Sarah had to leave. “Bye, fellas. I’m off to tame the beast!”
I was unsure what she meant, but whoever the beast was, I would love to be him, being tamed by Sarah.
41
“Sarah’s a nice girl, Ray. You sweet on her?”
“Neal, I came here for Thong Kong, and I want it now! I want acres of throbbing, needy cocktail-bunny quim. I want—wait—I think I am sweet on Sarah.”
“Well, she’s a keeper, she is. Just like that LACEY of yours.”
“LACEY is not mine, Neal. Why on earth does everyone think we’re life partners?”
“You’re the one who had the epic fuckfest with her.”
“Neal, there’s just something not right in the head with LACEY. The only thing you can do to fix a girl like her is go back in time to the age of fourteen, or whenever it was, and unmolest her or whatever it was that happened to her—but you can’t really do that, so instead we end up with a world of LACEYs, wasting valuable food and oxygen and causing massive problems within the service industry.”
“I hear there’s a sacrificial rock nearby. Want to go see it? I need to exercise a bit to help the sprain. Could be fun—a small hike, nature, coconuts …”
“Neal, you’re trying to change the subject. I want a pussy blizzard and instead you offer me a field trip to see a rock?”
“Touch of culture never hurt anyone.”
“And how did they ever get a rock onto this island anyway? The whole place is made of coral.”
“See, Ray—makes you want to investigate, doesn’t it?”
I sighed. “I suppose so. Get out your cane and we’ll go see this magical stone.”
Neal quickly donned another of Arnaud du Puis’s linen outfits. “Some people say the rock was delivered here by space aliens, Ray.”
“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
We headed out the door into the perpetually hot, wet terry towel of a day. The idea of a sacred rock made me think of Stonehenge and alien theories about it. “Stonehenge being designed by aliens is crap, Neal. Think about it: aliens establish contact with earthlings and instead of giving us something useful, like mathematics, wheels or the power of flight, they decide instead to give us large rocks?”
“Never thought of it that way, Ray.”
We rounded a corner. Neal’s face lit up. “We’re here!”
I looked at the rock. It was a rock. I hated it. “You lead me to believe we’re off to see Stonehenge, and instead all I see is this?”
“Ray, I think you oversold it to yourself. I only said it was a rock. Even still, it’s sort of awe-inspiring. Reminds us that we’re all made of stars.”
“It’s a fucking rock!” I kicked it, which was a stupid idea. I hopped about for a bit on one foot, shrieking.
“The gods are punishing you for mocking their sacred rock.”
I literally screamed at Neal, “I don’t fucking care about some fucking rock!”
“Temper, temper. Come back to the house and I’ll find you some painkillers.”
I felt a rare pang of remorse for screaming at Neal. “Some painkillers might be rather nice.”
Back at the house, Elspeth and Tabs greeted us at the front door, dressed in Playboy Bunny costumes. At last, the gods were smiling on me.
Then I remembered: didn’t Neal owe me that piece of red plastic? That fucker.
Stonehenge is a prehistoric monument located in the English county of Wiltshire. It is composed of two rings of standing stones set within the earth. The site is surrounded by hundreds of burial mounds, known as barrows.
The smaller, inner circle was built between 2400 and 2200 BC. Some of its original stones have been removed, some have fallen over and other missing stones have been cut up and used for other construction purposes by subsequent generations. The stones weigh up to 4 tons each and were quarried around 230 miles away in the Preseli Hills of southern Wales.
The larger, outer circle is estimated to be about five hundred years younger than the inner ring. Its stones weigh up to 50 tons each. They are sandstone erratics, which can be found scattered all over the English chalk downs. They are likely to have been transported to the site from the neighbouring Marlborough Downs, 25 miles to the north.
Stonehenge was completed around 1500 BC. It had fallen into a state of obscurity and disrepair, and in 1982 was slated to be torn down to make way for a housing subdivision until the stone grouping was repopularized by the beloved 1984 cult film This Is Spinal Tap.
