Hugh Hamilton
Ben awoke to the feeling of sweaty lips, hot breath and piercing bristles. Gradually, detail by detail, he formed the image of a portly man with a deafening Hawaiian shirt breathing air into him. Without wishing to seem rude, he broke the suction with a sudden, violent movement and began alternately coughing and retching in dizzying circles across the beach. Eventually composing himself, he turned to face the man he could so disconcertingly still taste.
“Um, thanks?” he offered.
“Hey, it was good for me, too,” said the man, perplexingly showing little sign of offense at being wrestled to the ground by his face. The answer did little to alleviate Ben’s unease.
“Where did you find me?” said Ben, finally.
“Right here on the beach.”
“Oh? Guess I washed ashore." Ben thought for a moment. "Must have really been touch and go there.”
“Not really. I just had to wait till you fell asleep.”
Ben stared.
“Anyway,” said the man, “I guess I’ll continue on my way.”
Ben stared. Then he began to remember. He remembered gunshots and water. He remembered a large wave... And he remembered an altogether more handsome gentleman also breathing air into him, on a boat. A pleasingly clean-shaven gentleman—
“What a noble creature,” said Hugh, having waddled up the beach to join Ben. “Now he’s helping that poor old lady up there. I don't know what it is, but I’ve always had a good feeling about Canadians.”
Ben looked down and wondered whether he should irreparably damage Hugh’s feeling about Canadians.
“He didn’t even want anything in return,” continued Hugh.
“Come on, Muskens won’t find himself,” said Ben, steering his companion in the opposite direction.
A short while later they reached Paramaribo, whereupon Ben directed them to the nearest establishment in possession of a liquor license. The sun was beginning to set and the place had a tacky, postcardy kind of feel.
“What are we doing here?” asked Hugh.
“Well, I don’t know about you," said Ben, "but I’m going to make an ass of myself. Bourbon Sunrise, please.”
The bartender nodded.
“I’m not really a huge drinker,” said Hugh.
“No — what are you, 5 even?”
Hugh scowled.
“Oh come on, my treat.”
“All right,” said Hugh, surveying the drinks board. “Get me a... ‘Djogo and Tonic’.”
Six Bourbon Sunrises later, Ben was swaying merrily in his seat. One Djogo and Tonic later, Hugh was losing weight. At least half of his final banquet at the resort was now on the floor of the bar, while a deathly trail of Surinam cherry marked his journeys to and from the bathroom. The place having cleared out some time ago, it did not require much effort on the bouncer's part to locate the offending guts and vigorously escort their owner and his giggling friend outside.
“Well, that was fun,” said Ben, unthinkingly leading them into a side alley.
“Urg,” said Hugh.
As they approached a sinister-looking dumpster, which at the time seemed to Ben like a perfectly natural and wonderful thing to approach, they heard voices.
“We moeten deze leveringen naar Muskens vanavond,” came one voice.
“Ik haat gaan door die verdomde regenwoud,” came another.
“Wees stil. Er zijn twee mannen naar ons te kijken,” came the first voice again.
“Did you hear that?” whispered Ben, indiscreetly giggling between each word.
“Urg,” said Hugh.
“Someone definitely said Muskens.”
“Urg,” said Hugh.
“I think we should tail them.”
“Totes,” said Hugh.
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