Worst Person Ever Part 29

It was dark out, but you'd never know it by the temperature. As we left Neal's casa, I was instantly homesick for its kicka.s.s air conditioning. Weather reports never mention mugginess, do they? No. No, they don't. They only show little suns or clouds. If I ran the weather service, I'd invent new icons for South Pacific swelter: tiny gas chambers or tiny dishwashers with their doors wide open and chokingly hot steam billowing out.

f.u.c.king heat.

I said, "So, Billy, can you give me a hint about Fiona's special surprise?"

"No."

"Come on."

"No."

"Has she located a patch of quicksand for me to investigate? A flock of sleeping HIV-infected bats she wants me to startle awake with a foghorn? Or perhaps she wants to feed me a pudding made from time-expired dairy products?"

"Raymond, I'm not telling you anything. Neal, how's your ankle on this sandy path?"

"I'll make it okay, Billy. Thanks for asking."

I was incensed. "I'll make it okay? Neal, for f.u.c.k sake, you're talking like you've lost a limb in Afghanistan."

"Leave him alone, Raymond. A sprained ankle is nothing to laugh about."

"Okay, how much farther to go, Billy?"

"Just around the corner."

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 n.o.body seemed to notice me or make eye contact with me. Hmmm.

Just then Stuart walked by. "f.u.c.k 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 a.r.s.ef.u.c.k 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. f.u.c.king 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 n.o.body 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. G.o.d. 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 c.o.c.kroaches 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 pa.s.sed 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 b.o.o.b 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 f.u.c.k? 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 f.u.c.king s.h.i.t-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 f.u.c.kers-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 l.u.s.ty 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 Sat.u.r.day 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-h.e.l.l 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d ...

"No! Please! Stop!"

I gently removed my daughter's a.s.sisting 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 s.e.xual 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, s.e.x is allowed between people who are p.u.b.escent or post-p.u.b.escent. 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 n.a.z.i catalogue models from the 1930s. How was this even possible? My own DNA is about as viable and st.u.r.dy as a strip of dead ca.s.sette 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 f.u.c.king h.e.l.l? 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 b.u.t.ted 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 s.h.a.g 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 doc.u.menting 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 f.u.c.king 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 s.h.i.tty 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 f.u.c.king 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 f.u.c.k 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-b.o.n.e.rs 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 d.i.l.d.os, 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 pa.s.sed, I thought, f.u.c.k it.

"Oops!" said the b.u.t.terfingered f.u.c.kmuppet. "I'll just gather all of this up."

"I'll help," said Emma. "What is all this stuff, anyway?"

The f.u.c.kmuppet paused briefly, a.s.sessed Emma's level of cluelessness and said, "Just some chew toys. You know-dogs will be dogs. Ha, ha, ha."