“Perfect. Everyone’s too busy to notice us.”
“Okay, Ray, you go out and get the T-shirt.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Because you know where it is, whereas I’d probably fuck up if I went.”
“Fair enough.”
“Hurry.”
So I did. I looked at a piece of wood as though it were an iPhone—one of those weird tricks of modern living that makes a person totally invisible. When I reached Fiona’s tent, as quick as a hawk, I swooped down and lifted the corner. The shirt was gone. Crap.
And that’s when I was clubbed on the head, but this time I didn’t pass out. I turned around to find Fiona, livid, holding a tiki log in her right hand, my T-shirt in its bag in her left.
“Raymond, I can’t believe you shoved Stuart out of the boat!”
“We did no such thing.”
“Don’t even bother pretending otherwise; I saw you do it.” She whacked me on the shoulder.
“What the fuck! Fiona, stop!”
“Where’s the boat, Raymond?”
I turned to face her. “Ahhh. So now I’ve got something you want, right?”
“You tool. In about thirteen minutes, every person on this island is going to realize that, with the network boat sunk, there are only a finite number of calories, almost no water, and way too many people here. I do not want to be a part of that scenario. You’ve got a boat. It’s a big advantage.”
“So …”
“So right now, you, me and our two children go to Neal’s house and ransack it for food. And then we take our hoard to some other, safer, hidden island. There are lots of them. And then we stay alive while everyone else dies a hideous, most likely cannibalistic death. After that, I have no further plans.”
She was right.
“And don’t even think of kicking me out of that boat, Raymond. You’re a family man now and you will live up to your responsibilities.”
“Neal has to come too.”
“Fair enough. At least he has genuine skills that could come in handy.”
“And he gets the Cure T-shirt as a reward.”
Fiona thought this over for longer than one might imagine, and then she heaved a sigh. “You’re right. Where is he?”
“I’m right here.” He was behind us.
“Good. You’ll have heard all this, then. We have to go clean out your place immediately.”
Poor Neal looked crestfallen. “It was such a perfect kingdom while it lasted. But I do see your point. I’ll go bring the boat around to the mangrove patch nearest the house.”
I was expecting to find Neal’s place looted already but when we looked in the windows, things were untouched. “Fiona, people are so fucking stupid.” Then I had a thought that sank my mood: “Christ. What about Mother?”
“I need to discuss that with you. Rumour has it she’s in Neal’s business centre having a fuckfest with Eamon.”
“Oh him. Well, they deserve each other. And honestly, shagging her brains out is a much more desirable way for Mother to go than sitting around with us feeling guilty because she may have to dine on a family member. Let’s keep her out of our plan.”
“Excellent idea.”
Just then Kyle and Emma showed up. Fiona briefed them, ending with, “And remember, make no noise whatsoever inside Uncle Neal’s house. We want Grandmum to enjoy her time giving Mr. Eamon his medically approved therapeutic shiatsu massage.”
“No problem,” said Kyle. “I can hear them already. It sounds like it’s going very well.”
“Gosh, this is exciting!” added Emma.
“Okay, let’s go do our thing.”
51
“What shall we steal next, Dad?”
Ah, families … nasty, dreadful, toxic things, but in those rare moments when they work, they can be something that approaches fun.
“We’ve nicked all the tinned goods, Kyle. Now go through the cutlery drawers for the basics, and for fuck sake—I mean for God’s sake—Yay God!—make sure we have a tin opener. Your mum is just about through loading up her golf cart.”
“I’m on it.” And off went Kyle.
Emma and I went to the hut out back. As we were pilfering the last of the bug sprays and medical supplies, we had one of those father-daughter moments that money can’t buy. We were about to walk out of the hut, talking as we went …
“I must say, Dad, Grandmum’s shiatsu client is having a terrific time. But is it natural to scream whenever …” Emma stopped and looked at the loo door at the same moment I did. We both realized the same thing at the exact same time.
“Dad, this could be the last time we experience a flush toilet for the rest of our lives.”
