Cruel Summer

cruel summer 3


While waiting to get off the ferry in Port-aux-Basques, Farfour is noticed by a keen ferry security-guard named Frank Paine: “Hey, didn’t I see you in the New York Post?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Farfour says meekly. “I didn’t realize you got international tabloids here in the Maritimes.”

“I read it online. And didn’t anyone tell you – you’re not in the Maritimes anymore, mouse. This is THE ROCK!” says the guard, his cellphone squeezed against one of his outer chins. As he finishes saying rock, he drops the cell and puts the startled little mouse into a headlock, while two of his coworkers prepare a tranquilizer needle.

Farfour wakes up a few hours (days?) later in Parc Lafontaine in Montreal. Gay men bask in the Latin sun, while children and their trendy parents scream, play sports and interact with post-modern playground equipment. Farfour notices a man is sitting beside him taking pictures of the lake.

“Hey, how did I get to this nice park, and who are you?” Farfour asks the speedo-clad slim-but-athletic man. Farfour is intrigued by the fashionable man’s studied masculinity and elaborate vocabulary.

“Oh, I’m Julien. I’m the helicopter pilot who flew you here from that moldy ferry terminal in Newfoundland. That’s not all I am, of course. I’m also an Aquarius with a Taurus ascendant.

Oh, I saw how sad and innocent you looked, and I couldn’t bear to hand you over – to let those goons fly you off to some illegal prison full of abused children – like they did to Omar Khadr. One well-publicized crime against an innocent Muslim teenager is enough. We get it. Flying you to Guantanamo to be abused and tortured wouldn’t be helpful to anyone.”

Julien takes the cap off his coconut butter tanning lotion and rubs some on his nose.

“That smells delicious. I feel like I haven’t eaten in days,” says Farfour as Julien offers him the beige plastic bottle.


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