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Elmer's answer was drowned in a roar of approval from the audience. They stamped and whistled and shouted. One of the men yelled the old, burlesque call of encouragement. "Take it off!" The others immediately took it up, and it became a chant, the swelling thunder of which drowned out even the drums. "Take it off! Take it off! Take it off!"

Kalola paused in her dance, regarded them quizzically with tilted head, then she grinned and quickly unfastened the top of her grass skirt. The flower leis followed it to the floor, and she was gloriously and primitively naked before them, her bronzed body gleaming in the murky, fitful light of the tiki torches that illumined the courtyard. The roar of appreciation that went up from the guests was deafening.

"Elmer!" Barrington-Phaff screamed, "do something about this at once!"

"Yes, sir," Elmer screamed back and summoned the nearest waiter. "Get up there on that stage and do something about this at once!" he yelled in the man's ear, unconsciously repeating Barrington-Phaff's own words.

The waiter, a Hawaiian, misunderstood his meaning. He had been sampling the punch, too. He ran laughing onto the stage, stripped himself of his white uniform and underwear and joined Kalola in the dance she was doing, his frenzied movements causing his cock to rotate like a majorette's baton.

"Oh, my God, no!" Elmer groaned, then manfully plowed and elbowed his way through the crowd that had now gathered around the stage. He made it and leaped up on the wooden platform, attempting to seize the wildly gyrating waiter.

"Leave him alone!" someone shouted. A woman jumped up behind him and began beating him on the back of the head with her handbag.

Barrington-Phaff was no coward. Seeing his employee thus set upon, he hurled his bulk stageward, knocking people right and left with his huge belly and massive shoulders. He almost made it before one of the men in the crowd tripped him and another one hit him in the eye as he was going down. The hotel employees who were professional servants – not the prostitutes, beach boys and bums Lynn had influenced Elmer to hire – rallied to the defense of their manager and of the big boss from New York. The ensuing donnybrook now ranks in history as the only major engagement fought in the South Pacific since the end of World War II. Like gladiators of ancient Rome, the contestants battled it out in the arena of the courtyard, and it must be admitted that the ladies of the A.A. of S.P.M. acquitted themselves as well as their men. Even so, the doughty warriors representing the toilet paper manufacturing industry might have gone down to defeat had not Ellen and Lynn arrived with reinforcements. When Ellen's chippies joined the fray on the side of the guests, the outcome was decided. The regular hotel men were routed and the victors sank wearily to the ground to rest.

"For Christ's sake, look at that, would you?" one of the men exclaimed weakly. He pointed to the stage where Kalola was flat on her back and the waiter who had been dancing with her was atop her, his cock plunging in and out of her in time to the beat of one drum that still resounded.

"Let's all fuck!" one of the women yelled, the dope, the excitement of the fight, and the sight of Kalola's public display of raw sex, driving her to a pitch of reckless passion that would not be denied. Eager cries of agreement were the response to her suggestion, and the nearest man to her leaped astride her. She helped him rip her dress off and unzip his trousers. His wife, who had long coveted the body of his district sales manager, pulled her skirt up to her waist and advanced upon that worthy with lewd intent. She found him quite willing. In a matter of minutes they were all at it. The remarkable thing about this mass screwing was that, despite the confusion, not one husband committed the social error of fucking his own wife.

Elmer McFarthingale opened one eye. The other was swollen shut. The back of his head ached, and he would have raised a hand to explore the egg-sized lump there, had not several hundred pounds of bone, fat and muscle been lying on his arm. His left leg was similarly imprisoned by the heap of inert bodies of which his was apparently a member of the lowest layer. He looked about him as well as he could and beheld a scene of utter devastation as well as complete debauchery. Rolling and writhing among the remains of the feast were the guests, all busily and happily fornicating. Not far away, Lynn Charles crouched nakedly above a groaning man. She had his cock in her mouth and was sucking it avidly. On the stage, Kalola was still being fucked… not by the waiter who had danced with her. Near Lynn, Ellen Canfield was on her hands and knees. One of the guests had his prick in her ass. Every time he thrust into her she farted and he laughed, seeming to find this musical type of intercourse hilariously funny.

Elmer lowered his gaze and found himself staring at one small, cold, unblinking eye that regarded him steadily with chillingly baleful malevolence.

"McFarthingale," Euclid J. Barrington-Phaff said distinctly, "you are fired."

"Yes, sir," Elmer answered… and then he fainted.

The three girls disembarked from the inter-island plane at the International Airport in Honolulu.

"It seems to me," Lynn said, "that this is where we came in… only we had a little money then and now we're flat broke. The plane fare cleaned us out. Suggestions anyone?"

"I guess I can always hitchhike out to the North Shore and try living with the hippies," Ellen said, "but after all the fun and excitement we've had, I don't think I could stand the quiet life."

"We're not going to break up… not after what we've been through together," Kalola declared. "There are always some sailors around the airport. Give me an hour and I'll have taxi fare for us. We can go see if Joe Moto will let us have our old shack back."

"Oh, to hell with it," Lynn vetoed this idea. "Let's just start walking. Maybe you're right. Maybe good old Joe will give us a break. Come on."

They walked half the distance before a Filipino truck driver picked them up. They came at last to the Pacific Paradise Hotel and climbed down from the load of cement sacks on which they had been riding.

"It's good to be home," Kalola said. "Let's go see Joe."

They knocked several times before the door opened. There before them, clad only in swim trunks, was Wikiwiki.

"Wiki!" they screamed in chorus and charged him. He went down under the flying attack, offering only ineffectual resistance to the kisses that showered onto his face and the hands that clutched avidly at his crotch.

"Hey, quit it!" he managed to say at last as he sat up and brushed them away like annoying flies. "For chrissakes let me breathe!"

"What are you doing here?" they all asked in unison. "Why did you desert us on Maui?"

"One question at a time," he countered, parrying another pass at his genitals. "In the first place, I and my partner are the new owners of the Pacific Paradise Hotel, and to answer a question you haven't yet asked, your old Number Four is empty and waiting for you. In the second place, I didn't exactly desert." They were amazed to see him blush under his dark skin. "I sort of got married."

"You what?"

"You heard him," another voice said as the former Miss Barrington-Phaff entered from a bedroom door. "What he said was that he got married… and I'll thank you to unhand his cock."

Speechlessly, the three girl stared at the gorgeous bride who wore nothing but a shorty nightgown and sandals.

"Yeh, we got married," Wikiwiki admitted. "Her papa disowned her, but she had enough bread of her own to buy this joint from Joe Moto. I've gone out of the beach boy business and into the hotel racket. As a matter of fact, we plan to turn the Pacific Paradise into the best damned whorehouse in the islands. We were just waiting for you three to show up to help us get started. I knew you'd come here. Without my brains, you were sure to screw things up for yourselves at the Hale-Kaahumanu. You kids want in on this deal?"