We were frozen to the spot. I felt as if we were all headed off to war. “Emma, why don’t you have, ummm, a farewell flush.”
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll always remember this.”
So Emma went to say farewell to civilization as I packed the last items on my golf cart, whistling “The Angry Dance” theme from Billy Elliot. I got to thinking of that crazy day on Wake Island and how it already felt like another historical era. And then I heard an echo of my song—it was Neal, joining in, doing a little Billy Elliot jig while carrying a full 10-gallon gasoline can in each hand.
“Ah, Billy the little poofter,” said Neal fondly, ending his jig with a small plié. “Dance your brains out, you gay little mite. Just don’t get caught in a bareback fourgy in the airport loo.”
Emma rejoined us then, carrying medical supplies and a twenty-four-pack of Andrex Bright & Bold tissue. “It’s more as a souvenir than for wiping, really,” she said, balancing it on the cart atop a box of shotgun shells.
“She is a chip off the old block, isn’t she, Ray? Shall we go? I can hear people approaching.”
“You and Emma go ahead, Neal. I have something I need to do.”
“But, Ray, it sounds like a lot of people.”
“This is important, Neal. It’s the Last Flush.”
Emma quickly shushed him, bless her. And I went for my final dump in the modern world.
Andrex is a British brand of toilet roll owned by the American company Kimberly-Clark. Its mascot is the Andrex Puppy, a Labrador retriever puppy that appears on the brand’s television advertising. It is sold in the U.S., Canada and Australia as Kleenex Cottonelle. In Australia, the puppy is known as the Kleenex Puppy. Kleenex is a partner and supporter of Guide Dogs Australia.
The name “Andrex” comes from St. Andrew Mills in Walthamstow, where the toilet tissue was first made in 1942. Its concept of two-ply luxury paper was conceived by Ronald Keith Kent, who also named the product. It was inspired by the two-ply facial tissues Kent had seen American women using.
Until 2004, it’s oddly pervy slogan was “Soft, Strong and Very, Very Long.” This slogan was replaced by “Be Kind to Your Behind.”
For once the gods delivered: large, well-formed, structurally sound cylinders came flowing out of my arse like it was a kielbasa sausage factory. And not phantom shits, either. These were real, visible and tangible. As I reached for the Andrex, I felt a small tear in my eye. Before I knew it, it was time for the Last Flush. I was just about to depress the handle when my Spidey sense began to tingle.
From the voices I could discern that a group had descended on Neal’s house. But it wasn’t an angry mob in pursuit of non-perishables. It was that roving fuckfest called Thong Kong—finally landing right on my doorstep.
52
Dear Reader,
I know you’re probably thinking, Oh, poor Raymond! He finally encounters Thong Kong, and now surely something is about to go horribly, horribly wrong. But strangely, after flushing, I walked out onto Neal’s immaculately manicured lawn, where—how does one even begin to explain? An orgy like something out of the Scandinavian pre-condom porn era had converted his grounds into a carnal petting zoo. The girls were so mind-meltingly hot—and largely unclad except for those wearing the remains of Japanese schoolgirl outfits. Somewhere to t
he right I heard canisters of whipped cream being deployed, and then a hand grabbed me by the collar and hurled me into a tengy. What is a tengy? It is a fourgy with six more people added. That is correct. I, Raymond Gunt, took part in a tengy. How many of you can say that?
Yours,
Raymond Gunt
Okay, so there I was in the tengy, but at first, because it was dark out, I couldn’t tell whose body parts were rubbing me—but isn’t exploration a big part of the charm? Then, in light from one of several tiki torches lit over by the infinity pool, I saw what were possibly the most melon-like breasts of my life, coming towards me in a trajectory of unmistakable lust, and I thought, “Life is good, isn’t it, Ray?” at which point my lower abdomen cramped like a Ford Fiesta slamming into a brick wall. Mother of God, the pain! I rolled over and went fetal in the hope that it was a one-off sensation, but then I cramped again and realized that my last flush was, actually, not the Last Flush. I ran back to the throne with no time to spare and proceeded to fire shit out my arse like a space cruiser entering hyperspace, all the while listening to the moaning, simpering, taunting soundtrack of Thong Kong.
