Burning Desires
Part II
by Kerry Joyce
illustration by James Corwin
The year was nineteen sixty nine. It was always nineteen sixty nine on the island of Sangre Diablo. It had been that way for over twenty years.
“No point in changing now,” most folks said.
After docking, we sat for several hours on our small cramped dingy until Doctor Reeky at last looked up from his copious note taking and suggested we go ashore.
“Dr. Reeky, you are a veritible petri dish of great ideas,” Dr. Crittendon gushed.
Off in the distant foothills, a reggae band could be heard performing the “Ballad of the Green Berets.” That is, if you happened to be on whatever Dr. Crittendon seemed to be taking.
A small hut greeted us at the shore. More accurately, it was a man dressed in a way that was remarkably architectural. In fact, he appeared identical to every Whammo hut franchise the world over. Except that this Whammo hut walked with the help of seventeen members of his immediate family.
“The local by-laws prohibit any fixed structures on the beach,” the man wearing the hut wheezed, “but the Whammo hut corporate types say I gotta have a building if I’m going to keep my franchise. So I came up with this. Look, I’m even handicap accessible,” he said with a rasp as he and his family executed a perfect about face, then demonstrated the electric ramp at the rear entrance.
“Cost me eight grand installed,” he said proudly. It was well worth a little inconvenience though. On a hot summers day there’s nothing like a cool glass of ice cold Whammo. A franchise on the beach was well worth its weight in gold if you could handle the overhead. “No Fruit Ever, We Guarantee It” was the official Whammo slogan, first coined by company president Edgar H. Whammo specifically for the Sangre Diablo franchise back in nineteen sixty nine.
“In the isolated natural splendor of Sangre Diablo, the inhabitants pay premium for anything artificial,” Dr. Reeky explained. “Just look at this wood, you would swear it was real linoleum,” he said.
As we happily slaked our thirst with glass after cheery glass of frosty sweet Whammo that fateful day, a man approached with a face like a bad simile. It was the eminent fraud, Harland Sanders. Harly, as he preferred to be called, was your basic numerologist, diet doc, relationship guru, ancient astronaut tracking kind of guy. He was tops in his field. Sanders’ last book, Getting In Touch With Your Inner Slut, had sold over a million copies. Hard bound. Yet many found him as inscrutable and potentially dangerous as the Bermuda Triangle itself. Sanders approached our table.
“Tell me Dr. Reeky,” Sanders said, “What brings you to Sangre Diablo?” I studied the sinister Y-shaped scar on the left side of Sanders’ chin.
“Science,” said Dr. Reeky ponderously, then resumed noisily slurping the Whammo flavored slush at the bottom of his plastic cup.
“You wouldn’t by any chance be here to study the renegade band of garlic eaters on the Northeast side of the island would you Doctor, hmm?”
The scar on Sanders’ chin seemed to curl like a banished serpent as his face twisted into a sinister sneer. Reeky went into a kind of apoplectic shock as he suddenly recognized Sanders. Then, casting aside one of the Whamo man’s chair-shaped children, he spoke in a resounding whisper.
“The garlic eaters are one of the most important scientific finds of the decade,” Reeky said. “I will not have this legitimate inquiry sullied by your grandstanding sensationalism. Tell that to your editors at the Enquirer!”
“Dr. Reeky, as a young man I was much like yourself,” Sanders said. “I tried to conduct my affairs in such a way that would bring me a little respect and some self-respect, but, unlike you, I couldn’t live on that kind of money. However, I have now attained a certain financial station, shall we say, and I feel it’s time to do something for the world, to help save the planet in some way.”
Reeky was fuming. “Why don’t you start small Sanders? Start by doing something for this small island. Leave it immediately,” he said. Sanders laughed so heartily that he lapsed into a coughing fit which lasted several minutes. So we returned to downing cups of fruity Whammo, confidant that Dr. Reeky had gained some permanent advantage over his adversary.
That is, until Sanders interrupted.
“Did you know that my company, Save a Tree, which manufactures environmentally correct tinker toys from discarded plastic tampon applicators, is now the largest employer on this island?” Sanders asked.
Our brave little band fell silent.
“I didn’t think so,” Sanders said smugly, and left us to our own gloomy thoughts. A despondent Dr. Reeky with Crittendon at his side headed on over to the Twisty Bread, a local bar, while I sat outside, dazed and confused, watching the sun go down and the Whammo hut wander home.
Next month; Part III of Burning Desires, “Running Against The Wind”
