Taking place 1 year before the previous extract, this is the tale of root-seeking camp Russian Roulette's first casualty.
9
A$$hole had an older brother named Greg. It was a very strange name, incredibly rare. Nobody knew any other person with such a name, not even in fantasy fiction. There’d been a brief rumor on the first day of camp that Greg was an alien - as well as the unique name, it also explained his tall 2-meter frame, his immaculate eyebrows, and, most of all, the unbelievably vast amount of kindness in his heart. No living human could be as kind as he was. It wasn’t even like he’d done anything incredibly kind, though he had, but it was the fact that he generally emanated an impression of goodwill and smelled like freshly baked banana bread. It was a kind of aura that made everyone in the vicinity fall in love.
Greg and A$$hole’s room at the hotel we were staying at that night was room number 403. Mine and Frog’s was 103. We drove the 300 kilometer distance in the dead of the night, passing rows and rows of asphalt corridors, unironically blasting Gangnam Style at full volume so that the doorframes shook and rattled. When we arrived, it was past midnight and a small crowd had gathered inside the room.
I had three things in my hands. The first was a cheap water bottle filled halfway with orange juice and halfway with petrol. It was almost empty because Frog had drunk a lot of it on the way, chugging and giggling as I gripped the steering wheel with nervous knuckles. The second was a sachet of Oreos. The third was a key to the car, a Peugeot with stained seats that we’d rented for ten yuan at reception. “Where can I park this?” I asked into the crowd.
Greg stood up, brushing himself off. “How about here?” he suggested. He moved his own car that he’d had shipped all the way from Flemishland, a cherry-red Ferrari, out of the parking space in front of the door and away into a dark alley outside of the hotel. “This should be fine.” The hotel staff had warned us about ferocious stray tigers that would vandalise anything we left outside; Greg’s beautiful automobile surely would not survive the night. I was touched by this act of kindness – he was willing to sacrifice his car for mine.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m so touched by this act of kindness – you’re willing to sacrifice your car for mine?”
“No worries,” Greg replied as we returned to the party.
Back inside, it was Ruttemark’s turn. He held the rusty gun to his head (he had to burrow it past his thick curtain of hair), squeezed his eyes shut, and pulled the trigger. A dozen chrysanthemum petals erupted against his skull. He breathed a sigh of relief as everyone applauded half-heartedly.
I went to the bathroom to wash my hands.
When I returned, Ruttemark handed me the gun. Suddenly, everyone was looking my way. “Wait, wait, wait,” I said. “Are we playing the version with the actual bullets or the euthanasia?” I asked, feeling stupid. “Or electrocution?”
“Electrocution,” A$$hole said. “The euthanasia stuff is too expensive, and Greg said that it would be unkind to expect the cleaning staff to have to wipe up blood from bullets.”
“Oh, how kind and considerate,” I said, looking at Greg, who, sitting in front of a lamp, seemed surrounded by a halo of light, like a saint.
“Also, if you survive, you have to play Truth or Dare. It’s just to spice things up a bit.”
“Sure.”
I realised felt a little anxious. It had been one or two years since I’d last played this game. Concentrate. This is Russian Roulette. I took a breath, taking it deep.
“Hurry up, Marathon!” someone yelled.
“Calm yourself,” Greg said to me kindly.
I took the gun from Ruttemark and counted to three under my breath. I was sweating now, and moving slow. They were all waiting. There was no time to think. It was my turn to go.
I didn’t know why I was suddenly feeling so self-conscious, as if everyone in the room could see my heart beating through my chest. “I’m terrified,” I admitted.
“You don’t have to play,” Greg reassured me kindly.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m not leaving.”
I knew that I had to pass this test – it was like an initiation exam. The Flemish kids, unofficially the coolest ones in the camp, would decide whether or not to accept Frog and I as part of their group based on this moment. Not that I really minded, but I knew that Frog wanted to hang out with them. Do it for Frog, I told myself. Plus, they’ll follow you on Instagram if they’re friends with you. You want more followers on Instagram, don’t you?
“Close your eyes,” Greg said. “Sometimes it helps.”
“The fact that you’re here. It means you’ve never lost.”
Greg shrugged.
