I limp down the path that I've seen the staff use, hoping it's a short walk to wherever it is that the kitchen resides.
Oh, the irony of dying now, just as I’ve finally cracked the ending. After years of writer’s block, I break free only hours before being savagely attacked and murdered by a rabid lizard, leaving millions of fans to wonder how it all ends…
Are iguanas lizards? Maybe they’re reptiles. I really should have paid more attention in science class. Whatever they are, I know they carry some disease. I distinctly remember hearing that. Is it rabies or tetanus?
That would be an awful way to go—tetanus. The old lockjaw. I can just picture it—they'd find me at my computer several days from now, my entire body stiff, my shirt covered in foam from my mouth. Maybe I’m getting my illnesses mixed up. Is it hot out here? I feel terrible.
I can just picture the staff being interviewed on the six o’clock news, saying, “He said he wanted to be left alone, so we gave him his wish, only to have it be his doom.”
People at home eating dinner in front of their tellies will say, “Why couldn't he have been nicer? It's really his own doing, even though it’s sad since he was young and all. At least we’ll find out howClash ofCrownsends because the studio is going to finish the series for him.”
A fluttering in the brush beside me has me jumping, then crouching into a ball in the middle of the path. “Fuck off. I will kill you if I have to.”
I freeze in place, preparing for the attack. A pair of tiny yellow birds fly out from under the shrub, revealing the source of the sound. Straightening up, I chuckle at myself as I continue on.
Ten minutes later, I’m still in search of help, but am now feverishly hot, slightly delirious, and pathetically weak. I try to distract myself from the pain and dizziness by working out what I’ll say to Ms. Banks. I clearly owe her an apology and a ‘you were right.’ Yuck. I’d rather eat iguana poop than admit I was wrong. Well, not really, because ewww, but still. Does everyone hate admitting they should have yielded to someone else’s expertise? I’m sure I’m not alone in this.
Christ, I’m really sweating now. Imusthave been poisoned.
Okay, focus, Pierce. Better to apologize than die. Sort of.“Ms Banks, I have come to seek your forgiveness. I behaved rashly last night and should have listened to you…”
Or I could avoid her altogether and go straight to Mrs. Bailey’s sister and her husband. Surely, they’ll know what to do and there’s no apology required. Phyllis could call Mrs. Bailey for me to find out about the tetanus shot.
By the time I reach the beach, beads of sweat are rolling down my forehead. My linen shirt is now sticking to the skin on my back.Very posh, Pierce. Very posh indeed.I unbutton it to let in a bit of the breeze, only to discover the air is as hot and sticky on my chest as it is on my face.
Is it really this hot, or have I developed a rabies-induced fever?
I stumble a bit over a stick, then trudge on in the direction of help. The blood from my hand has now soaked through the towel. Oh, that is not good at all. I’m going to die, aren’t I?
Realizing my flip-flops are slowing me down, I kick them off, leaving them in the hot sand as I limp gingerly (and yet, in a very manly way) in what I hope is the direction of the staff quarters. When I come around the bend, I see two houseboats side-by-side.Thank Christ.
Which boat do I choose? Old, sickly couple? Or beautiful young woman I've horribly insulted? And how do I know which boat belongs to whom?
Oh, the heavens have answered my question in the form of the most magnificent, bikini-clad creature...
“Fuck me,” I mutter. The vision of Ms. Banks sunning herself can't be real. That must be a mirage brought on by the poison. No one looks that good if they aren't on the page of a magazine.
My feet make my decision for me, heading directly toward the mirage. My breathing is laboured as I reach the boat, unsure of the etiquette required in this type of situation. I need her help, but clearly, I'm interrupting her coffee break. Although surely, because I’m dying, she won’t mind being interrupted.
Hmm…How does one knock on a boat?
I stand for a moment, realizing she’s on a phone call.
“Seriously?” Pause. “Oh fine, if it means that much to you, I can try to ask him, but honestly, I may not even see him again. He's demanded his meals be left outside.” Pause. “He probably refuses to sign autographs for his fans. He’s a total wanker.”
Total wanker?That’s rather crass, don’t you think?
Feeling torn between guilt for eavesdropping and being highly insulted, I make a light coughing sound, deciding that it is the most appropriate way to address the situation.
She sits up suddenly, displaying the ample assets that are spilling out of her rather small, bright pink bikini in a way that would please any man.
Am I drooling?
Good God, I think I'm drooling. But I really can't blame myself—that's some seriousSports IllustratedSwimsuit Editionshit right there. Plus, I have rabies, so…
She ends the call quickly, then drops her phone on the deck before standing and wrapping a towel around herself. “What happened?”
“I've been attacked by a wild animal,” I say, lifting up my pant leg to display my considerable wounds.
