At the tent city, the evening shift change was in progress. Since I had been fired, I didn’t have to worry about it. Scurrying around us were men and women in cargo pants and T-shirts, carrying clipboards and camera gear, their belt loops jammed with gaffer tape, flashlights, Swiss Army knives and all the other equipment one needs at a moment’s notice. One thing that was odd, though, was that nobody seemed to notice me or make eye contact with me. Hmmm.
Just then Stuart walked by. “Fuck me with a chainsaw. Gunt—what are you still doing here? You’ve been cast off the island. Go. Leave. Now.”
“Yes, Stuart. I’ll hop the next British Airways jumbo leaving from Arsefuck Island International Airport.”
“Well, you can’t stay in our camp, eat our food or use any of our infrastructure. I’ve also told all staff members that anyone caught communicating with you will be fired. Have a nice life.”
“… ” (The sound of me having no stinging, witty retort at hand. Fucking Stuart.)
“Potter. Out of here. Go. Now.” Stuart walked away.
I turned to Neal. “Well, isn’t this just ducky? So what now—I find a little island and make a lean- to from palm fronds? Maybe play a ukulele until I die of old age?”
“Think of yourself as a DNA stockpile ready to repopulate a post-nuclear society badly in need of quality genetic material, Ray.”
Billy cut in, “Kids, can we stay on topic? We are headed to Fiona’s surprise.”
Neal put a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Ray. I’m not a staff member, so nobody can fire me if I talk to you. You stay on in the hut. If I see anyone from the show coming by, I’ll send you a signal so you can crawl behind the deep-freeze until they go away.”
“Oh. My. God. It’s come to this, has it?”
“I’d let you stay in the business centre, but your mum’s in there and I have to think of her health.”
“Neal, my mother will outlive cockroaches in the post-nuclear era. She is unkillable. Have her bunk beside the deep-freeze.”
“I can’t change her room now that she’s settled in. Besides, she said she’d make me egg and chips for breakfast tomorrow.”
From my left came an “Ahem!” The enchanting Billy.
“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 …
“No! Please! Stop!”
I gently removed my daughter’s assisting hands. “It’s okay! I’ll clean myself off, but thank you. Thank you.”
The age of consent is the minimum age at which a person is considered to be legally competent to consent to sexual acts. Most jurisdictions set the age of consent at fourteen to eighteen.
In some jurisdictions—the Mexican state of Nayarit, as well as in Bolivia—there is no fixed age of consent. Instead, sex is allowed between people who are pubescent or post-pubescent. The same applies in Yemen, but only between married partners.
The age of consent in Kiribati is fifteen. In Vatican City, it is twelve, although some claim it to be fourteen.
Fiona gave me an uncertain look. “Raymond, your daughter’s name is Emma, and your son is named Kyle.”
All I could do was stare. The pair of them were radiant with health and resembled nothing so much as Nazi catalogue models from the 1930s. How was this even possible? My own DNA is about as viable and sturdy as a strip of dead cassett
e tape tossed into the brambles alongside a motorway. And Fiona’s DNA must be like something extracted with tongs from the Pacific Trash Vortex.
Mother was in tears. “My own blood! Grandkids! Fi, you are a miracle worker, you are.” She grabbed Kyle in one arm, Emma in the other, and pulled them towards her chest like Nautilus equipment. She gave them each teary, fruity, mucusy kisses that left yellow nicotine moons on their foreheads. I hope they both checked to make sure they had their wallets afterward.
“Fiona, what the fucking hell? You can’t be serious.”
“Raymond, remember that abortion holiday I went on back in 1997?”
“The one where you told me you’d gone lesbian and didn’t come home for a year?” The penny dropped. “You didn’t go lesbian after all! You were too busy not aborting Kyle and Emma!”
“It would appear so. I was hoping they’d never have to meet you. But the nuclear crisis was upon us, and I didn’t want them vaporized if England gets nuked.”
My mother butted in. “Kyle’s the spitting image of you at this age, Raymond! That is, if you had a chin, a manly jawline, curly golden locks and a ripped musculature.”
