kid … he was—he was me with a chin.
“Father!” said the girl. She was like Fiona, except beautiful.
Unfortunately, at that moment, I burped and a Pringle flew out of my esophagus. I passed out.
“Is he dead?”
I heard a young woman’s concerned voice, but I was unsure who she was. I was in that weird state where one awakens but can’t remember what room, or even what city, one is in. Only gradually does one’s situation become clear.
“Oh dear,” the voice continued. “He’s got blood and bites all over his groin region.”
I opened my eyes a tiny bit and saw the most astonishingly luscious barely legal bird I’d ever laid eyes on.
“Mum,” the girl said. “Can I help out here? I took a first-aid course last semester.”
Mum?
Fiona said, “I’m sure your father would love that.”
Fiona? Father?
The girl’s voice again. “Kyle, can you hand me those pants over there?”
“These ones?” Kyle, whoever he was, held up a pair of pants covered in what looked like the remains of a large Mexican dinner.
“Yes, I think that leg has the least amount of bug splat on it.”
Who is this girl? And who is this Kyle?
Wait, wait, wait … he’s my son.
My son! And my daughter! But hold on! Why is my gentleman’s region feeling warm and pleasurable … oh, dear God …