I decided I’d be gentlemanly in front of the ladies. I said, “Hello, ladies.”
“Hello to you, too, Raymond,” Tabs said. “Is Neal filling you in on the excitement of island life?” She had become slutty perfection indeed. My, how quickly that doe-eyed, fresh-faced thing had gone native.
“Yes, I suppose he is.”
Neal’s face was childlike. “We went to visit the sacrificial rock.”
Elspeth squeaked, “No! You shouldn’t be up and about.” Her eyes were moist and wide, as though she were worried about a wounded kitten.
“Thanks, Elspeth. But a short walk is good for a sprain. I didn’t want the blood pooling.”
“Neal,” I said, “there’s just one thing. A few days ago, back on the bus, we made a deal about that piece of red plastic.”
“Indeed we did, Ray.”
“Excellent. So hand it over and I’ll consider us square.”
“Oh, um … you see.” Neal and the girls exchanged guilty looks. “Your piece of red plastic. Right.”
“So you do acknowledge that it rightfully belongs to me.”
“Oh, no question, Ray. You earned it fair and square for removing Shelley’s skin tag, bloodbath and all.”
We lapsed into awkward silence. As I am known to be debonair at times, I thought I’d say something witty. “Come on, then, you didn’t do something stupid and stuff it up your arse, did you?”
Hydraulic jackhammers couldn’t have roused the trio more quickly. “Who told you!?”
“Ha, ha. Yes, yes. Good fun. Good fun. Give me my plastic, Neal.”
They stared at me. It was sinking in: Neal actually had stuck my sacred plastic up his arse.
“Neal, tell me this isn’t true.”
“Now, Ray, you need to know—”
“Know what? What could explain this?”
“Here’s the thing, Ray. I didn’t stick it up my arse to keep it from you. I stuck it up my arse because …”
“Yes?”
“Because Elspeth thought it was just the right size and shape for a ripping good prostate massage.”
“She what?!”
“Really did the trick, too, I must say.” Neal winked at the blushing Elspeth.
I was speechless. Who wouldn’t be?
“And then it got stuck in there sideways and, as you know, I developed pussy fatigue. I might be able to remove it, but the rectal trauma could be horrific. I believe I should leave it there until it vacates the premises naturally.”
“Neal, you are going to take a pair of giant forceps, right here and now, and pry my much-deserved treasure from your butt.”
Everyone giggled.
“Just what is so funny?”
Elspeth said, “Just sounded sort of gay is all—you prying your treasure from Neal’s bumhole.”
“I’m so glad I was able to lighten the mood.”
Neal looked at me with sad eyes. “Doctor’s orders. I’ll keep you posted, Ray.”
Fucker.
And that’s when things stopped being merely bad and became catastrophic.
Dear The Gods,
Yes, it’s me! Yes, that’s right, Raymond Gunt. Hope you’ve been well lately, causing a few storms, frightening the occasional simple village folk … life’s great when you’re The Gods. Thunder! Lightning! Fucking irreparably with Raymond Gunt’s life! Whoops … did that slip out? Sorry. Feeling a bit emotional is all, but I was wondering, now that we’re having a small chat, could you focus your attention
s on the people around me, rather than on me? Not that I want others to suffer. More like I, myself, would just like to live in a bit of comfort. If that means a lessened quality of life for those around me, so be it. As you can see, I am a reasonable man.
Yours,
Raymond Gunt
42
So, here’s the thing.
Having adjusted somewhat to the fate of my red plastic, I was going about my day, having adventures like any of us do—in this case, contemplating a not unpleasant ménage à trois with Elspeth and Tabs (Hooray! Finally! Took long enough!)—when a sound from the tent area, and from my deepest memories, ripped through my soul like an industrial meat slicer.
“Raymond Gunt? Raymond, are you here? I know you are. I can smell fear in the air.” It was a woman’s voice, crusty and loveless, seasoned by a lifetime trapped on a conveyor belt of fags and discount booze.
Neal, Tabs and Elspeth stared at me with raised eyebrows. All colour must surely have drained out of my face, sunburned or not.
