I was woken by an intense banging, but it wasn’t in my brain - it mean a manta ray had been sighted off the shore and I could go swim with it! The sun was peeking through the clouds and, half drunk, I raced down to jump in a boat and see the big, dumb fish.
We went out a few hundred metres and dived into the crystal clear water, and there the big dickhead was, doing backflips underwater for some stupid reason. It was impressive, but the whole thing was representative of what I don’t like about staying in a Fijian resort - we were herded on and off boats, and pointed in a direction to swim. For me, snorkelling is about exploring, but this was about being kicked in the head by clowns and chasing down some terrified fish.
By the time we got back the sun was out in full force, so I headed down to the beach to get a few rays and have a perve. It was a good one, too, because spunky backpackers were everywhere, bouncing around in their little bikinis. I had a great view until Buster plonked himself down next to me, with his fat gut flopping around like a jellyfish as he bashed away on his computer.
”Hey ladies, ever had sex with a big shot Wall Street stockbroker?” he asked, and suddenly the beach was empty except for me and him. I felt like kicking his computer into the water.
Buster was an A-grade dick, but his line of thinking isn’t too far from that of the majority. Here we are, on a tropical island, and damn near every person just wants to talk about work. What I did, what they did, that sorta thing. I dunno, that goes against the purpose of being on holiday as far as I’m concerned.
The sun ducked back behind the clouds an hour or so later, so I spent the rest of the arvo exploring the island, walking along deserted beaches and checking out caves and forests. It’s a pretty place, but not really the tropical paradise I had envisioned. There are a few palms, but it feels a little too much like the beaches at home, and not nearly as good as Vietnam or Thailand.
After another decent snorkel as the sun was going behind the hills, I had a few drinks and headed up to the restaurant for dinner. I got talking to a few good sorts, when who should sit down next to me? Fuckin’ Buster!
”Trading shares and making money all day has given me quite and appetite,” he said, before shovelling a couple of slices of pizza in his mouth. “It’s not easy maintaining a bad boy image and a seven-figure bank balance. Hey, did I mention I own a motor bike?” The girls left, and Buster went back to fucking around on his computer. The twat had to be taught a lesson.
When he got up for more food, I took the opportunity to have a bit of fun with his computer. I was just going to change his screen saver to a picture of two blokes kissing or something, but when I took a geek the screen was taken up by some sort of shares-trading program with all sorts of numbers on it. I wasted no time changing as many numbers as possible, and when an email popped up from a dude called Carl, I replied to it with, ”Go fuck yourself, Carl.”
Buster sat down to eat another pile of crap food, and when he peeked at his computer his eyes almost popped out of his stupid head. “But, but, but,” was all he could say, then he freaked out, stood up and started spinning on the spot.
”Who did this, who did this, who did this?” he wept. ”Someone just cost me $100,000 and told my boss to go fuck himself!”
”I dunno who did it, I smirked, but I heard a rumour that whoever did it also wanted to give you a wedgie.” And with that, I reefed up his undies until they broke.
Buster was laughed out of the building, and I was hailed a hero because everyone else was also sick of the pompous doodle’s bullshit. With Buster gone, a good night was had by all.