My life flashed, briefly, before my eyes – visions of chocolate factories, schoolroom desks, and my laptop keyboard at various times of day. Not exactly illustrious. I still hadn’t achieved any of my goals yet. I wasn’t CEO of Lindt® yet! Would I ever see another sunrise? I wondered. Many people must’ve died without getting the chance of saying goodbye, but it was too late to think about the value of my life when Frog and I’s #cred was on the line.
So I just pulled the trigger.
Nothing.
I felt slightly embarrassed. I didn’t know why I’d been so worked up about pulling the trigger when I’d survived countless times. Nobody really seemed to mind that much that I’d held up the game, though. Greg gave me a thumbs up.
“Truth or Dare?” Baboon asked.
“What?” I blinked as I registered what he was saying. “Dare.”
“Okay, I dare you to eat some of Ruttemark’s hair.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I think I’ll pass. Truth.”
“You can’t go back on it!”
“Yes, I can! You never said I couldn’t.”
“You’re not allowed!”
“But I don’t want to eat Ruttemark’s hair!”
“Hey! That hurts my feelings, you know?” Ruttemark said.
I rolled my eyes. “It’s nothing personal. I don’t want to eat anyone’s hair. Just give me a Truth already, Baboon.”
“Fine. Let me think for a while.”
“Hey, do you want some petrol? It’s Marathon’s, but I’m sure she won’t mind. It’s a bit watered down with orange juice, but it tastes pretty good,” Frog said, her speech slightly slurred.
“Sure, bring it on,” A$$hole replied.
“Where are you from again?”
“Flemishland.”
“Cool. That’s the name for, like, Benelux when they officially joined together during the economic crisis in order to help boost their economy, but now it’s doing worse than ever and Lindt® is buying pieces of the land, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Woohoo! Go Lindt®!” I cheered. “Represent!”
“Is it nice there?” Frog continued, ignoring me.
“Yeah, it’s quite nice. I like it.”
“I’ve been to Amsterdong. When I was on tour for Legally Blonde? Well, it was called Legally Feathered Wig, since I played Elle and, well, I’m not blonde. Anyway, it was a great city. It was still called Amsterdam back then.”
“Yeah, I don’t know why they changed it.”
“Exactly! Especially since Rotterdam is still called that. I’m planning on going to university there,” Frog said. “Rotterdam. I’m going to study economics and international management.”
“Me, too,” A$$hole said. “What a coincidence. Are you good at economics? I was like, ‘Yeah, I’m pretty good at it.’ So I chose it. What about you?”
“Oh, I mean, I wasn’t saying that I’m, like, better at economics than you or anything. I don’t know anything about economics,” Frog interjected quickly, giggling a little. “Maybe you could teach me!”
I squinted at her.
“Okay! I found one. Marathon. I found one. This is great. This is a novel idea.”
“Yeah?” I said, pulling myself out of Frog’s and A$$hole’s worrying conversation. “What is it? Took you a while.”
“Well, it’s not really a Truth. More like an FMK.”
“Baboon, an FMK is not a novel idea.”
“Whatever. Okay, you ready?”
“Sure.”
“Everyone listen up! This is gonna be so interesting. Okay. Fuck, marry, kill; bed, wed, behead. Get the drumroll going, guys.”
“Just say it, Baboon.”
“Greg, A$$hole, and Ruttemark.”
“That’s literally just three of the guys in the room. It is so unoriginal. None of this counts as a novel idea.”
“I think it’s novel.”
“It’s not novel. Anyone could come up with it.”
“Shut up, Ruttemark. I bet you couldn’t.”
“Yeah, I couldn’t, because I’m way smarter and more creative than that.”
“Let Marathon answer it. What’s it gonna be, Marathon?”
“This is actually quite easy. I’d kill A$$hole, first of all –”
“Wow.”
“Sorry, A$$hole. Not sorry, actually. Maybe if you started wearing deodorant I might change my mind.”
“Wow.”
“Anyway, so, yeah, I’d kill A$$hole. Personally, romance doesn’t interest me at all, like, in any way whatsoever. But –”
“You have to choose.”
“Yes, I know. I was getting to that. Now, as I was saying: If I had to choose, I’d marry Greg, just because he’s so convenient. His height lets him reach things that I wouldn’t be able to. That’s pretty much all I look for in a romantic relationship, really. So that leaves…”
“Wow.”
“Nice, nice,” Ruttemark said.
