Worst Person Ever Part 7

"I ... yes, they did."

"You must have friends in high places. I would have thought they'd put a B-unit cameraman in a cage with the goats."

"Well, that makes me feel great."

"It's a food chain, Raymond. Get used to it. There are a few things you need to know about this show and how it's run."

"Such as?"

"Such as, it's a temple of lies built on fear and cocaine."

"I suspected as much, but hadn't dared hope it was the truth."

She laughed at me. "I'm messing with you! It's actually more like a church or a cult. You can't make any mistakes or it's ..." She mimicked slicing her throat. I honestly can't think of any other point in my life when I've fallen so hard and so fast for a woman.

She patted my arm then-contact! Please, dear G.o.d, there has to be a broom closet we can use nearby. I don't think I've ever troubled you much; just making a small request here.

"We've got to be flying to Kiribati soon enough," Neal interjected, wrecking the mood. "Any idea where our plane is?"

"Follow me."

We followed her with pleasure towards an exit surrounded by GIs or commandos or whomever it is the president hurls off to face certain death in whatever goatf.u.c.k war his country happens to be waging.

"We have to go to another terminal," Sarah explained, as we stepped out into the tropical night. "And there's our van and driver."

We hopped into a minivan and drove past a bunch of generic airport buildings-pleasantly scented airport buildings, but still, it was an airport. I tried to remember where I was, or what time it was, and just kind of gave up, happy to be like the cartoon character Snoopy, dancing his happy dance atop a c.u.mulus cloud laced with dog bones.

A thought occurred to me. "Why is it Americans are socially permitted to say 'fricking,' " I asked, "when, in fact, everyone knows the word they're actually saying is 'f.u.c.king'?"

Neal mulled this over. "That's a real conundrum, Ray."

"I know! I mean, here you have some bland ho-bag telly presenter saying, 'I'm so fricking mad' about whatever, while you, the home viewer, know she's three millimetres away from saying, 'I'm so f.u.c.king mad.' But instead of being outraged because she basically said 'f.u.c.king' on TV, everyone giggles, like she's being cute."

Sarah gave me a contemplative look.

I was on a roll. "And then, later on, when they're masturbating to the mental images of that bland ho-bag-not me, mind you, the public in general-the masturbators get turned on by the tiny fragment of difference between her saying 'fricking' and 'f.u.c.king,' like it's a little tiny sliver of p.o.r.n."

"Right," says Neal. "It's subtle, innit? But it's like ten times worse because the public is thinking, f.u.c.king, f.u.c.king, f.u.c.king. They're so full of shame or so socially conditioned that the mental effect of saying the word 'f.u.c.king' is technically amplified. By actually saying the word 'f.u.c.king' in real life, instead of 'fricking,' you're doing American society a favour."

"Exactly," I said.

At that point, the minivan's driver-some bearded chunk of chewed-up-and-spat-out social debris-pulled to the side of the road, turned around and started screaming at us, "Shut up! Shut up, both of you! I have a nephew in Iraq!"

Neal and I genuinely had no idea what on earth was going on.

"Iraq?" Neal said.

"Iraq?" I queried. Then we did it again.

"Iraq?"

"Iraq?"

Was he serious? "Sorry to hear that, sir," I said, "but could we keep on going?"

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"Not until you apologize," the driver said.

For what? "For what?" I wondered.

"For using the F-word."

"What is the connection between me using the F-word and your nephew being in Iraq?" I was baffled.

"Don't make things worse."

"Make what worse? I can't apologize for something I don't even know I've done, can I? I just don't get the link."

"Get out of my van!"

"No f.u.c.king way. Now you owe me an apology."

Neal backed me up, as a good slave a.s.sistant should. "As opposed to the apology you want to extract from us, which doesn't make sense no matter how one approaches it."

"Thank you, Neal."

"You're welcome, Ray."

Sarah said, "Driver, there's an extra twenty in it for you if you ignore these pinheads."

"No, ma'am, I'm taking a stand here."

Insanely loud volleys of trucks stuffed with pineapples and bound-and-gagged wh.o.r.es destined for Dubai roared past us, shaking the van.

I said, "Okay, then, so on one hand you have Iraq, which is what it is. And then on the other you have the difference between 'fricking' and 'f.u.c.king,' which is basically the difference between the letters 'RI' and 'U'."

Neal added, "You could almost make it a scientific equation, like: Iraq = U RI "I don't think so, Neal. It would be more like a differential equation: "I see," Neal said. "Much more subtle."

"I rest my case."

By this point, our purple-faced driver (shades of Mr. Bradley) had opened his door, got out, come to the right side door panel, opened it and was screaming for us to leave. Talk about baffling. "Sarah," I asked, "can you tell us what on earth this guy is on about?"

