"And we will. My soldiers are ready to take back this island. Believe it. We're gonna raise up our music again."
Simon's gaze met Ishi's. No one on the bus said a word. He guessed they were all on the same wavelength.
Just in case Poppa Free's not a huge bullshitter, and he really does have armed soldiers on speed-dial, let's not piss him off.
"Thanks for listenin', folks." Poppa Free slowed the van and turned left into a hotel driveway. "I got lots of stuff to express, you know?"
The Royal Hotel. Simon sighed with relief when he saw the sign and realized he was about to get out of the van. He was lucky; his hotel was the shuttle's first stop.
"They don't want me expressin' nothin'," said Poppa Free. "But I keep on testifyin' to people like you. And then you go home and express it far and wide."
The van rolled around the enormous pink hotel and pulled up to a row of doors under a huge black awning. A young bell captain in a red coat marched up with a brass-framed luggage cart in tow.
As soon as the van stopped, Simon nudged Ishi and pointed at the door. She hopped up and swung it open before Poppa Free was even out of his seat.
On his way out after Ishi, Simon glanced at the rest of the passengers. All but the dark-haired woman with the head cold, who seemed taken with Poppa Free, looked back at Simon with weary, longing expressions.
Please take us with you, they seemed to say.
At the back of the bus, Poppa Free unloaded Simon and Ishi's luggage and handed it off to the bell captain. Simon tipped Poppa Free, who then slipped Simon something in return.
It was some kind of flyer, printed in black ink on white paper. As Simon looked at it, Poppa Free flicked it with his index finger.
"Come see me while you're on the island," he said. "Live in concert every Monday."
"Right," said Simon.
"You'll hear some testifyin' you won't forget," said Poppa Free. "I swear I'll change your life."
As the bus pulled away, Simon looked at the flyer in his hand. Poppa Free's name was scrawled across the top; under that was a photo of Poppa Free playing an electric guitar with what looked like high intensity, wearing sunglasses and a leather jacket and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. "Live at HogPenny Pub," read the text below the photo. "Monday Nights at 9."
Ishi read the flyer over Simon's shoulder. "I wonder how he is in concert?"
"I don't plan to find out," said Simon. "I hope I never see Poppa Free again."
*****
Chapter 33
Hamilton, Bermuda
The Hamilton Royal Hotel
Hours after checking in and getting settled at the luxurious Royal Hotel, Simon went downstairs alone. He crossed the cathedral-sized, air-conditioned lobby, strolled past the people having afternoon tea in the nooks along the windows, and pushed through the glass back doors into the heat and sunshine.
As soon as he emerged outside, he heard the noise of the crowd on the back lawn. Hundreds of people were gathered around a stage near the hotel's private dock on the harbor, clapping and cheering as someone on stage spoke. Everyone but the tall man in the black track suit on stage faced away from Simon, toward the water, so they wouldn't be watching his approach.
He disguised himself anyway. Putting on sunglasses and a baseball cap, he ambled toward the crowd, hoping no one realized who he was. He tried his best to act like he belonged there, like he was just another dick in the middle of the most high-profile gathering of dicks in the world.
The kickoff reception of the First International Dicklympics.
According to what Simon had read on the Internet and seen on TV, dicks had come from all over the world to compete in the Dicklympics. Sure enough, as he milled through the crowd, it seemed like no two people were speaking the same language or had the same accent. Simon heard French, Spanish, Russian, Japanese, Italian, Chinese, and many more languages he couldn't identify. He saw black, blonde, brown, and red hair...every color and shade of skin...every age and physique.
The one thing they all had in common was the emblem on the back and left breast of their track suits--the P.U.D. logo, embroidered in the shape of an erect penis.
As Simon walked among the dicks, he was amazed there were so many of them from so many places. He couldn't believe so many people were willing to declare themselves dicks and travel all the way to Bermuda to compete for the title of "World's Biggest Dick."
And it was all because of him. He'd started it, though he hadn't anticipated it.
