Worst Person Ever Part 21

His attention migrated elsewhere. "Cheryl! Where's the shot list for tomorrow morning?"

Sarah was smiling. "It's so sweet to watch you two act like little boys."

"How long have you and Stuart been together?"

"Three years now. Sometimes I wonder where it's all going. He can't seem to make his mind up about things."

The bus was nearly full.

"There are days when I'd really like to maybe start fresh with some new guy, but ..."

She looked infinitely sad. I took her hand and held it tightly in mine. "Don't worry, Sarah. Things'll all be good in the end."

She started to cry-a brave little tear, one that nearly drowned my soul.

Huh?

What was that?

A tear that nearly drowned my soul?

That was poetry! Real f.u.c.king poetry coming from me, Raymond Gunt! A total raging poet, like in some c.r.a.p bas.e.m.e.nt club surrounded by starving unf.u.c.kables speaking in tongues. Me! A fountain of poetic s.h.i.t!

Oi!

So ...

I made a vow then and there to do anything it took to make Sarah mine.

To the west, out the window, what might possibly have been the airborne remains of Seoul created the most delightful sunset imaginable.

Life is good.

36.

Now ...

I like to think of myself as a kind person. And what is so wrong with being kind? I go through my days trying to do nothing but dispense sweetness and light. Shine, shine, shine! That Raymond Gunt's a giving soul! And yet what do I get for my kindness?

There I was, on the bus, off to hook up with the network yacht-easy-peasy-when some troll from catering whisked Sarah away from me to discuss provisioning. Neal came and sat beside me and, as the bus took off, we started discussing the philosophy of love.

"You know, Ray, a real man is not one who can bed ten thousand women but he who can bed one woman ten thousand times."

"Neal, if you're going to mouth inane plat.i.tudes like that, I request that you move your end.i.l.d.oed a.r.s.e to some other seat."

"I just thought it would sound good, like a man on the telly promoting fancy biscuits because ... because ... because ..."

Because just then, the slightly aged but quite amply endowed blonde in front of us removed a shawl to reveal a profoundly unignorable cocoa-coloured skin tag projecting from her shoulder. It was perhaps an inch long, somewhat meaty, with small but distinct little horns on it, shaped like New Zealand's North Island.

"Ray, are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

"Yes, Neal. Yes, I am."

"It's like a nipple gone horribly, horribly wrong."

"Christ, Neal, the last thing I need in my life right now is to have nipples de-eroticized. And yet I can't stop looking."

"But, Ray, its colour, its texture ..."

Neal was correct: the skin tag indeed resembled a teat of sorts, not entirely Caucasian-perhaps Vietnamese or octoroon? A tiny chocolate filament sprouted from Auckland and glinted in the end-of-day magic light.

"Ray, it's like a biological toggle switch."

"Neal, could you stop making your inner dialogue an outer dialogue?"

"Why don't you flip the toggle switch, Ray?"

"What?"

"Go on, Ray, give it a tickle."

"Neal, are you f.u.c.king mad?"

"I'll bet you it's one of her erotic fantasies, having a stud m.u.f.fin like yourself flip her switch a few times in the glow of a Polynesian sunset. I'm a good judge of these things, Ray. I swear, you'd be helping her fulfill her deepest needs."

"Neal, there is no conceivable way that tiny squib is in any way erotic." Staring at the skin tag was rather like being caught in a Spam spiral, except instead of ruining my appet.i.te it was ruining my s.e.x drive. And frankly, it was also deeply creeping me out. It was as if the skin tag had achieved sentience and was staring back at me, plotting my demise.

"Ray, tell you what: if you flip the toggle, I'll give you my piece of red plastic."

"Why don't you just do it yourself, Neal?"

"Because I think you're the one who needs some s.e.xual healing, Ray, after your epic f.u.c.kfest with LACEY. Touching the skin tag will stabilize you."

The skin tag continued to stare at me, cunningly, coldly-trawling through my mind for points of weakness with which to attack me.

Neal continued. "Between you and this sadly disfigured lady in front of us, it's a yawning vortex of s.e.xual neediness."

