Spending Most Your Lives Living In Sam Pepper’s Prankster’s Paradise
We’ve finally touched down and taxi’d across the runway. I can already tell I’m in a strange, wonderful new land but should I ever try to look up this location on Google Earth I fear I’d be out of luck. I unbuckle my strap and excitedly make my way towards the front of the aircraft, the cabin door already giving way to what could be the most unique island paradise in all the land. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the blinding white sunshine reflecting off of the equally white shores stretching for decades. Also the runway is white. There’s a lot of white, and that’s how I know I’ve arrived:
Welcome to Sam Pepper’s Semi-Inclusive Prankster’s Paradise.
For those who aren’t in the know, I mean come on people, Sam Pepper is a revolutionary of the craft of jape. No cacklebladder is too great a challenge for Pepper having made a name and fortune and now business empire off the backs of mildly to sometimes extremely annoying mere ordinary members of the public. The non-specials. The bleating masses who just can’t take a joke.
And this is the very credo his private nation is based upon. You gotta have a sense of humour to ride this train, especially if you want to take advantage of the complimentary 24/7 crab buffet. All crab, all the time. Just don’t be allergic to crabs because that’s not really funny is it. Unless it’s like crabs in the sense of the embarrassing pubic lice you can only get rid of with medicated shampoo that one time. That’s a laugh riot.
As I step down the stairs into the tropical heat I immediately spy the first glimpse of my new home away from home. An ornate wooden jack in the box, complete with old-timey crank, is sat a few feet from the foot of the stairway. Of course it’s inviting you to cradle that clackity handle. I waste no time. A few rhythmic turns and a jaunty jingle later and suddenly BAM. A huge white gloved hand on a rusty coil smashes me in the face with a creamy custard pie, just one of the few classic boners Pepper has become famous for.
The walk to the resort is laden with banana peels and petulant mimes, their faces seemingly frozen in permanent awe as they frolic about us attempting to block our progress with walls that couldn’t possibly be there… or could they? It’s all part of the fun. A few stumble and trip. One old woman slips and falls straight onto her howling face. We erupt into glorious laughter but she’s surely dead, again all part of the fun. We truck on to check-in.
The automatic doors whisk open and the resort lobby blasts us with a jet of scalding hot air. My expectations have been expertly subverted! Hot air instead of cold? Yet another nuanced example of Pepper’s genius. As Lawrence Oates once braved the dagger-like Arctic winds so do we painfully navigate the searing jet stream until finally, the check-in desk is in reach.
But there’s no clerk. No staff. No-one to check our bags or tell us where are rooms are. In fact the entire back wall of the building seems almost… wooden.
And my suspicions are confirmed.
With a thunderous clatter the walls of the lobby give way to blinding light. The rest of the so called “resort” peels away like the skin of one of the many over ripe bananas littering the runway. It’s a sham. The whole thing is a facade. The ultimate prank, truly a master’s work and we would find out soon enough for in the centre of the now collapsed island paradise stands a man.
He is a lean streak of a character, naked as the day he was born, a shock of tangled hair atop his unusually long face. Tattoos adorn almost every inch of his arms legs and torso though its difficult to determine what any of them mean if they even have meaning at all. Fixed to his face is an expression that seems to look past us, past the runway, past oceans and continents and through time itself. He seems world-weary but youthful, worn but new, ancient and newborn.
It is the good Dr. Pepper himself.
He lets out a keening wail as he ambulates towards our party. The shuffling continues for what seems like an eternity. The wailing never stops the entire time, like nails across the world’s oldest chalkboard nay the Alpha chalkboard, the template from which all other boards were wrought. Finally he’s upon us, mere feet from where check in once proudly stood. His neck cranes backwards as his eyes rise to meet ours. He produces a small red water pistola, from where I don’t know, and begins to squirt it at us. The fluid tickles and gives way to harmless giggling and chuckling until we realise not all is as it seems.
“Mr Pepper” I boldly ask “While we appreciate the expert lengths you’ve gone to to achieve such flawless tomfoolery I must ask, what is this liquid you douse us with? Why the red hue? Why the metallic taste?”
“bloOd” replies Sergeant Pepper “I lIke to pUt the BloOd iNto tHere. It cOmes with a SimplE sqUeeze”
We stand in stunned silence.
“It CaN bE FrOM anyThing. BloOd is EverYWhere yOU knOw? YoU wILL know. YoU wiLL ALL knOW”
My god. Though it beggars belief… could it finally be time to ask the question?
Has Sam Pepper gone too far?