How much farther would it go? Would it just keep getting worse and worse? Would dicklike behavior take over the world?
Or was there still hope? Maybe Simon could slow down the movement by staging some kind of surprise attack at the Dicklympics...some kind of crazy stunt like when the dicks had dumped cat litter all over him at Belle Mere College.
As Simon wandered through the crowd on the Royal Hotel's back lawn, he considered the possibilities. He looked around at the sprawling grounds, sizing up the different locations where events would be held. He observed the organizers and officials in their tuxedoes, armed with leather folders and stopwatches. He watched the cheering competitors with their sneers and beer cans, each country's team wearing a different color of track suit.
He watched and waited, considering options...realizing he had to choose the perfect place and time, the perfect moment, or everything would backfire.
A waiter handed Simon a can of beer, and he cracked it open. Just then, the tall, black-track-suited man on stage, the master of ceremonies, whooped into his microphone and raised his beer high. "That's right, people! That's what the Dicklympics are all about!" He shook the can, and beer flew out. "Making the world a dickier place!"
The crowd hooted and howled with glee. Everyone shook their beer cans in the air, and Simon did the same.
"This is to all of you for being here!" said the master of ceremonies. "This is to every dick in the world, for carrying the torch onward!"
Again, the crowd hooted and hollered.
"And this is to whichever one of you wins the title of World's Biggest Dick!" The master of ceremonies raised his beer higher. "May the biggest dick win!"
The crowd went wild.
"And now, speaking of the biggest dick," said the master of ceremonies, "may I introduce our founding father and dick extraordinaire, the one and only Horne Shaw!"
Suddenly, there was a boom and a flash to one side. Simon and everyone else looked in the same direction.
Sparks were shooting from big black pots on either side of an archway at the edge of the lawn. Purple velvet curtains hung from the arch, and someone flung them open from behind as Simon watched. When he saw who'd done it, his heart hammered with rage in his chest.
As the crowd roared and clapped, Horne Shaw charged through the archway and pumped his fists in the air. "Hail to the Chief" played over the speakers as he trotted in front of the crowd like a quarterback, grinning and waving. He wore a white tuxedo with the word "BIGGEST" in black letters on one side of the chest and the word "DICK" on the other side.
Simon wanted to run up and throttle him. The beefy, ruddy dick had never looked beefier or ruddier. Success and stardom agreed with him.
He looked like a winner.
Leaping up the three steps onto the stage, Horne snatched the microphone from the master of ceremonies and pressed it to his lips. "This...," he said in a dramatic voice from deep inside his barrel chest, "...is a dick-up."
Everyone but Simon howled and laughed and applauded.
Horne pumped the mic overhead as if it were a trophy. His red, grinning face had a glossy sheen, as if it had been dipped in wax. Instead of a full beard, he had a goatee like an Egyptian pharaoh, grown out long, squared off at the end, and stiffened in wavy ripples with some kind of styling product.
As Simon watched, he was suddenly sorry he'd come to Bermuda. As pissed as he'd been about Horne's unjust rise to the top and his own fall from grace, seeing his antics up close sent Simon spiral
ing in two directions at the same time: toward white-hot rage and dark depression.
That fucking grin.
After reveling in the cheers and applause, Horne spoke into the mic again. "We're makin' history here, folks." He stroked his pharaoh's beard thoughtfully. "You know that, don't you? This is the start of something bigger than we can imagine.
"A hundred years from now, at the opening ceremonies of the one hundredth Dicklympics, they're gonna talk about this day. They're gonna thank us for bringing the dream to life. For making it not just good, but great to be a dick!"
Yet again, the crowd went wild. People were taking photos of Horne with cameras and cell phones. Someone up front had a baby in a P.U.D. t-shirt bouncing on his shoulders.
There was no question about it. Simon was in Hell.
"They'll worship us!" Horne marched from side to side in his white tuxedo, pointing and gesticulating like a TV preacher. "Especially the one man or woman who takes home the title of World's Biggest Dick! Which one of you wants to be that dick?"
