Welcome to the serialized story of Mr. Harmless Bullet! A new chapter will be published every Wednesday (FREE to read). For audio - scroll down.
Genre: satire, absurdist comedy, adult humor (16+)
Written with the Tristan Tzara method - read about it here
Complete story, chapter by chapter:
Angela Marrant
CHAPTER 11. FATAL MEETING.
Who knew that writers could be so dangerous?
Hunger didn't block the flow of my brain activity. On the contrary, it activated my mind and made my neurons work at full power and speed.
It seemed strange that King Hamilton had promised Martha the position of cook. My ex couldn't make scrambled eggs even in a conscious state. The extraordinary weakness of Ms. Downhill Tasty couldn't fool me either. Unless I was kept in the dark...
Was Ms. Downhill Tasty dying?
Was she under pressure to leave the Gunung Kinabalu?
Or did she find the love of her life on the other side of the planet and decide to leave the Hamilton clan for good?
I doubted it was the last. On the other hand, you'd think Ms. Downhill Tasty was genuinely fragile, but remembering her remarks about being a fourth-generation master of OKC Marine Combat Knife Fighting, as well as her knowledge of various types of algae, only increased my suspicions.
I shifted my eyes from the sky to the dim waves of Lethe - the river of grief and forgetfulness. As Vergil described in The Aeneid, “Those who drank of it, forgot their former life and were ready for a new one.”
Yes, I was ready for a significant change!
The events of the past few days invited me to dig a little deeper into my emotional state and my love life situation. If I wanted to evolve and grow as a person, I had to change my attitude, my beliefs, and my strategy.
The raft in the middle of nowhere with four kamikaze spirits, a drug addict, an unhealthy cook, and an ex-wife was not the best start to rebuilding myself, but as my father often said, "Don't let the rocky road be a sign of the end, you are not doomed!" My Queen Sobekneferu was out there, longing to meet me and dreaming of giving me half of her body, soul, and Kingdom.
I let out a deep sigh of exhaustion when I noticed someone’s arm in the far corner— the hand that had tried to stop our raft. I shouted to King Hamilton, who had just finished her bedding preparations adapting for a peaceful sleep.
Her spicy-hot body bent into an arc, and—whistling and hooting—she threw a spear into the water. Her angry sisters repeated the same operation, but the object continued to cling to the raft.
A strong hand merged into one with the wooden side of the pontoon. Captain Happy made an invisible swing of 'saving’ motion, and the body of an unknown man, flying over our heads, landed at the feet of a surprised Ms. Downhill Tasty. Without waiting, she fainted.
The rest of our group rushed to the enemy, gathered around him in a circle and examined his pale face.
“You are a doctor. Do something,” Hamilton ordered.
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like mouth-to-mouth rescue!”
“Martha is doing wonderful mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. She was the captain of a Big Mouth Liga in our college. She saved me a couple of times, and that’s why I married her,” I started my explanation, looking around in confusion, bewildered, searching for help.
“We don’t need to know your whole life story. Please, help this poor man,” Ms. Downhill Tasty begged, and then fainted a second time.
While we argued about who should save our unexpected catch, Captain Happy bent down and kissed the man. I don’t know if it was because of the touch of the jiggling beard or the food on the captain’s quivering lips, but the man opened his eyes immediately.
“Where am I?” he shouted, shielding his mouth from the drunken smile of Captain Happy and the glowing grin of three sisters, who looked over-excited for that time of the night.
“Who are you? What are you doing here, Mister?” asked Martha, leaning against our guest.
“I don’t know... I remember being on a train to Nobel Cave with a tourist group. My name is Anthony Lee Phillips. I’m a writer.”
“Ha! We don’t need that here,” I chuckled.
King Hamilton hissed at me, holding her finger near her lips, as she was bewitched by the unusual arrival of that writer, who, beyond dispute, hypnotized her with his enthusiastic stare.
I felt abandoned. Why didn’t crocodiles eat him?
At that moment, Ms. Downhill Tasty squeezed my arm, asking me to pass on a bowl of warm chicken soup.
“I cooked it while you were unconscious, Anthony,” she smiled.
I frowned and squeaked angrily. “Someday, I’d love to have a meal like that instead of illusory corn crumbs and yucky fish jelly!”
Ms. Downhill Tasty lifted her nose and pretended she didn’t hear anything.
When got up to his feet, supported by Martha on one side and Captain Happy on the other, a crumpled piece of paper fell out of his swimming shorts. I recognized the lovely smile in the shadows of the night.
“My Margaret! Where did you get this picture, Mr. Phillips?” I cried.
“At the station between Oscar and Grammy. Somebody taped it to the toilet paper roll in the bathroom.”
“You are lying!”
I grabbed the writer by the hair and dragged him to the golden pole in the middle section of the raft. Seven thrilled figures formed a boxing ring around our two crawling bodies.
At first, we tested each other with the help of jabs and jumps. Then, I landed a good blow on the man’s ribs, following up with a hook to his jaw, watching how the American writer astutely pulled his head back.
A stupid mistake, mate! I thought.
The audience grew restless, somewhat catcalling. To them, nothing seemed to be happening — we were still alive.
Third-round bell. Still nothing…
I sat on the captain’s stool, tasting blood in my mouth, touching a cut inside of my cheek. Martha was already in the corner, massaging my sore shoulders. Her irritated voice washed over me like a comforting shower, but I couldn’t process a word of what she said.
“It’s over! Go to your beds! An equal score, 4:4,” King Hamilton announced to the thirsty-for-blood crowd.
To my surprise, all congratulations, gifts, hugs, and even a mature after-feast with Martha, for some reason, went to the writer as a recognition of his latest achievements in the field of Gunung Kinabalu’s literature and sports.
I trembled, eaten by frustration and jealousy—what if Anthony Lee Phillips became Hamilton’s favorite? Or a new doctor? Or even worse—a new King?
“Always make a show, don’t waste your words,” Anthony whispered, slapping me on the back.
“Just keep on showing, Anthony, keep on showing…” I muttered. Then, I picked a copper spoon from the floor and bit into it, growling through my teeth, “Let me warn you, Mister Phillips, sometimes showing all the details can spoil the end result of the story.”
He pretended to think for a moment and then said, “Can’t wait to see that ending, Bullet. Let’s hope it turns out well for you…”
to be continued…
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