Last Call in Boracay

By Randy Duke

Zombie travelogue comedy in the tropics. Debauched expats from hell get more than they bargained for when it turns out their tiny island paradise is ground zero for a zombie apocalypse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Randy Duke
• Release date: Jun 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227114211

Randy Duke

Randy Duke has been writing gonzo from the get go, contributing articles in the virtual sphere for Gonzo Today, GoGonzoJournal, and Bad Literature, Inc. When he's not scribbling on his computer, you can be sure he's traveling, exploring, and searching for that perfect Pisco sour. Cheers.

Book preview

The Great Re-Launch

The word adventure has gotten overused. For me, when everything goes wrong – that's when adventure starts -Yvon Chouinard

It was anything but a straight shot.

A foggy, pre-dawn cab ride gouging ice ruts up the 205.

The frantic luggage dump at PDX, followed by a bloated four-coffee, three-Cinnabon flight delay.

A forty-four minute, 33,000-foot roller coaster assault on Seattle, nutsack plastered to the belt buckle at touchdown. A quick bathroom break, then a mad dash for Sea-Tac's lounge: three venti vanilla lattes, two chocolate eclairs, three Blue Moons with extra orange slices for vitamin C, all Jenga-ed onto a bacon, sausage, and Belgian waffle tower slathered in maple syrup.

Back up in the air, the cabin goes dark. REM comas for the lucky few, while us insomniacs stare holes through our alternative realities of choice: Plotless movies. Unintelligible subtitles. Mindnumbing video games. A veritable documentary wasteland, circa 2011: The making of the Bugatti Veyron. Airbrakes and 17k dollar tires. A tour through Rome's catacombs. A desembodied British voice squeaks like Sir David Attenborough sucking helium while being donkey-punched in the pills. Breathless reporters spew hyper news about societal collapse in North Korea. Crowds of villagers prostrate themselves in apoplectic fits. No time for context. Only sheer madness.

My face and palms are lubed in sweat. I'm dressed Green River serial killer chic for the grim realities of Portland's December, swaddled in long underwear top and bottom, flannel shirt, jeans, three layers of argyle socks, light windbreaker inside heavy bomber jacket, camo boonie hat. The petite lass on my left stuffs in her earbuds, avoiding eye contact.

Dinner is served. Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes, green beans, and lime jello jigsawed into a glorified egg carton. Afterwards, I rip open a family fun-sized bag of sour gummy worms from carry-on, washing it down with econo-bottles of Drambuie lifted from the bar cart. Want some, ma'am?

The faceplate recoils. Pure horror.

Another beeline to the lavatory, squeezing past the anorexic guy's legs splayed on his girlfriend's lap as she reads a Cleo Hathaway romance novel. Submerged Desires. Sounds like a steamy classic, I'm sure, but Ichabod's been dead to the world since take-off. Lucky Turd.

The washroom degrades with each visit. Flight nerves? Bowel anxiety? There is no medical catch-all term for what trumpet blasts out a middle-aged colon six miles up at eight-tenth Mach for eleven hours . . . and we're out of toilet paper? My God. A deep breath of the befouled gummy worm and Belgium waffle tar pit dipped in Drambuie coffee grounds churning below me.

How did it come to this?

Methwaukie. A derelict suburblet nestled on the outskirts of Portlandia. The Dark Bar. A windowless public for-profit insane asylum lit with old neon beer signs and juiced to the tits with poison-swilling sports geeks, pool hustlers, video poker junkies, and Methodists.

Boraclay? Gus, my Argentino-American doppleganger in crime and drunken spirit monster, slams down his J & B shot then ashes his cigarillo. Whats the flucks a Boraclay?

Boracay I chuckle. At first I thought it was some Middle East backwater. I nod and paw at my PBR pounder. You know, big oil money, but no . . . My boney pointer finger stabs at the grimey tabletop. . . . it's a sliver of rock and white sand jabbed smack dab into the Philippines' vital tourism aorta.

What's this squishy stuff underneath the writer's booth? Dark Bar Rule Number One: Never look down.

Well, flucking bonito, Duck, but why? Gus belches theatrically, then lights up a death stick and sits back, spewing a long pungent blue cloud between the hockey-puck-sized gaps in his teeth.

Good question. No sense bringing up the long-distance blind date. Reeks of desperation. Why not? I've flailed my entire adulterated life in the western hemisphere, why not Southeast Asia? Blurred memories. Yesteryears lost beneath the time stamp of adolescence, followed by a dismal product launch into adulthood. Besides, I got a weird email from a high school chum. Gus laughs as I swat the stench from my nostrils. Well, not really a chum . . . more of a co-survivor. Dong-eun Kwon.

¿Qué? Gus raises an ungroomed eyebrow and gulps his beer, then, after a spastic belch, places his glass next to an overfilled ashtray, making ample room for his breakfast nacho.

Little Korean dude, shorter than me . . .

That's no weird.

Who rocks a mohawk mullet, listens to the Plasmatics and sucks at math.