"You said it yourself, Ray. Americans don't like swearing."

"But Iraq? What the f.u.c.k?"

"It's ... complicated."

"So there's a relationship between fricking-f.u.c.king and Iraq?"

"Perhaps in a theoretical way."

"Neal, close and lock the doors."

"Done, boss."

The driver started pounding on the side of the van.

"Sarah, use your iPhone to capture a few seconds of our driver going apes.h.i.t."

"Done."

I hopped into the driver's seat. Before he added two and two, we peeled away. I asked Sarah, "Which way to the hangar?"

"Next exit, three buildings on the left."

"And when we get questioned about why we took off in his van?"

Sarah wore the expression of a child choosing the candy bar she wants. "He kept on saying he wanted to frick me. Like he was obsessed. But I thought, Sarah, you're a big girl, you can take it. Then he stopped saying 'fricking' and started saying 'f.u.c.king'."

Neal said, "And that's when Ray and I snapped out of our jetlagged sleep. We couldn't believe this nasty piece of work was. .h.i.tting so explicitly on Sarah." Neal was instantly, deeply, into the story. " 'Fricking' is one thing, but 'f.u.c.king' is a whole new level."

"Oh, thank heavens I had you two there to rescue me."

"Think you'll be pressing charges, then?"

"I'll certainly discuss the idea publicly."

Ah, when life is good, it's great, isn't it? c.o.c.ktails. Laughter. Me looking like an alpha Jason Bournelike killing machine in front of the woman I now officially loved. Added bonus: a sidekick to torture who also feeds me good lines. I didn't want our minivan ride to end, but it did, at a small satellite terminal for private jets.

We pulled up to the curb. The head of local transportation asked, "Where's Dino?"

I said, "You mean our driver?"

"That's him."

"Sarah?"

Sarah took Dino's dispatcher aside. While she spoke with him, the man nodded gravely and looked suitably outraged. As Sarah came back to us, I heard her say, "For the good of the show-and because right now is more about the memory of Matt Bradley than it is about me-I'm going to let it slide. But you might want to get Dino in for some counselling."

"You're a wise and kind woman, Sarah," I said, and she giggled.

Inside, the hangar lobby resembled the Columbine parking lot, network TV people keeled over and looking miserable in the wake of Mr. Bradley's death.

Sarah vanished while we stood for a few minutes trying to decipher the action. She returned with a cartoonishly handsome executive-type guy. He barely glanced at us, then asked her, "Are these the two B-unit camera guys?"

"It's them. Guys, this is Stuart."

"Great." Stuart proceeded to ignore us, quizzing Sarah. "Did you get a refund of the Fiji tickets?"

"I did."

s.h.i.t. This guy was Sarah's boyfriend-my compet.i.tion.

Sarah turned to us. "Fellas, we're going to be a little while organizing a thing or two. Go grab a bite from the vending machines." She gave each of us a pile of U.S. dollar bills and a chaste kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for rescuing me back there."

I said, "Our pleasure, ma'am. I didn't know Matt Bradley for long, but I know he would have done the same thing."

She giggled a big satisfying giggle and went off to wherever. But Stuart didn't follow her. Instead, he came up to me. "Okay, fella," he rumbled. "I can see you mind-raping my Sarah, so I'll ask you to stop right now. If I ever get even the slightest inkling that something is happening, I'll sweep down from the sun with one thousand of my best ninjas and carve you into hamburger. Am I clear?"

"Uh ..."

"Am I clear?"

"Right. Loud and clear."

"When are we leaving for Kiribati?" Neal asked him, trying to break the tension.

"No idea. Screw off, the both of you." Stuart stalked away.

12.

Maybe you have a Stuart McDoucheworthy in your life. Look at me, I'm Stuart. When I check myself out in the mirror, I think I'm better-looking than even, say, Matt Damon. I coast on my good looks.

"A right d.i.c.khead," Neal observed.

"No, he can't be a d.i.c.k, Neal, because he's a t.w.a.t." At least Matt Damon has the talent to play Jason Bourne. Without his looks, Stuart would be nothing more than, well-he would be nothing more than me. Except I am a well-rounded bloke seasoned by a life of adventure; it kills me to think of all the attention Stuart gets just because he has a f.u.c.king chin. I seriously wish that Stuart had spent his entire childhood being serially a.r.s.e-raped by teachers, scoutmasters, members of the clergy, relatives, policemen, doctors, door-to-door salesmen and all registered s.e.x offenders within a 500-mile radius of his unprotected bedroom.

Neal said, "This certainly mixes up your mating strategy, doesn't it, Ray?"

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"It's pretty obvious you want to bonk Sarah till her skull pops. Even that clueless American t.w.a.t noticed that. Shall we hit the vending machines while we're hanging about, Raymond?"

"Might as well."

Okay.