This time, the cheering and applause were louder than ever, on the brink of deafening. Simon winced and put his hands over his ears, but it did no good.
Then, suddenly, a roaring bellow erupted over everything, and the cheering dissolved into cries of surprise and alarm.
The purple curtains behind the arch swirled open again, and a man in a tan khaki military uniform burst through like a bull. His beret was red, his epaulets gold, his skin the color of spoiled raw chicken--an unnatural, splotchy shade of pink.
"I am that dick!" The giant in the uniform was enormous in all proportions. His barn wall of a chest made barrel-chested Horne look like a stick figure. Both of Horne's arms could have fit into one of the uniformed giant's. He was almost two full heads taller than Horne.
As the big man stomped toward the stage, Horne backed away. "What the hell's going on?" He sounded worried.
"You will give me the title of World's Biggest Dick," said the giant. "I, General Omoo Mobai, demand it!"
Simon frowned. He recognized the name.
"Hey now." Horne raised his hands, palms out, toward Mobai. "Easy does it, pal. I can't just hand over the title. We're just getting started with the competition."
"But I have proved my biggest dick-making!" Mobai bolted up the steps onto the stage and swatted Horne's hands aside with one swipe. "Who else is the actual dictator of a hell-on-Earth African shit-nation? Who else thunders up ahead of all pussy-dicks and demands his frightful prize?"
Simon was amazed as he watched the scene play out. Not only did he recognize General Mobai's name, but he'd seen him on the news. In fact, Mobai did have a reputation as a ruthless dictator...and a dangerous nut. He ruled the tiny West African nation of Tashtego and was known for a combination of loony stunts, human rights violations, and secret massacres.
So what was he doing here? How could he even get on the island?
Simon thought it most likely that "Mobai" was an impersonator brought in for the show...but if he was an impersonator, he was a damn good one. He looked just like him, with the facial structure of an African and the mottled pink skin color caused by vitiligo. His deep voice and speech patterns were Mobai's, too, right down to the bizarre malaprops. He and the actual Mobai could have been twins.
"Make with the dick prize," said Mobai (or Mobai's twin). "Dish it up or I'll dish up your guts and feed them to your slaves." He swept an arm wide to encompass the crowd.
"These people are dicks, not slaves!" said Horne, and the crowd roared. "They won't let you steal their chance at the title!"
As the crowd roared again, Mobai threw back his head and howled with rage. Suddenly, he lurched forward, grabbed Horne, and effortlessly hoisted him overhead.
"I am Emperor Mobai of Tashtego!" Mobai pumped Horne in the air like a barbell. "You must obey me or suffix the consequences!"
At that, the front ranks of the crowd charged forward and scrambled up onto the stage toward Mobai. They swarmed him, punching and kicking and reaching for Horne.
Mobai easily fended them off at first, sweeping them away with one tree trunk arm...but more piled on, overwhelming him. He let go of Horne, who was lifted away by the dicks and set down on his feet on the lawn.
Someone handed Horne a mic, and he shouted into it. "Enough! Let him go! That man's a world leader."
The mob backed away from Mobai but stayed close. He straightened his uniform and adjusted his red beret; otherwise, he looked untouched.
"General!" said Horne. "I have a proposition! I challenge you!"
Mobai leered at him. "Challenge me?"
"I will personally face you in every event of the Dicklympics!" said Horne. "We will go head to head. If you defeat me and out-dick all other challengers, you will win more than the title of World's Biggest Dick!"
"What more is there?" said Mobai.
"You, General Mobai, will take my place as Dick Lord," said Horne. "You will become the new leader of the international P.U.D. organization!"
Mobai squared his shoulders and stared at Horne through slitted eyes. As always, he seemed poised on the brink of the unexpected, capable of any kind of action at any time.
The crowd watched breathlessly. The action had all been staged, professional wrestling-style, but the audience seemed to be on pins and needles about the outcome.
Suddenly, Mobai shot through the dicks surrounding him and headed straight for Horne, reaching out with both massive paws. The master of ceremonies and some of the dicks grabbed hold of Mobai but couldn't stop him.