"Okay. You have a point. But promise me this isn't some sick voyeuristic thing you get off on?"

"I promise."

"No tricks, either-I flip the switch a few times, and that plastic is mine, no catches or further conditions. And I'm still wearing the Cure T-shirt, so you really do want to stay in my good books."

"On my word."

An acrochordon, also known as a skin tag or fibroepithelial polyp, is a small benign tumour that develops primarily in areas where the skin forms creases, such as the neck, armpit and groin. Acrochorda are harmless and typically painless, and do not grow or change over time. Tags are typically the size of a grain of rice.

The surface of an acrochordon may be smooth or irregular and is often raised from the surface of the skin on a fleshy stalk called a peduncle.

Skin tags are more common in people who are overweight and in pregnant women. Acrochorda have been reported to occur in forty-six percent of the general population.

Because tags are benign, treatment is unnecessary unless the tags become irritated or present a cosmetic concern. If removal is desired or warranted, a dermatologist or similarly trained professional may use cauterization, cryosurgery, surgical ligation or excision to remove the acrochorda.

They're gross.

The way things turned out, you'd think I'd single-handedly gang-raped the woman with the skin tag-Sh.e.l.ley, it turned out her name was. These Americans and their puritanical f.u.c.king fussiness. I mean, it's not like I was getting any jollies out of reaching towards the infinitely menacing, cruel and unforgiving incubus of mottled skin that was feeding on her shoulder. And, given the force of evil that was embedded within the vile wattle, it took some guts to do what I did. And I might also add that I was helping Sh.e.l.ley fulfill a s.e.xual fantasy at the same time. Yes, give, give, give. That's me, Raymond Gunt.

Eventually, with utmost fort.i.tude, I clamped my right thumb and forefinger on Sh.e.l.ley's skin tag just at the moment our bus driver chose to run over a drunken Samoan, who quickly came to reside behind the bus's front right tire. There was a catastrophic b.u.mp, and in the blink of an eye, Sh.e.l.ley's skin tag ripped away from her shoulder, prompting her to shriek like a smoke detector. Dazzling Carrie-esque crimson fountains geysered upward. Sh.e.l.ley dashed for the door, as did our driver. I looked at my hand: in the shock of it all, my finger and thumb had seized up, leaving me unable to drop my newly liberated satanic flesh nubbin.

Neal yanked me away from the appalling mess on Sh.e.l.ley's seat back: "Ray, for G.o.d's sake, don't get any blood on the Cure shirt."

Sh.e.l.ley was out on the roadside shrieking, as was our driver, who then quickly fled on foot.

The TV production staff couldn't wait to see the carca.s.s beneath us and quickly left the bus like Muppets vacating a vaudeville stage. Fortunately, everyone a.s.sumed Sh.e.l.ley had a nosebleed or some other form of collateral damage from the collision and completely ignored her.

Neal whispered, "Ray, maybe Miss Skin Tag doesn't remember what happened-you know-post-traumatic shock from our bus having run over a Samoan."

Beneath the bus, the corpse had an almost cartoon-like dusty tire tread overtop his kidneys and lower back.

"He's a goner, he is," said Neal. "Saw lots of accidents like this back in my paramedic days-mostly after sunset at the end of bank holidays."

"Isn't there anything you can do for him, Neal?"

"Nope. Can't comfort him, because he's dead."

The crew was now photographing the scene with their iPhones. Sh.e.l.ley, thank Christ, had stopped shrieking and joined the rubbernecking crowd, her right hand clamped to the wound on her left shoulder.

Fiona, now out of the bus, dragged her attention away from her phone and was also staring at our dusty, motionless, unfortunate speed b.u.mp. She looked towards me, made an ugh noise and then went over to Sh.e.l.ley. "You: what happened to your shoulder?"

"I-I used to have a skin tag there, and now it's gone. I've no idea what happened."

"You lost a skin tag in the accident?"

I glanced ever so casually Sh.e.l.ley's way and Fiona caught me. "Raymond Gunt, you come over here right now."

