Arlo Einstein was the island’s longest serving and most elusive politician. He hadn’t talked to the press in decades. He thumped the bible hard and voters in his district loved him, especially the poor and uneducated.

Einstein was in the news - again - for using homophobic slurs on the People’s Assembly floor. Same-sex marriage legislation was up for debate, and Arlo Einstein was the braying mouthpiece of the opposition.

“God created Adam and Eve,” he bellowed from the gilded lectern. “Not Adam and Steve!”

Cosmo Archer watched the speech via video link. The entire Channel Two newsroom gathered around the monitor. The story had huge implications for Grand Calabash. As it stood, it was the last marriage equality holdout in the commonwealth. If the People’s Assembly failed to legalise same-sex marriage, the tiny island nation would face sanctions from the crown.

“Something’s off about this guy,” said Cosmo. “The way he’s leaning into the homophobic hate speech. It’s super tone-deaf.”

“The poorest people get hit hardest by sanctions, yet they’re the ones who elect politicians like Einstein who’ve been running this country into the dirt,” said news director Samantha Tulemon.

“This place is so backwards,” said producer Nigel Doggins. “They call it ‘the island time forgot’ for a reason.”

“It’s always, ‘if we let a man marry a man, what happens next?’” said Samantha. “The argument is that people will want to marry dogs and horses. It’s a slippery slope into bestiality.’”

“But the thing is, nobody’s out there fucking horses,” said Nigel. “It’s so predictable how this place reverts to its crabs-in-a bucket mentality. All the government has to do is let people who love each other get married and the threat of sanctions disappear.”

“Einstein calls homosexuality the world’s most decadent sin.”

“What strange terminology,” said Cosmo. “Does that seem like a red flag to anyone else?”

Einstein’s rant continued. By the end he was full-throat shouting. “We must fight these deviants, the Johnny-come-latelies who say our island ways are not good enough, that God’s word is not good enough. We must fight to preserve our Christian way of life!”

Nigel slid forward in his chair. “Are you suggesting Einstein’s living in the closet?”

Samantha raised an eyebrow.

Cosmo chose his words carefully. “The sad thing is, I don’t think he knows it.”

“I see what you mean.”

“There’s no way he’s actually gay,” said Samantha. “Believe me, Grand Calabash is too small of an island to keep a bombshell like that a secret.”

“It’s always the ones who protest the loudest. Makes you wonder."

“His sexuality doesn’t matter,” said Cosmo. “If he succeeds and blocks the bill, Grand Calabash will be there laughingstock of the world.”

Samantha Tulemon assigned Cosmo to chase the Arlo Einstein story. He was a notoriously slippery character, but Cosmo had been softening him up for months. Einstein’s only interest outside of ‘fighting the gay agenda’ in the public forum was agriculture, specifically mangoes. Cosmo had an in. His wife just spent the weekend canning a massive batch of mango chutney. It was delicious.

Cosmo parked at the edge of the Einstein compound. He left the camera equipment in the car and walked up a short path towards the house. He decided to show up unannounced to present the mango chutney.

It was excellent timing. Arlo Einstein was in the garage, fussing with his luxury riding lawnmower.

“I thought important lawmakers had landscapers,” said Cosmo.

“I do have landscapers,” said Arlo. “I just like to drive this little tractor around. It puts me in touch with this beautiful world the Lord has made.”

Einstein always tried to distract him by dragging him into the 'existence of God’ debate. Cosmo was determined not to bite. He maintained a neutral facade as he presented his gift.

“My wife and I have a Julie mango tree in our backyard. She’s been generous this year.”

“Julie is a good mango,” said Einstein. “But a Carrie mango is a life-changing experience. Have you ever tried one?”

Arlo insisted on a tour of the compound, which included the mango orchard, some pasture lands, and sweeping views of Turtle Skull Bay. How could a public servant amass such a fortune? It was a million dollar view. Cosmo climbed on the back of the lawnmower and they rode tandem, like two cowboys sharing a horse.

“Hold on so you don’t get thrown off,” said Einstein. “Put your arms around my chest.”

