Last Call in Boracay

Ch. 3 Pt. 7

We beat a hasty retreat down a threadbare alley of ransacked mom-and-pop shops crammed with a fallen battalion of masseuses, masseurs, and transmasseursi in blood-stained nurse scrubs.

"Quit pointin' dat thing at me." Jon swats at my shotgun then waves away the decaying stench and hordes of flies. "Bloody 'Ell."

Ah, there it is, past the rusted, rickety green fence: The Mange Dog. Rooted on the ground and quasi-lifeless from the blood-boiling humidity, it strains to lift its head as if to say, Zombie Apocalypse? Couldn't give a rat's ass. It's nap time.

A drift to the right and we're heading north on the famous White Beach sand. A few steps in and Nathan's face flushes with a self-satisfied grin. "Randy Duke: Outback Dingo Hunter."

"What?" I stop in my tracks.

"Your first working title."

I shake my head.

Nathan re-assesses. "Maybe a non-working title. Sweet shitastik monkey balls!" He nearly falls, then frowns at his stiletto heels. "Stole them from a WNBA power forward. I mean, why pay for some uncomfortable hunk of designer crap?"

"Why are you wearing those?"

Nathan lifts one foot, shakes off a snare of kelp, then points his precious ankle-wrapped heels towards me in a supermodel pose, before shaking the sand out. "Because they match my skirt."

From my peripheral, I catch movement to the south. Far away. Is that a--? "Zombie. Six o'clock."

Jon winces. "Day ain't zombies!"

Nathan struggles to put his shoe back on. "Shambler or runner?"

I adjust my glasses and screw my eyes into slits at the blob sloth walking through the distant surf. "Shambler."

Jon points his pistol at the walnut-sized blur before Nathan turns around and clucks. "Nah. Too far."

Jon re-aims.

Nathan huffs. "Waste of ammo. C'mon."

Jon puckers up so tight you couldn't drive a straight pin up his ass with a ten-pound sledgehammer, then locks on target. His index finger hovers over the trigger. More sweating. More fidgeting. "Tom's tits." He sighs, droops his shoulders, and walks away.

Nathan slaps him on the back. "Don't worry. You'll get your chance."

After a sandy, sweat-soaked hike we come within a Tiger Woods 5-iron shot of Willy's Rock.

~

THE GUS' PHILIPPINES GUIDEBOOK PROUDLY PRESENTS:

Willy's Rock (Boracay Grotto)

Aye, Is you finds yourselves struttin' long Boracay's beautified waters near Station Uno y sees a prehistoric tugboat haulin' a terrariam wedged ashore with the Blessed Virgin Mary makin' googly-eyes, relax, it ain't no acid tripe.

¡Felicitaciones! You is at Willy's Rock, (Pussies calls it the grotto) one of them most recognated places on the isla. So, climb abroad (Mucho cuidado walkin' the stairway to Mary, though) Slick Willy, whip out yer phone and make photobomb whoopie 'til your tourista's heart bursts from contentment. Is free.

Free Willy's Rock got its groovy name from the nearby Willy's Beach Club Hotel. You sees, Boracay not only has four kilometers of white beaches, but also vulcanized creations, and one is Willy's Rock, well, except for them stairs, and the handrail, and the picture of the Virgin Mary. Those ain't vulcanic. They was built by the Aswang.

Aye, that is another storied.

Is recommendated you bee-bop to Willy's at low tide, to avoid that whole pesky drownin' thingee. That is, unless you plan on havin' a tourista frat kegger next to Mary, then takin' an Acapulco cliff dive faced-first from the top, in which case is recommendated to break your neck at high tide.

¡Felicitaciones!