The voice continued, “Or should I say Herry Potter? How the fuck could anyone be stupid enough to spell ‘Harry Potter’ with an ‘e’?”
“Anyone you know?” said Neal.
“You feeling okay, Ray?” asked Elspeth.
From around a coconut bush appeared the testicle-congealing slag known as my mother, dressed in the shabbiest of high-street summer style, smoking two cigarettes, her pair of bingo wings flapping, looking for all the world as though she’d just popped out the front door ready for a day of shoplifting with her best friend, Sheila.
“There you are, Raymond. Fiona said you’d be here.”
Fucking hell. This is just the sort of thing Fiona would do, the miserable bitch.
Neal and the two girls wore the innocent but entitled expressions of car passengers whose half-hour delay in stalled traffic has earned them a good long gawp at the blood-soaked crash that interrupted their journey.
“Hello, Mother. Welcome to Kiribati.”
“Look at you, Raymond, all dressed up like a pervy version of the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz.”
“Mother, this is Neal, Elspeth and Tabitha.”
Mother stared at the trio like a grifter assessing fresh marks. “Hello, then.”
“Has Fiona set you up in nice digs?”
“She’s done more for me in one day than you’ve done in a lifetime, useless son that you are. Brought me down here for a holiday, out of the kindness of her heart.”
“That’s Fiona, all right—give, give, give.”
Mother glowered at me. “Are you taking the piss?”
“Yes, Mother. I’m taking the piss.”
I heard Neal whisper, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?”
“Okay, then, Mother, if you’re finished …”
I could tell she was about to launch into one of her invectives in which politics and religion and utterly ambiguous personal foibles coalesce to create a sort of satanic meatball of misinformation. “I am not finished. By changing one vowel in the name ‘Harry,’ you desecrated the imagination of every child and of every child-grooming pedophile who ever entered the Potter universe of mugwumps and pixie-wixies or whatever else that that billionaire woman is always writing about. Childhood is sacred, Raymond, sacred.”
“Mother, that made no fucking sense. What do you want?”
“Fiona very kindly invited me down here for a leisurely South Pacific vacation, and all I’ve found so far is tinned luncheon meat and some ghastly fungus that has turned my minge into a Halloween house of horrors. I want my holiday, and I want it now.” She dropped her two dead cigarettes onto some highly endangered plant and crushed them with her heel.
Silence.
“Well, Mother, you certainly know how to win over a crowd.”
“Raymond Gunt, you are a bad, bad son. I rue the day I ever dreamed of bearing offspring.”
“Do you?”
“I do.”
“Well then, guess who is about to stop making payments on your breast enlargement surgery.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Wouldn’t I?”
Neal said, “Ray, really? You paid for your mum’s implants? You’re a good son, you are.”
“Thank you, Neal.”
Mother was running scared. “Raymond, they can’t take my implants away, can they? They’re already inside of me.”
“Yes, Mother, yes they can. If I don’t keep paying, they will systematically hunt you down wherever you try to hide. They will pounce on you from behind, armed with Stanley knives, and they will rip you open right there on the cobblestones.”
Mother burst into tears.
“Christ, don’t bawl.”
“I love my breasts, Raymond! They’re the only things of mine withstanding the horrible hand of time!”
Though it went against all my instincts, I walked over and put my arm around her, causing my entire musculature to involuntarily shudder. “There, there. I promise to continue making the payments.”
She honked an oyster of phlegm into the coral dust. “Oh, Raymond, I take it all back—you are a good son. I’m just so stressed out from travel. Oh Lord, now I’ve farted—and my nose is running. I need a tissue.”
Elspeth gave up the Playboy Bunny fluff ball attached to her tender rump. Mother honked a cargo of deep-sea creatures into its pristine softness.
Elspeth, Neal and Tabs stood transfixed.
“Why you and Fiona never had children is beyond me, Raymond. You’d have made a fine father.”
“Thank you, Mother, but Fi’s not really the nurturing type.”