"This is my answer!" Mobai hauled back one mighty arm and swung it at Horne like a battering ram.
The crowd gasped.
But Mobai's goal wasn't destruction. When he swung his arm forward, instead of landing a blow, he scooped up Horne's hand and shook it furiously.
"I accept your challenge!" said Mobai. "I shall out-dick you and win the godhood of Lord Dick as well as World's Biggest Dick!"
"Then let the games begin!" Horne whooped, and the crowd whooped along with him. "Our first event, The Running of the Dicks, kicks off tomorrow morning at eight o'clock sharp! Be there or be a pussy!"
Yet again, the crowd went wild.
*****
Chapter 34
That Night
Hamilton, Bermuda
"Don't do it." Ishi shook her head as she cut off a bite of braised lamb shank. "Please don't do it."
Hours after the Dicklympics kickoff reception, Simon sat across from her in an elegant restaurant in downtown Hamilton. He'd expected to have a planning session over dinner, but instead, she was giving him grief about having a plan in the first place.
Simon frowned and swallowed some wine. "But it's a good plan. You said so yourself."
"I said it might work." Ishi shrugged. "Now I'm saying I have a bad feeling about this."
Irritated, Simon looked away. The dimly lit restaurant was crowded with couples, smiling and holding hands by candlelight. "Well, I have to do something."
Ishi gave him a funny look. "Do you love him? Do you love Horne Shaw?"
Simon scowled. "What makes you say that?"
"Why else would you still care what he does?" said Ishi. "Why else would you let him keep screwing you over?"
"I'm here to screw him over!" said Simon.
"But he's out enjoying himself right now," said Ishi. "And all you can do is worry about him. All you can do is obsess over getting back at him."
Simon chopped his hand through the air. "He doesn't deserve to profit from my lawsuit."
"He's a dick, Simon. It's what he does." Ishi put down her silverware and leaned forward. "What do you think he'll do if your plan backfires?"
"What if it doesn't backfire?" said Simon.
"If it all goes wrong, and you're left looking like an idiot, then what?" Ishi raised her eyebrows. Even arguing, she looked beautiful by candlelight. "You'll be worse off than before, won't you? Much worse."
"Or, I ruin the Dicklympics," said Sim
on, "and Horne ends up looking like an idiot. Maybe his TV show and everything go away just like that." He snapped his fingers.
"And it'll all end there?" said Ishi. "Do you think Horne will just throw in the towel and admit you're the better man?"
Simon glared at the veal on his plate. "I have to try. I can't stand by and let him get away with it."
"It happens every day." Ishi reached across the table and took his hand in hers. "People get away with things all the time."
"And we should just let them?" Simon was getting angry. "We should just give up?"
"You're a hero at heart, Simon." Ishi smiled. "You want to help people. You fight for what you believe in. It's one of the things I love about you. But sometimes, the dicks win. Sometimes, you can't stop them."
"And if you don't try," said Simon, "you'll never know if you could have stopped them."
*****
After dinner, Simon and Ishi walked up Front Street, the big main harborfront boulevard of Hamilton, toward the Royal Hotel. Looking toward the harbor, Simon saw the lights of boats bobbing in the darkness. The British flag towered over the docks, illuminated by spotlights from below.
Suddenly, a band of ten or more whooping dicks staggered out of a bar and swarmed around them. Some of the dicks wore penis hats, some were singing, and they cut Simon off from Ishi as they stumbled toward the next bar.
As Simon looked around for Ishi, he caught a sudden whiff of some kind of sickeningly strong cologne. The next thing he knew, he was colliding with the trunk of a giant redwood.
It was the closest thing, actually: the enormous iron chest of General Omoo Mobai of Tashtego. Simon bounced right off, but Mobai caught his elbows before he could move away. "Happy Christmas, friend!"
"Sorry." Simon ducked his head in case Mobai might recognize him. "Excuse me."
Dick by Law Page 12