Cosmo became extremely uncomfortable. Man stacked on man, pressed together like two all-beef patties in a homoerotic double cheeseburger, lurching awkwardly over difficult terrain on a riding lawnmower. Cosmo wrapped his arms around Einstein in a subordinate pose, clinging to the island’s most notorious peddler of homophobic hate speech. Was this sick, twisted foreplay, or was Einstein just rattling his cage?

Conversation wasn’t easy. Einstein reverted to bible talk whenever he was confronted by anything outside his narrow worldview. Cosmo tried to remain calm, but was distracted by the terrifying idea that vibrations from the lawnmower might stimulate an unwanted erection, something Einstein would certainly feel scraping his kidneys. An involuntary response like that would send the wrong message, taking an already weird encounter somewhere he would rather avoid. 

Was this journalism or had it morphed into something else?

Einstein’s position was already on the record. Would it advance the story to ask him to clarify his remarks? It was clear that hate speech was hate speech. What was he doing here, riding around on the back of Arlo Einstein’s lawnmower?  More importantly what were his intentions? Einstein was in total control, on his turf. Cosmo operated close to the edge but a potentially dangerous situation was unfolding. A dialogue about boundaries and consent felt necessary, not a standard operating procedure for a news interview.

Cosmo persisted beyond his doubts. Arlo Einstein was often dismissed as dwelling on the lunatic fringe but was a complex person if you could look past the demagoguery. Cosmo regarded him as a deplorable but fascinating character, a walking contradiction. Imagine the self-hatred and inner turmoil brewing in Einstein’s psyche after a lifetime of suppressing his sexuality.

The Carrie mango tree towered over an open field. Arlo Einstein had a long wooden pole with a basket at the end. He reached up into the tree and collected two ripe mangoes. They were big as ostrich eggs, with bright yellow skin and red blush on the fatter end.

“A Carrie mango has a thick skin,” said Einstein, fondling the mango suggestively with his long, delicate fingers. “We called them juice box mangoes as kids growing up on the island, because you don’t eat them, you drink them.”

Cosmo was uncomfortable, but intrigued.

Einstein continued the demonstration. “Squeeze the mango all over until it’s sticky. The objective is to release all the juices from inside the soft pulp. Don’t be afraid to massage the mango get the to juice come out.”

The way Einstein manipulated his mango bordered on obscenity. The fruit had surrendered its egg-like shape and now resembled a long, distended tube engorged with juice.

“Make a hole at the tip for all the juice to come out,” he said, unfolding his pocketknife. “Then suck from the fat end of the mango.”

Einstein put his mouth around the tip and sucked. He stroked its sides with both hands. Mango juice trickled in rivulets from the stretched corners of his mouth. How far was this act going to go?

“Looks like you can’t handle the girth,” said Cosmo, unable to resist a joke.

Maybe it was the wrong move. Would this leave Cosmo’s journalistic intentions and cishet masculinity open for misinterpretation? It was so confusing. Was Einstein coming onto him, or had the tables been turned? Was he the one making a pass? Had he walked into a bizarre reverse honeytrap?

Arlo Einstein jerked his mango dry. It hung there in his sticky hands like a wrung out, depleted cock. Cosmo wished he could un-see the image of Einstein’s face slick with mango juice, but it implanted itself onto his cerebral cortex, a new addition to his sprawling warehouses of accumulated trauma.

“Nothing satisfies like a Carrie mango,” he said, wiping his mouth with his shirtsleeve. “Now let me watch you eat one.”

J. ARCHER AVARY (he/him) was born in the USA but now calls the Northeast of England home. He’s a former TV weatherman, champion lionfish hunter, and now a boat captain on the river Tyne. He’s best-known in literary circles as founder/EIC of the much-loved but short-lived Sledgehammer Lit. His poems and stories have appeared in/are forthcoming in Bullshit Lit, Roi Faineant, JAKE, Frazzled Lit, and BULL. Has he mentioned his Pushcart Prize nomination?  Twitter: @j_archer_avary