"Lucky dogs to have such a wide and colourful selection of toys to choose from! But I hear it's not good for dogs to be in the tropics-you know, heartworm and ringworm."

Kyle seemed as clueless, dutifully filming the d.i.l.d.o spill for a possible segment on a.r.s.ef.u.c.k Island TV. He asked, "Can I meet your dogs tomorrow? I can mix them into my news segment using Final Cut. It's all in the editing, you know."

Fiona actually snickered at her son's naivete. Mother was too preoccupied lighting her next few cigarettes to notice anything. Billy was staring at his iPhone, doubtless trawling for f.u.c.kbuddies with some unholy gay app. Neal was already inside the house. And me? I was livid, watching my only chance to enjoy the full spectrum of Thong Kong vanish into the night in a slipstream of pheromones and coconut tanning oil.

Neal came back out, saw the rage in my eyes and said, "Ray, don't worry. There'll be other opportunities."

I refused to be mollified.

"But I have to admit, I've never seen the girls so ready for it in all my time on the island. Fortunately for me, I still have a touch of p.u.s.s.y fatigue and am not as sorely tempted as I might normally be. But forget about p.u.s.s.y-let's celebrate your new family!"

What a comedown.

"Look," shouted Emma. "Your lady friends left one of their dog toys at the bar. I'll run and take it to them." She paused and studied the contraption in her hands. "Funny-looking thing, isn't it? It's like three bicycle handles welded together. You'd certainly only want to give this one to a big dog." She ran away down the path to return the toy. I was proud of her willingness to help strangers, but stunned that a sixteen-year-old could be so naive.

Kyle was inside, shooting footage of Neal's living room. He caught me looking at him and said, "This could be a possible lifestyle segment." He'd obviously inherited the Gunt genius for camerawork, but considering everything he'd just seen, you'd think he'd go w.a.n.k for an hour.

I pulled Fiona to one side. "What nunnery did these kids grow up in?"

"Kyle and Emma were raised in a small village in the North of England with no Internet connection, satellite dish or even basic telly. If you do anything to corrupt them, I will kill you. You know I'll do it, so don't even think of so much as offering them a beer or revealing to them anything that goes on inside your diseased mind."

"Right."

"Emma is an especially sweet girl. I want her to stay that way."

"Okay. Where is this morality explosion coming from, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

Fiona sighed. "Raymond, these kids don't even know what swearing is. They think it's French."

"f.u.c.k me."

"These kids can be better versions of you and me, versions who'll never get f.u.c.ked over by the universe."

"Why didn't you tell me about them?"

"Because that would have somehow ended up with them being f.u.c.ked over by the universe. Your karma is dreadful, Raymond. It's a fact." Fi's nose got sniffly. "It is sort of magic, though-you and me being parents and all. And we'll never have to worry about organ donors ever again. We've always known that liver of yours won't be long for this world."

"It does get me a bit teary-eyed thinking about it. But tell me, does Kyle ever stop filming things?"

"He just discovered digital cameras and the Internet last week. Billy's been teaching him."

"Billy's been what?"

"Raymond, relax."

"One minute Billy's teaching Kyle about email. The next minute Kyle's got a fist up his a.r.s.e."

"It's fine, Raymond. Really. Billy's not into twinks. And Kyle does have camerawork in his genes."

I stood there trying my hardest to feel fatherly, but I was coming up short. I tried figuring out the math of the past week. London ... LA ... Honolulu ... macadamia-induced comas ... the hunt for f.u.c.kable contestants ... Wake Island ... I couldn't quite understand Fiona's timeline. "Fiona, how did you get Kyle and Emma from the north of England to this island so fast? Haven't all the airports been shut down?"

Fiona put on her guilty face, something I've only ever seen a handful of times. "Some were, some weren't."

"Oh. My. G.o.d. You stole them, didn't you!"

"What was I supposed to do, Raymond? Let them die of radiation poisoning in some pathetic hick town? Besides, do you think they are even remotely traumatized? No, you don't, because in my own way I'm a terrific mother."

Across the room, my own mother was chugging a 26-ouncer of vodka. She belched and then ravaged Neal's bowl of c.o.c.ktail garnishes like a circus elephant.

"So who raised them?"

"Some goody-goodies I found during my abortion holiday. Talk about dull. But at least Emma's not pulling a train at some party that's being house-wrecked by a Facebook flash mob, and Kyle's not carjacking pensioners for fish and chip money. Come on. Let's sit down. I'm as tired as you."

We sat in the h.e.l.lo! magazine spread of a living room. Emma rushed back through the door, d.i.l.d.o mission accomplished. She came up to me from behind, put her hands down the back of my shirt and started administering a backrub.

"Father, you must be tired after working so hard on this television show. Let me give you a deep-tissue ma.s.sage like the ones I give our border collies after a long day of sheep herding. It will leave you ever so relaxed."

Neal, Fiona and Mother all c.o.c.ked eyebrows in our direction.

"Perhaps not right now, Emma," I said. "Maybe Neal can offer you a nutritious snack. Neal! Do you have something nutritious to feed my, um, child?"

"Eamon's cooking up a feast as we speak."

Next Kyle came over. "Father, can we go online and check out the island's website?"

His expression was so earnest I couldn't bring myself to tell him to f.u.c.k off. "Sure, why not. Neal, how do we go online?"

