by Matt Kyler
Contents
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Quotation
Author's Note
Tarot Card - Death
Prologue
Tarot Card - The Fool
The Fool
Tarot Card - Strength
Claire
Tarot Card - The Sun
Success
Tarot Card - The Star
Emma
Tarot Card - The Moon
Distress
Tarot Card - The World
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Tarot Card - High Priestess
Chapter 18
The Journey Continues
Matt Kyler has been a failed TV writer, failed magazine publisher and successful full-time layabout. He sometimes finds time away from the Internet to write about himself.
You can send him your thoughts, half-thoughts, grievances and praise via email ([email protected]), where they will be read but probably not replied to.
The Bikini Prophecy is his first book. And, hopefully, his last.
The Bikini Prophecy
by Matt Kyler
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2016 by Skoobi (Australia)
Tarot Images Copyright © Digitaln
All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
For S, who led me half way.
And for J, who carried me beyond.
“Sometimes,” said Pooh, “the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.”
— A.A. Milne
Let me get something straight right from the get-go: I know absolutely nothing about magical mysticism, divine providence or spiritual serendipity. And, yet, I’ve decided to punctuate this book’s chapters with imagery from the otherworld. The world of the tarot, to be specific.
Now, for the sake of design aesthetics, these tarot card pictures have all been placed upright. To the average reader, this is of no relevance whatsoever. But to the tarot card freaks… Holy Mother of Christ, this kind of shit can trigger an OCD episode that will turn their world upside down.
To address this I’ve included both positive (upright) and negative (reversed) readings below each card. If you’re a tarot tragic you’ll know exactly what that oddball sentence actually means. If you’re not, just think of the tarot pics as a literary commercial break that will remind you to grab a cup a tea or another glass of wine. Or even another book.
Of course, if you’re a cynical reader, you could, quite rightly, view the tarot illustrations as a cheap marketing gimmick to fool people into believing that this book might actually be spiritually enlightening.
It fucking isn’t.
Also, while I’m here, a warning: there is swearing in this book. Lots of swearing. And most of it for absolutely no good fucking reason what-so-ever … well, apart from me trying to re-create an ‘authentic’ voice. Tellingly, this adherence to realism doesn’t necessarily extend elsewhere in the book. In fact, the opposite is true, since I’ve deliberately altered names, physical descriptions, locations and dates. I’ve also fictionalised email and other conversations in an effort to protect the innocent … and me.
I should also advise readers that this book is written in a mishmash of languages. These are: colloquial Australian English, British English and American English. So sometimes there are words like ‘arse’ instead of ‘ass’ or ‘asshole’ instead of ‘arsehole’ or ‘bloke’ instead of ‘guy/fella/man’. Not to mention many other deviations from the expected forms of proper English spelling and grammar. Suffice to say, I’m assuming most people are smart enough to figure shit out. And, really, if you can decipher auto-correct text messages written by drunk ex-partners or daft friends, you sure as shit should be able to read a book penned by a lazy Australian with dyslexic fingers that type weird Tourette’s-like sentences.
And lastly, despite keeping copious notes and re-reading old travel emails, I can’t for the life of me recall each and every line of pointless rambling dialogue that was uttered during the time-span of this story (which, by the way, is mostly set before the wholesale adoption of digital technologies). So, in an effort to craft a readable version of events that won’t bore readers to death, I have deleted, compressed or merged many spoken interactions. I’ve also pretty much gone and made up a whole load of shit as well - in particular, the occasional connecting banter between people.
What isn’t made-up, however, is the emotional truth found in these exchanges. The honest core, crafted, admittedly, from my own selective memory. That stuff is real, as are the questionable actions and thoughts I’ve documented.
All that is real.
Even the dumb stuff.
Unfortunately.
UPRIGHT: A new start. Your transformation begins now.
REVERSED: Stuck in limbo. Ruin is coming, sucker.
My future looks grim.
I’m standing in an establishment called Tea and Tarot and I’ve just been given some life-threatening news … the tea leaf reader has cancelled my appointment.
“She called in sick,” explains the woman behind the counter. “I can give you a tarot reading instead. Or are you after the tea leaves specifically?”
It's impossible to explain just how specific my psychotic psychic needs are right now, so rather than embarrass myself I mumble a lie. “A tarot reading is fine.”
Celeste gives me a sympathetic smile, then in a rustle of silk, chiffon and lazy stereotype she sashays over to an ornate wooden box and extracts a deck of well-worn tarot cards.
“Is this your first time?”
I give her a shy nod. “Yeah.”
“I thought so,” she says, already reading my mind. “Shall we sit outside?”
I turn and look at several vacant tables positioned in full view of the passing public. Reluctantly, I follow her out to one of them. We sit and Celeste begins to split and shuffle the cards like a veteran Vegas dealer. Once done, she instructs me to do the same. I do so, then slide the cards back.