Aye.

Yeah. The star quarterback cashed in all his athlete privilege chits by cheating off the only Asian in class that couldn't wrap his head around commutative algebra.

Aye, stereotripes can hurt. Lets the buyers be awares.

Yeah. Tanked our football season. Afterwards, the cheer team made up racist chants while the varsity squad took turns beating the crap out of him in a conga line under the bleachers during a pep assembly for School Pride Day.

Ouchitos. Aye, sounds like the futbalistas shoulda's mixed valium suppositories with they steroids. Gus absent-mindedly taps his cigarillo's ashes into his beer, then takes a deep swig.

Didn't see THAT one coming. Oh. . .kay? Anyways, Dong and I became fast and only friends, bonding over our social war wounds. Everybody brags about how they won every fight, but somebody has to tell the other side of the story.

Wait, is it gum under the table? Maybe glue? "After spending sophomore year in traction, the Donger joins the photography club, gets weird and then gets . . . even. Roams the halls in an over-sized wool Soviet Army trenchcoat with an old Nikon dangling from his pencil neck. Strolls into the cheerleader's locker room for an impromptu fashion shoot. Boom. Expelled."

Aye, sounds like a dreamer. Gus curls a big, fangless grin.

I glance down at the green smear covering my hand. Ugh. Yep. Dried boogers. Never, ever look down. Years later it turns out his parents were big in Filipino real estate. Where's that napkin? I don't know how he knew how bad I'm drowning in the American shit show, but he sends a virtual life-preserver: Forget the past. Come to Boracay. Help him run a hotel. The Manila Dahlia. A solid do over.

I look up as Gus disengages his pointy finger from deep inside the crook of his left nostril. A shudder. Or I could stay here and smoke crack? What do you think?

But Duck, you don't knows anythings 'bouts hotels. You is incontipent. He looks around listlessly for a missing napkin before slathering the snot on the table's underside, then pushes away his massive, half-eaten plate of nachos and leers at the twin towers of stacked cocktail glasses on our flanks. ¿Listo?

I want to puke, but play it casual. The Law of the Bro Code. Oh, I'm more than ready. My best Jack Nicholson psycho grin and a nod at the towers. The question is, are you?

Dios mio, Duck, I is borned ready. He crosses himself, solemnly. Besides, a hearty brexfast is bueno for mi kundalini.

Craning my neck towards the bar back, I raise my hand, but Gayle, the Pippy Longstockings mixologist, is way ahead of me, ambling over with a small fire extinguisher and a blowtorch. Hey, Dougie.

Hi. Gus and I grab our straws. So, what do you think? Eek out the rest of my life here in this three-ring prison clown country disguised as a shopping mall or . . . make an Usain Bolt to southeast Asia for fun in the sun and sand in Boracay?

Gus puckers his lips like he's gambling away his unemployment check at the video poker machine. Eh, is a no blainer. Takes it from The Gustradamus . . . The familiar smile. Rows of rotting teeth. . . . Adios Duck y makes lots of juicy notes.

Notes? I take a deep breath and nod to Gayle. She smiles mischievously, then lights the Sambuca and Coffee Liqueur on fire and pours it over the stacked glasses. Blue flames lick around us as we dip into the concoction, sipping furiously before the straws melt. Dual Flaming Lamborghinis. Breakfast of champions.

Sí. I feels a great Argentino-American novel comings on, just readied to be ejasculated out. Belch. Duck, you is no hung chicken. So don't makes a fools of yourselfs like last times.

I wince.

Gus exhales a thick, viscous smoke cloud from his nostrils and jabs his cigarillo at me. Takes confidence with yourselves. Remembers, when push sniffs the glove, you is a killer, Duck.

He extends his boney digits for a handshake, but I pull back, not having any of his snotty good cheer. After some seconds, he manages a weak cough, then gives an awkward thumbs up.

A deep exhale. Don't you worry, Gus. I'll make us proud.

Back on the flying cauldron, the restroom door rattles. A stern knock, then a feminine voice, exuding restrained professionalism. Excuse me, sir, is everything . . . ah . . . hunky dory in there?

Shit. And too much of it. I assess the non-existent toilet paper supplies, then improvise, navy SEAL style . . . and . . . there. Now we're out of hand towels. A strategic sacrifice.

The knocking intensifies. Sir- I pop out the door enshrouded by a blast of smelly fog, instantly disintegrating her practiced smile. Oh!

Sorry. I plug my nose and plod past. I mean really. Sorry. There's not enough blue water in the whole wide world . . .

Somehow, I accidentally elbow the Lucky Turd in the struggle back to my assigned seat.

Leaning forward, I perch my head on the foldable plastic dinner tray, dreaming it's a 600 Thread Count Egyptian cotton pillowcase at a four-star hotel. Must sleep . . .