“I’m really flattered, Marathon. That’s very kind of you. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, Greg. I’m only trying to be kind like you.”
“Why would you kill A$$hole, though?” Frog said.
“What, you wouldn’t?”
“I’d marry him, to be honest.”
“Ew!” I exclaimed. “Seriously?” I couldn’t believe my ears. She’d obviously had way too much petrol.
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“Who would you kill?”
“Greg, probably. Sorry, Greg.”
“Nice, nice,” Ruttemark said.
“It’s alright. You and A$$hole are, like, true love. I can’t get in the way of that. I’d gladly die for it. Like Mercutio, or whatever.”
“Exactly! I’d totally marry A$$hole. That is a concept that I am down with.” Frog laughed loudly, her teeth shiny and bright in the darkened room. I frowned. I didn’t know if everyone was kidding around and I was simply out of the loop, or if they were all being dead serious.
“Really?” A$$hole asked, his face full of hope. “Are you down with that?”
“I am down with that!” Frog said again.
I frowned harder. “But –” I stammered. I was lost for words, astonished at what I viewed as an act of utter betrayal.
“So if I asked right now,” A$$hole said, “you’d marry me?”
“Uh-huh. I would. Wait, what?”
A$$hole had finished off all the petrol from my bottle, something that made me even more irritated – I hadn’t had one drop. He got up to one knee and took of the root wreath that we’d made for him, pulling out some parts. Deftly, he fashioned a ring and presented it to Frog. She gasped and covered her mouth with her hands as if she was chloroforming herself.
“Fröüäggyß ‘Frog’ Liang,” he said. “I, A$$hole Zhu, would like to ask for your hand in marriage. Will you marry me?”
“Are you for real?” Frog squealed.
“I’m for real.”
“Seriously?” I said.
“I –”
“Did I mention that I’m rich, by the way? My dad is an executive at Nice Flemish Lunch, Inc., the largest corporation in Flemishland. We’re loaded.”
“Oh, my God!”
“I’ll love you forever, Frog.”
“Forever? Like, for ever ever?”
“For ever ever. So, what’s the answer?”
“Come on, Frog. Just get it over with so we can continue the game,” Baboon said.
“It’s okay, Frog. Take your time. No pressure.”
“Yes pressure! We want to keep playing!”
“Oh, my God, shut up.”
“Hurry!”
“So?”
“Uh. Yes! Yes, I do.”
“Aww.”
“Aww.”
“Aww.”
“Aww.”
“Aww.”
“Aww.”
“Aww.”
“Aww.”
“Aww.”
“Aww.”
“Aww.”
“Aww.”
“Aww.”
“Aww.”
“Aww.”
“Aww.”
“I love you, baobei’r.”
“I love you too, baobei’r.”
“Hey, are Momther and Dadther gonna be okay with this?” Greg asked. “I mean, I’m happy for you. I’m only asking because I’m kind, and I consider everyone’s feelings.”
“If they aren’t, we’ll elope. I don’t care, I just want to be with you, Frog.”
“Alright. Next, next, next! Let’s keep this going. Who’s next?”
“Me and A$$hole are gonna pass. It’s probably not a very good idea to risk your life when you’ve just gotten engaged.”
“Gross Hair Anime Guy, your turn, then!”
“Uh, okay.” Pause. Aim. Click. Chrysanthemums. “Phew. I’d be sad if I died without finding out whether or not Luffy becomes the pirate king.”
“Oh, my God. Are you kidding me? Of course Luffy becomes the pirate king. He’s the main character.”
“Well, you never know, right? Maybe there’s a twist.”
“Truth or Dare, Gross Hair Anime Guy?”
“Truth.”
“Come on. Don’t be boring!”
“Baboon, literally every time someone chooses Dare, you just tell them to eat Ruttemark’s hair.”
“That’s because nobody’s done it yet!”
“Yeah, take a hint. Nobody wants to eat Ruttemark’s hair.”
“Okay. Rude.”
“You know what I mean, Ruttemark.”
“Uh, no, I don’t.”
“Can we please hurry? It’s, like, 2 AM.”
“Okay. Okay, fine. Who is the hottest girl in the room?”
“Man, Babuunu, you know I’m animesexual. I’m only attracted to anime characters. IRL people are just so dull, you know?”
“Animesexual?”
“It’s the ‘A’ in ‘LGBTQA’.”