Emma stared at me with radiant daughterly pride. “Mother’s told us so much about you, Father. Oh! I want to hug you to pieces like a teddy bear!”
She hurled herself onto me where I lay, and she certainly smelled terrific and—Christ, I mean, how do people manage not to shag their own kids? The temptation … well, best not to venture down that road. I extricated myself from Emma’s slender, supple, lightly tanned arms from around me. Her skin was heavenly. She was Tabs without any mileage at all. None.
Meanwhile, Kyle was documenting our meeting on his phone, saving a cherished memory. Then I heard him say to Fiona, “If the crew likes it, they said they’d put it up on the island’s website. Apparently, they’re lacking in the heartwarming department, and this footage could be download magic. My first big break. I wonder if I can digitally remove the Pringles in the background.”
Emma was now hugging Fiona. “Isn’t Dad dreamy, Mum?”
Fiona looked at me and mouthed, “She’s still a virgin,” followed by, “Don’t even think about it.”
Neal, long silent, cried out rather tearily, “A celebration is called for! Back to the house for a feast!”
48
Dear Reader,
I suppose you’re a respectable person who tries to act like children are a miracle whenever the subject comes up, but let’s be honest: ugh. All they do is waste your money and suck up your time, and when they get a bit older, they go off and start fucking utterly inappropriate human beings and mocking you behind your back—all the while draining your bank account. Hmmm. Seems like a description of my marriage to Fiona.
So, you ask me how I felt upon discovering I had sired offspring? At least I never had to deal with shitty nappies, or waking up early, or outdoor football practice, or helping them cheat on homework, or instructing them on how to torch a car. Thank fucking Christ. As for Kyle and Emma, they seemed so different from me that I might as well have sired aliens from Betelgeuse—which, in turn, made me feel weird about myself. You know, big picture questions like Why am I here? What is life about? What is it to be part of the chain of life? And really, I mean, who the fuck needs any of that?
Questions like that just lead to misery. You’d get a lot more value out of being alive if you put your spiritual energy into doing the daily jumble puzzle or speculating on the size, colour and texture of the nipples of the women on the Oscar red carpet.
Yours,
Raymond Gunt
We returned to Neal’s in time to catch Tabs, Elspeth and six shockingly hot lady friends headed out the front door, all of them doubtlessly harbouring lady-boners barely concealed by the skimpiest of thongs. One of them was carrying a rattan picnic hamper, which she dropped on the front stoop when we arrived, causing a miniature avalanche of dildos, bottles of different flavours of lube, a gimp’s hood, ten vials of poppers and a small portable stereo system. For one billionth of a second, but certainly no longer, I felt a fatherly twinge that Emma and Kyle should see such wicked things, but once that billionth of a second passed, I thought, Fuck it.
“Oops!” said the butterfingered fuckmuppet. “I’ll just gather all of this up.”
“I’ll help,” said Emma. “What is all this stuff, anyway?”
The fuckmuppet paused briefly, assessed Emma’s level of cluelessness and said, “Just some chew toys. You know—dogs will be dogs. Ha, ha, ha.”
“Lucky dogs to have such a wide and colourful selection of toys to choose from! But I hear it’s not good for dogs to be in the tropics—you know, heartworm and ringworm.”
Kyle seemed as clueless, dutifully filming the dildo spill for a possible segment on Arsefuck Island TV. He asked, “Can I meet your dogs tomorrow? I can mix them into my news segment using Final Cut. It’s all in the editing, you know.”
Fiona actually snickered at her son’s naïveté. Mother was too preoccupied lighting her next few cigarettes to notice anything. Billy was staring at his iPhone, doubtless trawling for fuckbuddies with some unholy gay app. Neal was already inside the house. And me? I was livid, watching my only chance to enjoy the full spectrum of Thong Kong vanish into the night in a slipstream of pheromones and coconut tanning oil.
Neal came back out, saw the rage in my eyes and said, “Ray, don’t worry. There’ll be other opportunities.”
I refused to be mollified.