. . . Not. Even with the lights out, we're overfed and strapped down like rows of eight-pound lab rats trapped in the wooden entrails of a BDSM ventriloquist dummy being beaten with rubber mallets in a psychotic girl's flying teahouse dungeon. Passengers queue like constipated golems for the front bathroom, more dead than alive. Even the plane's engines sound exhausted, like they're running less on jet fuel than our collective BO. But the Lucky Turd's conked out, again, snug as a sleeping bug in a rug.

We nudge past Kim Jong-il's Hermit Kingdom and scream into Incheon International Airport. It's a flat-out sprint through 'the world's cleanest airport' for my connection, then back up in the air.

After a Kimchee and asparagus dinner, an acute case of the silent-but-deadlies. Non-stop. The elderly Japanese couple next to me flag down the young attendant. They squawk in harsh tones, with what sounds like desperate pleas as the wife places her kerchief over her mouth and nose. Then POOF! They are whisked away towards the better seating in the front, beyond the vague mysteries of the first-class curtain. Sorry, but good for them . . . and me. More elbow room.

Midnight chaos reigns supreme at Manila airport. Incheon's sanitized order's been replaced by a menagerie of jetlagged bodies snaking chaotic lines to infinity. I pick a human clot and press forward. The airport customs agent stares stone-faced, immune to the constant hum of weird entreaties.

My mind's eye occupies itself, conjuring conversations. Uh, hello there fair customs person. As you can see, these are the papers for my authentic, game-bred prize-fighting chicken and he MUST accompany me on the next flight to Borneo or all hell will break loose in Sarawak. Yes, first class of course. After all, Juara is a champion.

After changing currency and a game of hide-and-seek at the baggage carousel, it's out to the street. A leprous vagrant opens his trenchcoat. Cellphrones. Watches. Weed.

My brain locks up. How did he know I needed a good wristwatch?

He gyrates and points way off into the darkness of the city distance. How about a disco, hookers and cocaine?

Ah, uh . . . I can't dance. I shrug and roll my luggage past as he shouts in Tagalog.

A twelve-minute taxi ride to the stopover hotel. Six-hours staring up at the dirty broken ceiling fan in a glorified cardboard box with communal restroom.

Early morning wake-up with the sweats. Now, this is humidity. A short taxi ride back to the airport gives me time to reflect and re-calculate. Last night's cabbie overcharged me 400%.

Not too shabby.

Fuck Hell. What was that? The lady in 2A screams first. We're forty-minutes into a puddle jumper ride in an 40-seat ATR-42 to Panay Island when the turbulence hits. Then . . . silence. Heart beats skip waiting for whatever's next: either a glib Well, that was quite the jostle back there, eh? or Holy Fuck! We're doomed!

Seconds later and we're still alive, apparently, so I order a couple of San Miguel's to quell the onset of the dry heaves and stare out the window at an island shaped like an atrophied dinosaur testicle floating in the Sulu Sea.

Boracay. Björn, a jovial man in his fifties with a garish, seventies-styled leisure suit barely covering his pot-belly, clucks in a thick Swedish-Chef accent. We're close. Or is it a thick Norwegian-Chef accent? Anyway, I still want him to be a Björn.

To get to Boracay you've gotta land in Caticlan, the north port town on Panay, Boracay's southern big brother island.

Sadly, my work requires more and more travel to Manila. A sigh. Precious time away from my Ludmila. Björn smiles and pulls out his fat wallet full of stock Christmas photos of his precious wife, who sports a magnificent Marg Simpson beehive haircut alongside two gap-toothed children dressed as zit-faced reindeer.

You're a lucky man.

Yes, but it's important work and the company's expanding at breakneck speed. We now supply all the critical cheeses to Heidiland in D'Mall. Gouda and Manchego mostly.

I hand the family photo back to him. Ludmila must be very proud.

Very. How about you? Family?

No, I strangled the ol' wife and kids and family Shar Pei. They're buried right under the 'welcome mat' on the front porch. But something like that might get me tossed from the plane and that wouldn't fly at this airspeed. No.

Oh, well that's good, too. His smile dissipates as he tightens his seatbelt. Are you a white-knuckler flyer?

Not usually.

Well, get ready. The runway is quite short.

'Welcome to Caticlan Airport. Gateway to Boracay.'

After a dicey landing, the herd lumbers through the humidity to Caticlan's jetty port, forming three separate lines to pay a Terminal Fee, Environmental Fee, and a Boat Fare Fee.

It's as I'm heading to an outrigger banca for a short boat ride to Boracay that I feel the shoulder tug. Instinctively, I whip around. A young Filipino with a bent mouth grinning from ear to eyebrow pulls at my roll away. Is this a brazen daylight rip-off or a good Samaritan? For some seconds we're locked in this unnerving tug-of-war contest of strength and weird smiles before my luggage careens to the ground.

What the shit is this? A distinctive buZZZZing emanates from the orange-on-grey Rockland carry on. The good Samaritan shakes his head and snatches it up. Together, we walk the fifty feet to the boat, where he chucks my vibrating suitcase onboard, then holds out his tip hand for a