Last Call in Boracay

Ch.2 Pt.8

"I like horse cock."

"Wh—what?"

Nathan and I are coiled like two drunken puff adders latched to our seats at Fianchetto's patio bar, rows of emptied drinks decamped on our table. Nathan's rotto, decked out in a button-downed Hawaiian fashion abortion filled with gaudy floral prints, animal skulls, and a big, blue snake, fat as a komodo dragon with its legs cut off, belly-crawling all around it.

Nathan doubles down. "I said ... I like horse cock." Down goes the Jägermeister shot. "Anything?"

My gaze slithers past him, assessing Rasputin Johnny, who's locked into some sort of sacrificial pawn seance at his precious chessboard. "Nope."

"Shit!" Nathan's body tenses, and his clenched fist pounds the table. Then, with unnerving swiftness, his demeanor calms. "Well, it still makes for a touching fable."

Nathan glares towards the supply closet at the end of the bar, where the Filipina bartendress wearing a surgical mask stands languidly. It's when he raises his left hand to get her attention that I notice the elastic bandage, crudely-wrapped down to his forewrist.

He holds it higher. Proudly. "Kiteboarded into a palm tree."

"You didn't go to the clinic?"

"No way. Not with this swine flu shit going around." Nathan's eyes grow wide. "Nasty."

I look over at the masked bartendress pouring drinks. "Jesus, should we be worried?"

"Nah! The pier's closed and the hospital's a boat ride away." He soaks up my worried expression, then a devilish chuckle. "So, we're all fucked with nowhere to go."

Trapped. I scan down at Nathan's Zodiac Killer camo backpack hugging the floor. The distant rumble of thunder sends shivers down my spine. I wonder what sort of mini-armory is inside?

He looks at his defective hand like a puppy without its chew toy. "Worst thing is it's my trigger finger."

"You still have the hand cannon?"

"Of course." A shrug. "Anyways, there once was a Marine stationed in Subic Bay … or was it Okinawa? Shit. Too many Jägermeisters, too many bases. After a long, sloppy night abusing the local girls, our hero wanders shitfaced into a tattoo parlor, braying for fresh ink. Duty. Honor. Pride. The usual bullshit. And it's gotta be his left bicep because that's his 'batin' arm. You know, bigger biceps, more reading room. And it needs to be in the local language because our hero is multi-cultural."

The bartendress delivers four Jäger shots to our table. He grins. "Salamat."

She bows gracefully, then speedwalks away.

"Where's Big Mac?"

"Who cares?" Nathan lights a new cig while admiring every stride of her gait. "She's prettier. Even with the mask." After staring longingly, Nathan pulls himself out of his lecherous trance. "Ah, important point, the tattoo-ologist on duty just happens to be the younger brother of one of the girls the marine's been abusing. So, putting the art in artist, he burns I like horse cock in big, bold Kanji characters across the marine's arm."

"Horse cock?"

"Yes, horse cock. Anyways, our proud marine returns to base. The months go by and he's exploiting more girls than ever. Everything's wonderful. Until, one day he wears a tank top to a local Japanese rodeo and gets his shit beaten to a bloody, jarhead pulp by a gang of Japanese bull riders."

I must have grimaced because Nathan's giddy as a schoolgirl. A gust of salty sea air blows against my face, stinging my eyesockets as I gaze up at the armada of greying clouds forming above us. Another rainstorm.

"There is a happy ending, however. The tattoo artist winds up becoming a big Youtube sensation dressing up as a cartoon cat and drums for a hardcore children's thrash metal band." Nathan's jubilant, fanning his cigarette smoke with confident karate chops. "Okay. Well, maybe it isn't a Disney happy ending, but it's still more heartwarming than the one about the prostitute orangutan."

He fiddles with the buttons on his shirt like he's prepping for a big date night. "Anyhoo, how's it going between you and Traci?"

"About as well as that romance novel I can't write."

"Writing's a filthy habit, especially romance, and once it leeches into you, you have to be prepared to bury yourself every day, one word at a time. Take it from Cleo Hathaway."

"Thanks, Cleo. However …" I down my shot. Ugh. Feels like gargling high-octane licorice. "… Traci's more into David Assholehopf."

Nathan shoots me a puzzled look. "Hurl?" He braces for another Jäger shot, then pounds it.

"Excuse me ..." From a table away, a turkey-necked Brit in a straw sun hat and flip-up sunglasses sips his shandy. " … But could you two asshat blokes kindly shut the fuck up?"

Peering around the patio at the panorama of disgruntled faces. Uh, oh. I nod to the bartendress and wave my credit card.

Nathan grinds his teeth and glares at his bandaged hand, then tugs at his backpack. "All right, you asked for it, fucker."

"C'mon, man. He said, Please. Shit!" I dive under the table. "Everybody run for your lives!" I hunch down and close my eyes, waiting for the inevitable screams and ringing gunshots.

Nathan's voice is as calm and clear as a Sunday mass church bell. "We're sleepwalking into a dead future and no one cares."