While sitting in his torch-lit canoe a few hundred miles away in New Guinea, the young Hotat warrior named Monq tossed his net into the water, and watched the surface begin to squirm. As he pulled in his net for the first time, he felt a sharp pain in the thin membrane between his thumb and index finger. Oh mm-fuck! Not again! He kept pulling and saw that the net was, yes, not only full of green and brown Mbolo worms (oh yum) but deadly striped sea snakes, one of which decided to bite him. He threw the deadly squirming mass overboard.
In an angry quick motion, Monq pulled his razor-sharp machete from his canoe, and, in one furious swoop, lopped off his own hand before the lethal poison could travel throughout his body, which would ultimately result in his belly button unscrewing and his ass falling off. Damn! It’s the right hand again. It would be months before his beloved ‘wakawakawaka’hand would again be up and operational.
One night, drunk on kava, one-handed Monq paraded through his village wearing a big red sea star on his bare chest and making shoot-’em-up sounds like a six-year-old. Monq thought that wearing some red sea star “bling” might attract the ladies who could wakawakawaka his baq for him. (It would only end up attracting his often-angry-(for-a-good-reason), castration-happy wife.)
Red sea stars were sacred on Hullapalu’u. They were the ‘bling’ of authority figures. Monq didn’t think anybody was paying attention. However, behind a clump of bushes, another young cannibal, named Bing, who lusted after Monq’s wife, Mmbabybaby, took a cell phone video of his rival. Bing was insane and in the final stages of kuru (mad cow) after dining on the brain scientist Hans Delbruck at the Cerebrum Fest in Papua. All of the Hotats in Hullapalu’u, including Monq and his precious Mmbabybaby were afflicted. Completely stoked about his video evidence, Bing giggled, shaking like a leaf on a fuzzy tree. Later that night, he would send the video clip of Monq’s sea star walk to Chief Mmrall (pronounced Dave).
“Chief Mmrall will not be amused,” Monq’s wife, Mmbabybaby, said. “He’ll bite your head off, stupid! And heads don’t grow back!
Monq would probably lose his meager income as well.
Because of worry, Monq had bitten his own fingernails literally down to the knuckles on three fingers of his right hand. It would be weeks before he could properly wipe his own behind.
ChiefMmrall was due back from his Alaskan cruise and Monq was sure that the chief would serve him as a main course on the Royal Sunday Brunch Buffet table. Monq saw himself, filleted on a plate, right next to the scrambled, rare purple porpoise eggs.
Yes, porpoise eggs.
The jolly 400-pound chief had come back to the village and nothing was said about Monq’s transgression. Without any notice, one Sunday morning, two of the village’s largest warriors, Mmrush and Mmrove (Bob and Ed), knocked upon the door of the Monq family hut. Whish. Whish. (They were knocking on a grass door).
“It’s Mmus, Monq. Bob and Ed. The chief wants to see you for breakfast! Now!”
Monq, put on his best Sunday-go-to-eatin’ loincloth, kissed his wife a tearful goodbye and went to the chief’s hut accompanied by the two warriors.
“Monq!” said the jovial chief, Mmrall. “Have you had your morning kava yet?”
“Mmmmm. No, Your Highness.”
“Do you take fruit bat milk in it?”
“No, Your Highness.”
“No, thank you, Your Highness. Can I ask why you sent for me?”
“Have you heard of the mad Viking Edwin MacHeath??”
“MacHeath? Sure. He’s one baaaaaad mutha…”
“Shut your mouf!”
“Sorry, Your Highness.”
“Just fuckin’ with you, Monq.”