“But I have to admit, I’ve never seen the girls so ready for it in all my time on the island. Fortunately for me, I still have a touch of pussy fatigue and am not as sorely tempted as I might normally be. But forget about pussy—let’s celebrate your new family!”
What a comedown.
“Look,” shouted Emma. “Your lady friends left one of their dog toys at the bar. I’ll run and take it to them.” She paused and studied the contraption in her hands. “Funny-looking thing, isn’t it? It’s like three bicycle handles welded together. You’d certainly only want to give this one to a big dog.” She ran away down the path to return the toy. I was proud of her willingness to help strangers, but stunned that a sixteen-year-old could be so naive.
Kyle was inside, shooting footage of Neal’s living room. He caught me looking at him and said, “This could be a possible lifestyle segment.” He’d obviously inherited the Gunt genius for camerawork, but considering everything he’d just seen, you’d think he’d go wank for an hour.
I pulled Fiona to one side. “What nunnery did these kids grow up in?”
“Kyle and Emma were raised in a small village in the North of England with no Internet connection, satellite dish or even basic telly. If you do anything to corrupt them, I will kill you. You know I’ll do it, so don’t even think of so much as offering them a beer or revealing to them anything that goes on inside your diseased mind.”
“Right.”
“Emma is an especially sweet girl. I want her to stay that way.”
“Okay. Where is this morality explosion coming from, if I may be so bold as to ask?”
Fiona sighed. “Raymond, these kids don’t even know what swearing is. They think it’s French.”
“Fuck me.”
“These kids can be better versions of you and me, versions who’ll never get fucked over by the universe.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about them?”
“Because that would have somehow ended up with them being fucked over by the universe. Your karma is dreadful, Raymond. It’s a fact.” Fi’s nose got sniffly. “It is sort of magic, though—you and me being parents and all. And we’ll never have to worry about organ donors ever again. We’ve always known that liver of yours won’t be long for this world.”
“It does get me a bit teary-eyed thinking about it. But tell me, does Kyle ever stop filming things?”
“He just discovered digital cameras and the Internet last week. Billy’s been teaching him.”
“Billy’s bee
n what?”
“Raymond, relax.”
“One minute Billy’s teaching Kyle about email. The next minute Kyle’s got a fist up his arse.”
“It’s fine, Raymond. Really. Billy’s not into twinks. And Kyle does have camerawork in his genes.”
I stood there trying my hardest to feel fatherly, but I was coming up short. I tried figuring out the math of the past week. London … LA … Honolulu … macadamia-induced comas … the hunt for fuckable contestants … Wake Island … I couldn’t quite understand Fiona’s timeline. “Fiona, how did you get Kyle and Emma from the north of England to this island so fast? Haven’t all the airports been shut down?”
Fiona put on her guilty face, something I’ve only ever seen a handful of times. “Some were, some weren’t.”
“Oh. My. God. You stole them, didn’t you!”
“What was I supposed to do, Raymond? Let them die of radiation poisoning in some pathetic hick town? Besides, do you think they are even remotely traumatized? No, you don’t, because in my own way I’m a terrific mother.”
Across the room, my own mother was chugging a 26-ouncer of vodka. She belched and then ravaged Neal’s bowl of cocktail garnishes like a circus elephant.
“So who raised them?”
“Some goody-goodies I found during my abortion holiday. Talk about dull. But at least Emma’s not pulling a train at some party that’s being house-wrecked by a Facebook flash mob, and Kyle’s not carjacking pensioners for fish and chip money. Come on. Let’s sit down. I’m as tired as you.”
We sat in the Hello! magazine spread of a living room. Emma rushed back through the door, dildo mission accomplished. She came up to me from behind, put her hands down the back of my shirt and started administering a backrub.
“Father, you must be tired after working so hard on this television show. Let me give you a deep-tissue massage like the ones I give our border collies after a long day of sheep herding. It will leave you ever so relaxed.”
Neal, Fiona and Mother all cocked eyebrows in our direction.
“Perhaps not right now, Emma,” I said. “Maybe Neal can offer you a nutritious snack. Neal! Do you have something nutritious to feed my, um, child?”
Worst. Person. Ever. Page 21