“You just never gave her a chance.”
“Mrs. Gunt,” said Neal. “Why don’t you stay with me in a proper house? You’ll like it very much.”
“Really? Neal, is that your name? Thank you very much. They put me up in a tent, without even a telly to keep my mind off my woeful situation. A house would be lovely.”
“Neal,” I interjected, “I thought I was supposed to be moving into the house.”
“No, you’re staying behind the house in the hut, Ray. Your mother can stay in the business centre, on a beautiful sofa bed, with an ensuite bathroom and a big-screen colour telly.”
I was suddenly invisible to my own mother, as she suction-cupped her right tentacle onto Neal’s left buttock. I was livid. It was time to find Fiona and figure out just what sort of master plan she had in mind for me.
To get her attention, I shouted, “Mother, would you be so good as to tell me where the delightful Fiona is … perhaps honing her talons on a massive medieval granite knife-sharpening wheel?”
“She’s in the big red tent, I believe, Ray. But don’t go barging in. She’s getting a massage from one of those ladies who likes ladies, if you know what I mean.”
“Charming.”
“The masseuse has skin like the back seat of Granddad’s old Vauxhall. And she’s probably got a clit like a golf ball.”
“Yes, Mother. Delightful.”
A Siberian wind blew through my heart at the thought of Fiona being pounded like so much bread dough by some careerist bull moose. But I needed to find out the scope of Fi’s treachery. What else could she have in store for me?
43
Indeed, I found Fiona in the red tent getting pounded by what looked like a lorry driver with tits. When I opened the tent flap, the masseuse looked up at me like I was the devil. Beneath her mitts lay Fiona, like so much bread dough. I said, “Oh, hello, darling.”
“Oh, it’s you.” Fiona craned her neck around to make eye contact with her lorry driver. “He’s harmless. Raymond, this is Chaz.”
“Lovely to meet you, Chaz.”
Fiona screamed at me, “Stop staring at Chaz’s tits—she’s a dyke, you simpleton! And I don’t even want to know how you ended up in your ridiculous outfit.”
Chaz grunted and reached for a towel to wipe lotion from her hands. “Want me to call security?”
“No, thank y
ou, Chaz, dear. This is my ex-husband.”
Chaz froze in mid-motion. “Seriously?”
“Don’t act so shocked, Chaz. He didn’t always resemble a pemmican scarecrow. In fact, there were a few moments—not many, mind you—where he was passably okay-looking.”
The stupid bitch was trying to butter me up, but I was having none of it. “Darling, I’m here on a fact hunt.”
“A big fact hunt?”
“Yes, an enormous fact hunt.”
“A heaving, pulsating, throbbing fact hunt?”
“No, more of an oozing, quivering, tender fact hunt.”
“Is this fact hunt needy and desperate and looking for someone to teach it the ways of the world?”
“Indeed. Naughty fact hunt. Bad little fact hunt.”
There it was—the old magic between me and Fi, happening again.
Chaz threw down her towel and stormed out. “You people are sick.”
“If you say so.”
I threw Fiona a shirt. “Did you really have to drag Mother into whatever your game is?”
“Your mother deserves a holiday, Raymond. She’s had a long hard life.”
“She’s had no such thing. She’s been a benefits scrounger as long as I can remember. What she doesn’t scrounge, she wheedles or steals, as you very well know.”
Fi sat up and attempted to take on her domineering stance. “A bit of compassion for the woman, Raymond. Come with me to the production trailers. You may as well see where you’re working.”
We left the tent and followed a path towards a trio of rusted-out trailers like the ones you see in American horror movies in which a family of four is brutally bludgeoned to death, their carcasses picked clean by wild animals and insects, only to be found years later by hillbilly meth makers who use the bones as doorstops while converting the remains of the trailer into an incestuous copulation den filled with smashed beer bottles, fag ends, misspelled graffiti and bullet holes.
“You still haven’t answered my question, Fi. Why did you bring Mother down here?”
Worst. Person. Ever. Page 18