“So, what would you like to know?” she asks. “It can be an answer to a specific question or something relating to love, career or health.”
The skeptic in me stirs. I’ve always considered horoscopes and fortune-tellers to be the exclusive domain of fragile women and vague men so I decide to play the cards close to my chest. After all, if Celeste really can read the future she should already know why I’m here. Which means she should already know about the bikini prophecy.
“How about all of the above?” I say, as my arms cross involuntarily.
A flash of exasperation curls the corners of Celeste’s mouth. “Sure,” she says. “We can do a general reading.”
Celeste places the tarot pack at the centre of the table and starts a spiel that introduces me to the art of tarot reading. It sounds neither scientific nor remotely plausible. Sensing my disbelief, Celeste gets down to business. She flips the first card over.
DEATH.
The reveal instantly spooks me so I give the witch my undivided attention.
“Well, that’s not a good start,” I say, nervously.
A satisfied smile registers on Celeste’s face. “Don’t worry. It�
�s not what you think. Death is symbolic, not literal. I’ll come back to it later and explain.”
She turns the next card and lays it across the first.
THE LOVERS.
The contrast couldn’t be greater. My heart skips a beat because this is exactly why I’m here. Celeste continues, carefully laying a selection of cards into a pattern she calls the Celtic Cross. There are cups, swords and sticks. But nothing surpasses the naked lovers or the deathly figure they partially obscure. Eventually, the last card appears. On its face is an illustration of a man, woman and child standing in separate coffins. Floating above the family is an angel beckoning them to heaven. Pretty cheery stuff. A single word on the base of the card states:
JUDGEMENT
I have no idea what any of this means but apparently Celeste does.
“This is a really interesting spread,” she says in awe. “Lots of conflict and uncertainty.” She takes a moment, probably to summon the spirits—the ones she hasn’t already drunk—then tilts her head in my direction. “Do you work in a creative profession by any chance?”
The question catches me off-guard. It’s either a lucky guess or… or what? Can this woman really read my future?
I take the bait.
“I’m supposed to be a writer,” I say.
Celeste acknowledges the self-deprecation with a thin smile. “Okay, that makes sense. Because these cards—“ She waves a hand over a section of the cross. “—suggest a strong creative interest or career. But these three—” Her palm hovers over The Lovers and a pair of ‘cup’ cards. “—relate to affairs of the heart. And in this instance, they’re saying that you have two women in your life. Two loves. Would that be right?”
I nod my little freaked-out noggin in the affirmative.
“But neither of these relationships appear to be resolved yet,” she continues.
“Yeah, there was a messy breakup with one,” I admit, casting all previous skepticism aside. “And the other one is … complicated.”
“Well, that would explain all the wands and swords. There’s a lot of turmoil here. These two loves are draining your emotional resources and causing a creative block. Are you experiencing this at the moment”
“Yep. Absolutely.”
“I can see that one of these women will help you to heal. But the other woman—” Celeste’s hand shadows a card with three swords piercing a heart, “—the other is in a lot of pain.” She pauses, and in silence studies the spread of cards. “Yes, this is really important,” she continues. “This other woman … you must not hurt.”
Her emphasis on the words sounds like an accusation and for a terrifying moment, I wonder if Celeste can read both my future … and my past.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” I say, defensively.
Celeste eyes me for a long moment as if weighing the sincerity of my words against the truth of her cards. The silent judgement makes me feel like a fool until, finally, she releases me.
“Okay,” she says. “Let’s go back to the beginning. Back to Death.”
UPRIGHT: Passionate, spontaneous funster … me!
REVERSED: Naive, misguided, moron. Yep, still me.
Relationships are like plane flights…
Well, that’s my theory.
Sure, it’s a crap theory, but in my mind the perfect partnership is like one of those first-class flights everyone wants to experience. A comfortable long-haul adventure that begins with an easy ascent to the heavens before soaring to an altitude that ensures clear skies and smooth cruising in turbulence-free bliss.
Of course, there are also the not-so-first-class trips.
These are the economy flights of love. The no-frills, domestic connections that promise the world at check-in but turn into cramped, pressurised nightmares mid-flight. These vexing voyages short-change your legroom and leave you surprised that any personal service once considered complimentary, now carries some kind of price.
And, finally, there are the unmitigated disasters.
The relationship flights of fancy that defy all logic to become airborne in the first place. These are the departures of mind that disappear off the radar of common sense. The tragic trips that give loved ones the impression that those on board are destined to crash into an ocean of tears, leaving nothing but a tangled wreck of broken lives, sinking hope and a shit-load of floating baggage to cling to.
This is the flight I’m about to board.