"In Grandmum's room."

A minute later we were trudging through dunes of crisp wrappers, cigarette packaging and tissues soiled in various earth tones. There, on the desk, was a Mac monitor covered with Mother's grotesque old-lady undergarments. I used a ballpoint pen to punt them off the desktop, and touched the s.p.a.cebar to activate the machine. I clicked on the browser and up came Survival: a website dedicated to smiles here on Survival Island.

"Click on it, Dad!"

I clicked on ENTER only to find ...

Please take a moment to register!

It's easy and fun!

Choose a user name and a quick pa.s.sword and you're off!

Pa.s.sword must be fourteen or more characters long.

Pa.s.swords are case-sensitive.

Must contain one upper case and one lower case letter.

Must contain at least one numeral.

Must contain one non-alphanumeric character.

Must not contain a s.p.a.ce.

Must not contain invalid characters tabs or letters using nonNorth American English diacritical or orthographical marks, e.g., u, e, , , , .

Must not contain forward or reverse fragments of five or more characters of your first name, middle name or last name, regardless of the case (upper or lower) of the letter.

Must not cannot contain forward or reverse fragments of five or more characters of your NetID/EnterpriseID, regardless of the case (upper or lower) of the letter.

Must not contain forward or reverse alphabetic sequences of five or more letters, regardless of the case (upper or lower) of the letter.

Non-alphanumeric characters must not be arranged in "emoticon" format, e.g., :), ;), <>

Must not contain repeated characters in groups of three or more, e.g., aaa, 1111 Must not contain more than two sequential characters of user's account name.

Must not contain more than two sequential characters of login ID.

Must not contain more than two sequential characters of email address.

Must not contain more than two sequential characters of initials.

Must not contain more than two sequential characters of first, last or middle name.

Must not contain more than three sequential numbers of user's birth year.

Must not contain more than three sequential characters of user's birthdate in dd/mm/yyyy or mm/dd/yyyy format.

Must not contain any common words or proper names of five or more characters, regardless of the case (upper or lower) of the letters.

Pa.s.sword must be changed every five calendar days.

After two consecutive unsuccessful pa.s.sword attempts, the account will be revoked.

Pa.s.swords deemed not robust enough by the site's algorithm will be rejected.

Never, ever give away your pa.s.sword information to anyone, spouse included.

"f.u.c.k me. There is no way I'm registering on some useless f.u.c.king website. Any pa.s.sword I give them they're just going to put into some Nigerian scam engine."

"No way, Dad-it only takes a second. Here, I'll get you started."

Username = %Wor7dsbe5tdAd$ Pa.s.sword = 7My.Da6isS

Cheesy little emotional blackmailing f.u.c.ker ...

"Why, thank you, Kyle. I'm genuinely touched."

"Let's look at you and your fecal trauma clip. Don't worry. Growing up on a farm, we learned that feces are a natural part of all ecosystems."

"Whuzzat?"

*Blink*

Suddenly there I was, slathered in poo, being scrubbed into consciousness by Billy, as viewed by a grainy ceiling nanny cam.

So.

f.u.c.king.

Humiliating.

"Dad, you've got the most popular clip on the site. Look at all the hits. Seventeen unique visitors!"

Christ. "What else is on here?"

"We can check out the contestants on the show. Here ..." he clicked on a link. "Here's a gallery of the headshots. It sort of makes you want to choose which one of them you'd like to have as a friend, and who you think might not be a good friend. Or who would be a real enemy."

"I actually helped your mother choose the contestants for the show."

"Really?"

Fiona coughed from the doorway and gave me an icy stare.

"Absolutely. There are so many characteristics you need to look out for when choosing. Are they sociable? Do they feel awkward in front of cameras? Are they, ummm ... highly photogenic? It's a very long list."

"Wow. I'd never have thought choosing contestants was such hard work. I think working in television would be a dream job."

Another cough. "No, Kyle," said Fiona. "With a brain like yours? You should go into philosophy. Or sciences. Yes, definitely sciences. Any science. Actually, anything at all except for television. Never the telly. Never ever, ever, ever, ever."

"Tell me, Kyle, how did you get from the north of England to this lovely island here?" (More dagger eyes from Fi.) "I got a phone call from Fiona-Mum. We receive a Christmas card from her each year."

Fiona shot me a triumphant glance to the effect that she was Mother of the f.u.c.king Year.

"Anyway, on the phone she said she would like to take us shopping at Harrods in London. We were thrilled. She even paid for our train tickets. But after we said h.e.l.lo to her at the station and had some quick fizzy drinks, I guess the train trip was so soothing that both Emma and I fell asleep, and when we woke up we were in a private jet somewhere over the Pacific Ocean. Talk about a treat!"

"I'm sure your parents must be thrilled for you."

A final set of dagger eyes from Fi.

"We tried calling them after we got here, but it's difficult at the moment. I'm sure Fiona-Mum-made sure everything was all right with our parents."

"No doubt she did." At least I now understood all Fi's impromptu flights and the mysterious cash drop-off I witnessed at Bonriki International Airport.

Suddenly we heard shouts from the front door. Then Eli and Tony burst in, to tell us that the luxurious TV network yacht had sunk.

"What the f.u.c.k? Did it hit a reef?"

"No. Someone bashed a hole in it. No idea who."