Fucking hell.
After I emptied my thruster of all remaining fuel, I ran out onto the lawn to enter what was, by that point, a fifteengy. Then a woman’s voice (Who? No idea) said, “Uh, uh-uhhh … rules are you have to wash your winky before entering the fun. Pool’s over there.”
I am not an unreasonable man, and could, in fact, understand why a bit of hygiene might make the world a better place. So I scampered over to the infinity pool, hopped in and gave myself a Puerto Rican enema, then ran back to the cluster, by then a twentygy.
I heard another woman’s voice—it was Tabs!—saying, “Hi, Raymond. The girls and I have all decided that we are going to collectively give you the most intense hours of sex ever imagined in the history of humanity. Right, girls?”
Giggles and taunts of What are we waiting for, then?
Tabs led me over to the sacred rock, which was now covered with a foam mattress. Around it, vanilla-scented tea candles had been arranged, and there was also a towel to the right on which were laid out anal beads, a buggy whip and a selection of masks, feathers and silk scarves of just the right length for binding limbs.
Tabs said, “Lie down, Raymond, and get ready for ultimate tantric pleasure.”
I thought my brain was going to explode. Tabs and ten other women formed a circle around me, and Tabs said, “Let the massage begin.”
Dear God, it began, and it was heaven.
Ahhh …
Yes …
Mmmm. Perfect.
The smell of Naugahyde.
Something musky …
Ahhh …
I heard a large crunching noise. What the fuck? I looked up, and behind Tabs loomed Mother, wearing her hideous tarpaulin-like underwear. Her face was blank as she ate cheddar cheese crisps, one by one, taking time to lick her fingers thoroughly after each one. She caught me staring.
“Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just watching. Raymond? Is that you in there? Dear God!”
She approached the rock and inserted herself into my coven of erotic masseuses. Her repulsive Toby mug face. Her skin—oh God, it was the most disgusting thing I’d ever seen—like folds of vanilla cake batter dotted with the occasional chocolate chip and raisin. Colourless. Dead. Life-sucking.
“Mother, what the fuck!”
“I haven’t seen your willy, Raymond, since I caught you wanking in the loo at Sheila’s abortion party.”
“Get the fuck out of here!”
“No need to take that tone with me, son. Last time I looked, this was a free island.”
My dick shrank to the size of a raisin, and my reptile cortex yanked my balls deep inside me. The girls were giggling now, and the mood was totally shattered.
“Okay, Raymond, don’t worry,” Mother said. “I’m a modern woman. You girls go right ahead and pleasure my son. You just pretend I’m not here, even though I am.” She looked into her left bra cup. “Fucking hell, I’m out of crisps.”
53
Dear The Gods,
Was any of that really necessary? Mother? Crisps? The memory of Sheila’s dismal abortion party where there was no food and where the only wankable image available was a Jenny Craig weight loss brochure sent to Sheila by woefully misinformed postal gods? Fucking hell! I went from James Bond to Mr. Bean in two fucking seconds. Really, The Gods—no, really: would keeping Mother away from the sacred rock have been all that difficult for you?
You wanted a battle? You’ve got one. This means war. Throw me your worst, motherfuckers.
Yours with some displeasure,
Raymond Gunt
With as much dignity as I could muster, I grabbed my pile of scarecrow togs and scuttled along the trail to where the Zodiac was stashed. I was feeling sorry for myself, which is something I almost never do.
How much time had passed since Thong Kong had arrived? An hour? Two? Christ, I hadn’t even bothered to think about everyone at the Zodiac, waiting for me, wondering what was going on. Well, fuck ’em. I hoped they’d waited.
I was just about to start snivelling when I heard my name. “Raymond?”
I froze.
A woman’s voice. “Raymond!” she called again.
“Yes?”
From behind a coconut shrub emerged Sarah—Sarah! “Raymond, are you alone?”