“I thought that was for asexuals.”
“I thought that was for allies.”
“Allies are definitely not the ‘A’ in ‘LGBTQA’.”
“There is no ‘A’ in ‘LGBTQ’.”
“I thought there was. Doesn’t it stand for Andalusians?”
“Okay, guys, shut up.” Baboon sighed. “Gross Hair Anime Guy, even if you’re animesexual, you can still recognise if a girl is hot. Or aesthetically pleasing, if that’s the term you prefer. So choose.”
“And hurry up. I’m gonna fall asleep soon. This is so boring.”
“Okay. Fine. Furogu is the hottest.”
“Hey!”
“I’m literally engaged, Gross Hair Anime Guy. How could you?”
“Well, I’m sorry, but it’s true!”
“Oh, my God.”
“Next, next, next, next, next, next, next! Let’s speed this up!”
“You’re so creepy.”
“Next! Greg! Come on!”
“What the hell, dude? She’s my fiancée. F-I-A-N-C-A-Y. Do you know what that means?”
“I thought it was spelled F-E-Y-O-N-C-E-accent-d’aigu.”
“It’s F-I-A-N-C-E-accent-d’aigu.”
“And another E. Because she’s female.”
“Um, no. I don’t think so.”
“Yes, it is. I speak French, okay?”
“But this is English. So it’s different, right?”
“No. It’s a loan word. It’s like ‘blond’ and ‘blonde’.”
“Okay, guys, we get it!”
“Give Greg the gun!”
“Do you want to fight, Gross Hair Anime Guy? Do you want to go outside and fight?”
“N-no. I’m sorry, Asuhoru. I was just being honest!”
“I’m watching you. You better sleep with one eye open.”
“Come on, Greg!”
“Alright, alright. Pass me it.” Pause. Aim. Click.
Silence.
“Oh.”
10
We buried Greg in a large and wide flowerpot outside the window in room 403. We dug a hole using our hands, which took an extremely long time because we had to ensure that it was over 2 meters in length. It was difficult to work in the dark; the small pillars of light provided by a dozen phone flashlights only illuminated our own tired hands. The geraniums we’d disturbed became all topsy-turvy, the rich earth scalding and sharp beneath our fingernails. We carefully lowered his tall corpse into the pit and as we refilled it, I watched the blood-red petals sweep over his immaculate eyebrows.
“At least he gave Frog and I his blessing before he left,” A$$hole said as we stood over the flowerpot in silence.
“Yeah. He was just so incredibly kind.”
Everyone nodded.
“Great dude. What a shame.”
“Mm-hm.”
By then, it was 4:16 AM. The stifling wind rustled the trees.
Gross Hair Anime Guy ripped a page out of the complimentary hotel notepad and inscribed: Sayonara Guregu. He added a highly detailed drawing of Hatsune Miku next to these words. Although her chin was too pointy, her jaw too square, her arms too thin, and her hands too small – telltale signs of a less-than-mediocre manga artist – it was overall quite an adorable and appropriate drawing. He’d replaced her usual complicated outfit with the yellow camp T-shirt, paired with some acid-wash jeans that had gone out of fashion years ago. He made her especially tall and her eyebrows immaculate, as a tribute to Greg. One by one, we muttered some prayers to the drawing. Gross Hair Anime Guy placed it carefully on top of the flowers.
“Let’s get married now,” A$$hole said, squeezing Frog’s hand.
“Right now?” Frog asked. “During your brother’s funeral?”
“This is the best time, don’t you think?”
Frog thought. After a while, she said, “You’re right. This is the perfect moment.”
That cheered us all up. We picked and shredded some geranium petals for confetti. There wasn’t any Wi-Fi outside, so Baboon used data roaming with his Flemish phone card to access the Internet and help Frog and A$$hole to ling zheng using an online portal. The happy couple kissed just as dawn came, the twilit sky turning lighter in a flush of pale, fluid hues. Ruttemark had Premium Spotify, but only had one downloaded playlist, so we danced awkwardly to Death Grips until breakfast time.
If A$$hole and Greg’s parents were fazed by the death of their firstborn, they did not show it. As the head councillors of the camp, they maintained a positive attitude throughout the rest of the trip. When we strapped ourselves into the spaceship to return home, they waved happily from the circular window above our heads, mouthing muted goodbyes.
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