Now I’m not sure if this journey I’m about to embark upon is travelling or leaving. Running probably. What I do know, however, is that once I finish obsessing about all this pointless relationship crap, I’m going to shuffle over to the hand basins opposite the airport toilet cubicle I’m currently occupying and see a pathetic excuse for masculinity in the mirror. A reflection of a foolish thirty-year-old man-child who just walked out on his only shot at a ‘first-class’ life.
What I won’t see is the baggage.
I’m not talking about carry-on baggage. I’m talking about excess baggage. The kind of emotional dead-weight one might inherit after destroying relationships, friendships or a dream career. Or, in my case, all of the above.
To be perfectly honest, I don’t know how I sabotaged my charmed life so quickly. Sure, I could make up a ton of excuses for what I think went wrong. But that still wouldn’t lead me any closer to discovering the actual truth. And God knows I’ve tried to make sense of the disaster. I’ve even tried to identify the major turning points that led my life to, well … the shitter. In plain English, those turning points are:
1)Claire
2)Success
3)Emma
4)Distress
Unfortunately, life isn’t as readily understandable as plain English, so I’ve worked out a far simpler explanation for my disastrous life: I think I fucked up.
Repeatedly.
Which, I guess, is why I’m here. In an airport. Preparing for my first overseas adventure by fondling nine inches of Lonely Planet guidebook in a gents toilet. A guidebook that, seconds ago, revealed my latest mistake in life: I forgot to pack toilet paper.
According to the travel bible, this is an essential item when backpacking Asia (the land of squat toilets and little buckets of water). Of course, this oversight doesn’t really come as any great surprise to me since I’ve barely consulted the guidebook on what I should or should not take overseas. This is because I’m a man. Meaning, I need neither guidance nor instruction in life. Nor do I need a plan. Which is just as well because when it comes to this adventure, I have none.
Well, apart from the bikini prophecy.
Yep, as unlikely as it seems, I’m travelling overseas to fulfil a clairvoyant’s prediction. More precisely, a psychic tea leaf reader’s prophecy of true love.
Obviously, this isn’t the standard travel itinerary favoured by your average functional human being. Nope, we’re firmly in nut-job territory here. Deep in the kind of head-case headspace reserved for earth’s more spiritual space cadets; think the vague cosmic hippie, the love-struck teen ... the bored western woman.
I’m joking, of course.
Maybe.
But in all seriousness, jetting to the other side of the world in search of love does reek of one of those esoteric, estrogen-enhanced journeys of self-discovery. Whatever the case, I’m more than aware of the stupidity of such an adventure. In fact, I’m guessing that one of the reasons I’m doing this is because I’ve lost something very dear to me.
I’ve lost my masculinity.
I have no idea how this happened. It’s as if I woke up one morning and discovered that my balls had been castrated. Removed, along with my love of televised sport, cheap pizza and daily masturbation, and replaced with an insatiable desire for sentimental movies, side salads and self-help books.
I swear I never used to be like this. I never used to be so … flaccid. I mean, I used to be a man for Christ’s sake. I used to be out-going yet aloof, intense yet laid-back, strong yet vulnerable. I used to be a man who v
iewed every male as a rival and every female as a potential conquest. A virile man guided less by fair-play and faith and more by fornication and fortune. An ambitious man following his own path. Choosing his own lifestyle.
I liked to refer to this lifestyle as ‘acting on gut instinct’. Unfortunately, everyone else liked to refer to it as ‘acting like an utter asshole’. Which may explain why my life went to shit.
So what went wrong?
Well, all those unrealised dreams for starters: be a millionaire, be a rock star, movie star, sports star. Be more muscular, healthier, more confident. Be a good friend, an awesome lover, a cool dad.
In other words, be a success.
Unfortunately, my life hasn’t been a success.
It’s been a failure.
And I’ve been a fool.
Which sucks because I was meant to amount to so much more than this. I had ambition, confidence, even talent. But nothing worked out. Of course, if I truly admit it, I know exactly where I went wrong.
Basically, nothing has ever been good enough for me.
Nothing.
Not life. Not career, Not friends. Not relationships. I’ve always wanted more. And I don’t mean I wanted just a little bit more. I wanted a whole lot more. Of everything. More money. More fame. More adventure. More sex. More success. And I wanted those things more than anything else on earth. More than friendship. More than trust. More than love.
More than everything Claire gave me.
UPRIGHT: One who is courageous, compassionate, patient.
REVERSED: Fearful, despairing and full of self-doubt.
I rolled into Claire’s life five years ago. I’d driven in from the bush (or the ‘Outback’ or the ‘Wilderness’ or whatever the fuck tourism organisations like to label far-flung places governed by beer and dust) and hit the brakes at Brisbane. A sleepy country city populated by irony-loving people who christened it Bris-Vegas. This non-event location was where I intended to morph from mine worker to movie star. Because somehow in my mind that kind of implausibility made sense.