I looked around me. “Ummm, yes. Yes, I am.”
She grabbed hold of me and gave me a massive, tongue-filled kiss. When she pulled away, she looked me deeply in the eyes and said, “I’ve got it all figured out.”
“What?”
“Our plan.”
“Our plan?”
“Yes, you silly goose, our plan.”
Our plan?
Skyrockets!
Roman candles!
Confetti!
Lots of people in ethnic garb dancing!
Cumshot compilations!
So this was what love felt like. Nothing else felt like it. Nothing. Not even the week-long coke binge Fi and I did at some record producer’s compound in Honduras.
There, on that lonely path in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, Sarah could have commanded me to die on a battlefield, but such is love: Sarah’s wish was my command.
“I’ve got a Zodiac,” she said, “and enough Spam to last us a year.”
I was speechless.
“I’ve also brought along ten hot pieces of swimwear and my entire lingerie collection.”
All I could muster was a noise like randomly typed letters on a keyboard: “Bfnlhfliahelf fhslfv dsfhelfel.”
“Oh, you silly thing. Let’s hurry. The others will figure this out soon enough. The boat’s down here.” She pulled me towards a path that led in a different direction from where Neal and I had our Zodiac stashed. So this was the moment of choice; one of life’s literal forks in the road.
“Raymond?”
“Nvnd phwqpg pgeh eljfdl.”
“You feel for me the way I feel for you, Raymond, right?”
“Mfbrigueobf.” I slowed down a little and managed, “Of course.”
“Then let your heart be your guide.”
I followed her down her path, my pulse beating so forcefully that my head felt like a tom-tom. When we reached the water, Sarah said, “Think of it as The Love Boat, Raymond—just you and me.”
There was precious little Spam in the boat. “Are you sure this is enough for a year, Sarah?”
She was undoing some ropes. “You silly! This is but a fraction of it. I’ve been stockpiling our island hideaway all week. It’s like a supermarket. You’ll see.”
I was just about to hop in when I heard, “Goodbye, then, Raymond.”
Neal’s voice. I froze.
“Don’t worry, Ray. I’m not going to stop you.”
“It’s not what it looks like, Neal.”
“Raymond, I’m on your side here.”
“Meaning?”
�
�I want you to be happy with Sarah.”
“What about Fiona and my …” The word did not come naturally to me. “… kids?”
“Fi’s pissed off, but she’ll survive. She has to keep her language clean because of the wee ones. It’s funny, actually.”
I was once again speechless.
“Before you go, I want to give you two things, Ray.”
I was feeling a bit wary now.
“First of all, the Cure T-shirt.” He pulled it over his head and held it out. “You deserve it. Not just because you found it to begin with, making it technically yours, but because you have my respect, Ray. This is my way of showing it.”
“I—I have your respect?”
“Yes, you do. And here’s one more thing.” He reached into his pocket and removed something red. The piece of red plastic. “It wasn’t really stuck up my arse all week. I’ve been carving it into a gift I wanted you to have for rescuing me and giving me one of the most exciting lives a man can lead.” He handed it over. God bless him. From the piece of red plastic, he’d carved me my own knoon.
A knoon (the “k” is silent) is a hybrid form of cutlery that combines the cutting capability of a knife with the containment capability of a spoon in a single powerful utensil. The word “knoon” is a portmanteau of “knife” and “spoon.” Typically, one or both of the outer edges of the spoon-like utensil are sharpened to allow the user to cut food.
54
Dawn was rising as Sarah and I pulled the boat into a tiny cove protected by a sandbar. Passing by, you’d never know the island was there; a genius location, lost to the world. I saw a thousand minnows in the water as we pulled up on the white coral sand beach. Sarah tied the boat to some sort of gnarled saltwater tree thingy and said, “Come here, Raymond—let me show you our new home.”
She held my hand and we walked through flowers and coconut shrubs and came to a sensational ultra-high-tech tent like the kind you’d use on the moon.
Worst. Person. Ever. Page 23
