Christopher Moore: Island of the Sequined Love Nun

He grinned at her with teeth that looked as if they had been filed to points, then reached up and pinched her cheek. “Yum,” he said.

Due to the influence of Mary Jean Dobbins, who opened a manufacturing plant in the capital, and a large land purchase by an anonymous buyer, the Shark People were accepted as Costa Rican citizens and their land was set aside as a national reserve. Malink remained chief for many years, and when he became too old to carry the responsibility—since he had no sons—he appointed Abo his successor. Abo learned to preside over the ceremonies in honor of Vincent and led the prayers for his return, for they all believed that he would return, but as time passed and history grew to legend, they believed that this time Vincent would return in a pink jet and at his side would be the prophet Tuck—who had delivered them from the Sky Priestess—and the great navigator Kimi, without whom, it was said, the prophet Tuck couldn’t find his ass with both hands.

Every morning before breakfast, Tucker Case walked his bat on the beaches of Little Cay. Actually, the bat flew on those mornings. Tuck usually flew in the afternoons. He owned a five-passenger Cessna that he tied down on the airstrip next to the small house where he and Sepie lived. With what was left of his half of the money from the Swiss bank accounts—after buying the house and the plane and ten thousand acres of Costa Rican coastal rainforest, which he gave to the Shark People—Tuck was able to buy Sepie a satellite dish and a thirty-two-inch Sony Trinitron, which was all she asked for besides his love, loyalty, and that the bat stay out of the house. Tuck gave

her all she wanted, and in return asked her to love him, respect him, and to turn down “Wheel of Fortune” when he was doing his books.

He chartered his plane out to fishermen and scuba divers who wanted to island-hop and made enough money to keep them in food and Sepie in perfume, lipstick and Wonder Bras, the latter a new obsession she had picked up and more often than not the only item of clothing she ever wore.

One morning, just before sunrise, after they had been on Little Cay for a year, Tuck spotted a figure standing alone on the beach. He knew who it was before he was close enough to see him. He could feel it.

As he got closer, he looked at the sharp dark features, the flight suit shot with starch and free of wrinkles, and he said, “You look pretty good for a dead guy.”

Vincent took a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, tapped one out, and lit it. “You did good, kid. I’d have to call it even.”

“The least I could do,” Tuck said. “But can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot,” said Vincent.

“Why’d you do it?”

“I didn’t do anything. I didn’t move a thing, I didn’t touch a thing, I didn’t change a thing. Believers do everything.”

“Come on,” Tuck said. “I deserve a straight answer.”

The flyer turned away for a moment and looked at the corona over the water where the sun was about to rise. “You’re right, kid. You do. You re-member that speech the dame gave you about losers doing good on islands because there’s no competition?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it ain’t the case. Islands are like, you know, incubators. You got to start things and let em grow. Isolate ’em. That’s why all your loony-toon cult guys have to get their people out in the boonies somewhere where no one can talk any sense into ’em. Just nod if you’re gettin’ any of this, kid. Good.

“Well, I had this bet with these guys I play cards with that my little cult could go big-time if I could get enough citizens. I told ’em, ‘Two thousand years ago you guys were just running cults. Get me to the mainland and give me a thousand years and I’ll give you a run for your money.’ All the conditions were right. You need some pressure, I got the war. You need a promise, I got the promise I’ll come back with cargo. I’m on easy street. Then this crazy dame and the doc come along and start selling me up the river and I’m thinking

it’s my chance to make the bigs. You’ve got to have some bad guys so your citizens can recognize who the good guys are, right? So I says to myself, ‘Vincent, it is time you got yourself a Moses. Get a guy who can get your people out of trouble and give them some stories to build a reputation on.’”

“And that was me?” Tuck said.

“That was you.”

“Why me? Why did you pick me?”

“You weren’t busy.”

“And that was it? I wasn’t busy?”

“Face it, kid, you were flying with full flaps down. You know that saying? “The devil makes work for idle hands.”

“Yes.”

“It’s true, but only if he gets there first. He didn’t even want you, so I showed.”

“So are you going to screw up the rest of my life?”

“You ain’t got it so bad. It ain’t like you have to go into the desert for forty years. What are you worried about?”

“Yeah, I’m happy now, but are we finished?”

Vincent butted his cigarette in the sand. “That kind of depends on what you believe, doesn’t it kid? He began to fade as he walked down the beach. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Tuck watched as a sailing canoe materialized on the beach. Kimi was at the tiller and waved as Vincent climbed into the front of the canoe. Tuck waved back even as the canoe dissolved to mist, then he walked home to have breakfast with Sepie. He stopped at the door to wipe his feet and Roberto landed with a thud against the screen, digging his claws in to keep from slipping.

“Boy, I’m glad all that supernatural stuff is over,” the bat said.

My approach to research has always been: “Is this correct or should I be more vague?” A quick word search of one of my books reveals that I use the term “kinda-sorta” more than any living author. My readers, who are the kindest and most intelligent people in the world, understand this. They know that using my books as a reference source is tantamount to using glazed doughnuts as a building material. They know that these pages serve the masters of goofiness, not those of accuracy. So…

While some of the locations in Island of the Sequined Love Nun do exist, I have changed them for my convenience. There is no island of Alualu, nor do the Shark People exist as I have described them. There are no active cargo cults in Micronesia, nor are there any cannibals. The position of mispel did exist in Yapese culture but was abandoned almost a hundred years ago. A strict caste system still exists on Yap and the surrounding is-lands, and the treatment of Yapese women is portrayed as I saw it. My decision to make the “organ smugglers” Japanese was dictated by geo-graphy, not culture or race.

Most of the information on cargo cults comes, secondhand, from anthro-pological research done in the Melanesian Islands. I have found since fin-ishing Island of the Sequined Love Nun that the “Cannibal-Spam Theory” was first postulated in Paul Theroux’s book The Happy Isles of Oceania , and I must give a jealous nod to Mr. Theroux for that twisted bit of thinking. The information on Micronesian navigation and navigators comes from Stephen Thomas’s wonderful book The Last Navigator . My depiction of the shark hunt comes from a story told to me by a high school teacher on Yap about the people of the island of Fais, and I have no idea whether it is ac-curate. The

day-to-day life on Alualu, with the exceptions of the religious rites and outright silliness, comes from my experience on the high island of Mog Mog in the Ulithi Atoll, where I had the privilege of living with Chief Antonio Taithau and his family. Many thanks to Chief Antonio, his wife, Conception, and his daughters, Kathy and Pamela, who saw that I was fed and who pulled me out of the well that I fell in after too much tuba at the drinking circle. Also, thanks to Alonzo, my Indiana Jones kid, who followed me around and made sure I didn’t get killed on the reef or eaten by sharks and who I forgive for letting me fall down the well. Many thanks also to Frank the teacher, Favo the elder, Hillary the boat pilot, and all the kids who climbed trees for my drinking coconuts.