"WEEKEND AT THE WESLEYS" PART 2
Recap - As you will recall, Vince and Ella’s first night on the island at the Wesley’s was pretty boozy. They’d both successfully disinhibited themselves through an excess of martinis, spritzers, and for some stupid reason, digestifs. Our pair had successfully blown the doors off with the who’s-who of Little Cove, despite harbouring some instinctive concerns about the Wesley’s crazy-eyed idiosyncrasies. Saturday was golf day. Vince was due at the first hole by 9am with his partner, Lionel Wesley. Vince was a bit rubbish at golf but he looked the part and was good enough to clown his way through 18 holes. (read part 1 in full HERE)
Vince woke with unexpected optimism about his well being. It was, however, short-lived. He attempted to walk around the bed, and discovered that he was, in-fact, still drunk. ‘This is good,’ he thought to himself. ‘The best golf I have ever played was like this…’.
He leant quietly over the bed and put his ear to Ella’s dribbling mouth to make sure she was still breathing. This was confirmed with a humid whiff of alcohol, mixed with a tell-tale tinge of Pecorino Romano. He calculated 6-7 hours before she would be awake and another 1.5 before her sound re-emergence into society.
It was 8.15am and Vince made for their lodging’s personal sauna just outside . He slung his flannel pleated golf slacks, roll-neck, nylon quarter-zip and matching gilet over his shoulder, and perched his dad-cap loosely on his head. He tip-toed over the grass towards the little sauna house that looked out over the sea. Stepping into the misted air, he immediately bumped into a slippery warm object. He shrieked, ‘UUUUUUURGHUUUUR!’ and then launched backwards only to singe the delicate underside of his scrotum on the radiator - TSSSSSSS! - thus releasing another startled shriek ‘OW-AAAAAAAARGH!’.
A calm, lisping voice cut through the vapour - ‘Good morning Vincth, I’m sthorry to sthtartle you, are you alright my friend?’.
Vince panted, ‘Oh Nate, it’s you. J*sus, mate, you scared the crap out me. Yeah I’m ok but I think I’ve burnt myself a little, eeer.. but it’s nothing… epfff’. Vince was desperately trying to conceal his pain - ‘thda… ffff… I really wasn’t expecting anyone in this sauna to be honest, Nate’.
“It’sth my favourite sthauna on the property, it’sth where I come after my two daily lapsth of the island”.
‘You run around the whole island twice? What the hell?!’. Vince was genuinely surprised.
‘No, I sthwim’ said Nate calmly.
‘Ooo-kaaay,’ said Vince, utterly discombobulated at this point.
‘Are you sure you’re ok Vincth? That didn’t sthound good. Why don’t you sthit down?’ said Nate.
‘I’m ok thanks, Nate. I'm gonna jump in the pool. We need to be at the first tee by 9 anyway’.
Vince briskly but gingerly made for the pool leaving Nate in the steam.
‘It can’t be… is this retribution for Gstaad?’. (You will remember that Lionel’s own sac had to be surgically separated from Vince’s boot buckle - the occasion that led the two to meet. It’s an intimate thing to see another man’s nether-flesh torn open in front of you). Again, flashes of Lionel’s sinister laughter and crazed eyes shot through his head. Vince thought perhaps, at the very least, this was all there was. Perhaps he wouldn’t be found clubbed to death by Nate after all. No blood splatter on the green or bodies tossed off cliffs. They may be a bit crazy these Wesleys, but perhaps this was just an elaborately planned game of ‘eye-for-an-eye’.
By the fifth hole Lionel was suspicious of his partner's behaviour. He had to enquire why Vince sat obliquely in the golf cart, wincing at every bump.
‘Hey there Vince, are you ok buddy, you seem a little distressed’.
By this point, Vince had to strongly consider his answer.
‘Actually, I’m not… I’ve… I’ve burnt my… my… my balls’.
‘What the heck?!’ exclaimed Lionel.
There was a pregnant pause, only the electric hum of the cart filled the vacuum. Lionel eventually puffed out a small laugh with a certain disbelief to it.
‘Ha, fancy that Vince’.
A moment passed before Lionel suggested, ‘Well, I guess you’re about to find out why God gave you that funny bit of skin on your elbow. Let’s get you back to the club house buddy. We’ll take care of this’.
In the men’s locker room at the club house, Lionel called the only plastic surgeon on the island, the fully tartan-clad loon named Dr. Busby. The club house was full, most pairs had played half way through at this point and lunch was being served. Nate had also appeared, in his typically creepy way, by just appearing. He had a matching olive-coloured golf get-up and one flock of hair perfectly awry, suggesting a sort of sportive flare. He stood still with an ambivalent and vacuous gaze. The jocund and geriatric Dr. Busby was going deaf, so he tended to project his voice more than necessary, alerting the whole club house to Vince’s misfortune: ‘Nate, go fetch some ice and the First Aid kit won'tcha lad. Vince has done some grave damage here! Hah! I haven’t seen a scorched scrotum like this in years! In fact, the last seared sac was that of Private Nile Gilman. It was in Vietnam, the buffoon rode the muzzle of that Howitzer like a bronco. Hahaha!... Instantly sterilised himself, the damned fool! Ha! Anyway Vince, it's not as bad as old bat-and-no-balls-Gilman, but jeez it must hurt, laddie! It looks like an ‘In-N-Out’ burger pattie! Ha!’.
Lionel contributed, ‘Yeah, oooof! You know what it reminds me of, Harry? It reminds me of the lamb’s fry at the college canteen, you remember that? Ha! Awful stuff!’.
‘Smells much the same, too, doesn’t it! Or perhaps a bit more like sweetbreads?’
‘Yeah actually that’s it Harry you’ve nailed it - crumbed sweetbreads!’.
Lionel and Harry joyfully continued their comparisons while a crowd began to form around the locker room door. It was all too much - nauseated, distressed, and dehydrated, Vince blacked out.
To be continued...
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