I thought, You festering t.w.a.t, yet I couldn't help but obey.

"What do you know about this woman's shoulder?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Fiona X-rayed my soul. "This woman here-"

"My name is Sh.e.l.ley," Sh.e.l.ley said.

"Sh.e.l.ley here lost a skin tag during the accident, and you were sitting directly behind her."

I played it cool. "I'm sorry to hear that. Nothing too painful, I hope. Nasty things, skin tags. The devil's doorbells."

Sh.e.l.ley stared at me. From within her pain-cramped face, recognition emerged. "Raymond Gunt? Ray?"

I was baffled. "Um, yes ...?"

"It's me, Sh.e.l.ley."

"Sh.e.l.ley ..." I scoured my memory banks.

"Kodak Sh.e.l.ley. Los Angeles Airport. 1985."

Dear G.o.d ... This was the Sh.e.l.ley I'd banged in the executive lounge's men's lav at LAX back in 1985. "Sh.e.l.ley! Yes, Kodak Sh.e.l.ley. Lovely to see you again. How are you?" I was desperately trying to remember that 1985 s.h.a.g and whether there was anything iffy about it.

"You two know each other?" Fi asked.

"Intimately," said Sh.e.l.ley. "And not only that, after he had his way with me in the airport lounge toilet at LAX, Raymond here stole a set of wide-angle lenses from my display case. I had to replace them, and it cost me eight hundred bucks, and I almost lost my job, too." Sh.e.l.ley's eyes had become snaky and vengeful.

"That was swag, for Christ's sake," I protested. "n.o.body ever pays for f.u.c.king swag at conventions. You should have put it on the entertainment tab the way everyone else does."

Sh.e.l.ley raised her b.l.o.o.d.y hand to slap me, and I reflexively extended my own hand to ward off the blow. My fingers unclenched, revealing the skin tag pasted onto the meat of my thumb. Sh.e.l.ley screamed. "You monster! You stole my G.o.dd.a.m.n skin tag! I don't believe it!"

Fiona smiled. "I knew it: good old Raymond, wrecking everything again."

Sarah raced over to us as Sh.e.l.ley continued to scream. "Good lord, Sh.e.l.ley, you're hurt-you're bleeding!" She placed a comforting hand on Sh.e.l.ley's unsoiled other shoulder, vibrating with concern. (Oh! My Sarah! What an angel!) Sh.e.l.ley attacked, clawing at me with her warty she-talons. "You fricking ghoul-stealing body parts! What the h.e.l.l is wrong with a person like you?"

"Jesus, Sh.e.l.ley, I did you a favour."

"What the h.e.l.l?"

"I removed a piece of possibly carcinogenic tissue from your shoulder. I most likely saved your life, and what do I get from you? Nothing but s.h.i.t. I'm a hero. I saved you from getting cancer, Sh.e.l.ley, that's right-cancer!"

Neal leapt to my defence then, containing her flailing arms in a bear hug. "Best remove that shirt right now, Ray. I can't stop this ticking time bomb forever, and I want my shirt in mint condition."

"Right." I doffed it and handed it to Sarah, who, sensing the need for a collective gear change, said, "Look! Brave and kind Raymond is removing his shirt so he can crawl under the bus and remove the victim!" She smiled at me. "You are a wonder, Raymond Gunt. LACEY must be so proud of you."

On cue, LACEY entered our charmed circle. "Gallant, isn't he?" She picked up a small chunk of coral and threw it at my chest. "You go, hero boy. Save our day, vakubati."

Sh.e.l.ley spat at me: "You p.r.i.c.k."

Sarah looked at Sh.e.l.ley. "Calm down, Sh.e.l.ley. I'll have my personal a.s.sistant, Scott, bring you some pre-moistened towelettes so you can clean yourself up." She pulled a small walkie-talkie from her purse. "Scott, can you bring me the tub of baby wipes right now?"

Scott was five feet away. "Roger." He walked three steps towards us and removed the plastic tub of wipes from his knapsack. He handed them to Sh.e.l.ley.