Why do I have to enter a subject?Submitted by ridiculous at 2015-03-04 22:05:32 EST
Rating: 0.72 on 15 ratings (20 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
I decided to take a break from ArmA 3 Epoch and touch base with some of my old e-chums. How are you bunch of degenerate fuckers? I was looking at Uber some weeks ago while bored staying at a hotel in Oakridge, TN. Funny thing... Most people don't remember why Oakridge is significant, at least the guys working on my project site out there didn't. Anyhow, was bored hanging around in the lobby of the hotel with the girl works night shift there and came upon the idea of showing her Uber, maybe she made an account, maybe not, chances are you heathens would have scared her off by now anyway. Read a few things... I think I may have commented? Can't be bothered to really check, honestly. As for me, no the world hasn't claimed me yet, I'm still here, about the best I can claim at the moment. Here is a fragment of a piece of shit I was writing while bored at work, no clue where it's going yet, hell I may even take a suggestion.
Sico is an alter
Skrap is the fattest and oldest thing I know about Florida
Fallen masturbates with his own tears
Orphy is a one eyed pirate hooker
Silvr is a rimjobbing cockmeister of a homeless dolt with an alter girlfriend
I don't remember anyone else really...
The sudden explosion of musical tinkling would have startled anyone, the wind chime, repurposed as a door alarm, certainly startled Jason. He’d been lulled by the lobby’s warm interior and a long morning of drinking, into a near slumber, his chin slipped from its palm rest and nearly caused his face to meet the polished faux marble of the reception desk. Normally, his look would have been sheepish, caught in the act, but bleary eyed and still quite hung over he looked more green than anything. Pale blue eyes and too long to be fashionable blonde hair, which was unbrushed, a hook for a nose which looked like someone had pinched it too hard and the precursors of facial hair the young man desperately tried to cultivate made for an altogether not bad face, but given the day’s festivities and the fact that the boy on the edge of manhood was, truthfully, a late bloomer, he just looked… Green.
Brushing his hair out of his eyes and sitting up a little straighter on the stool, he’d appropriated from the maintenance room, he mumbled out a “Welcome to the Drummond Hotel.” as he waited for his eyes to focus on who or what had just walked into the room.
She was pretty. Not that drop dead gorgeous look of a model or the wholesome appearance of the girl from next door, but something between the two. Brown hair, mid length, with a touch of strawberry, no doubt colored by hands skilled in the beautician’s arts, eyes of emerald with flecks of amber and makeup tastefully performed, a thin nose and mostly full lips with just a hint of color to them. But, really, it was her smile, near perfect teeth with the patina of a woman and not a girl. Disarming, to say the least, and when combined with those eyes, those looks and just a little flirt, potentially dangerous. “Good morning.” A lovely, playful, voice intoned. It was night.
With color rising in his cheeks Jason somehow had the presence of mind to know that any attempt at banter, this one would quickly defeat and he was in no shape to match wits, he deflected the next jab before it came. “Checking in?”
“The reservation is under ‘Sweet’.” She let him get away with it.
He stood, mindful of the stool and it’s notorious wobble, and stepped to the keyboard jostling the mouse to bring it back to life. In a moment he had their reservation before him, not too difficult, considering it was the only one.
“One bed, one night, smoking or …?”
“Non.” She didn’t quite interrupt, but the question had clearly been anticipated and its answer planned.
Now having come back to the majority of his faculties, Jason stopped typing and slowly looked up at the woman. “Non?” he queried.
At only twenty two, there were a great many things that Jason did not know. But one thing he did know was people. Born with a sense of empathy stronger than many of his gender would care for and a gift for observation, the question was more in the tone of ‘are you sure?’ than any sort of accusation. The bulge in the breast pocket of her, stylish, long coat, was too big for an MP3 player and too small for an iPhone, the sweetness in the air around her indicated a recent application of perfume and lastly, the ever so slight difference in her physiology, her breathing, her voice, the slight color to her teeth… but then again, she may have recently quit.
She stepped closer, laying her clutch on the counter. “My husband can’t stand the smell.”
All these observations and yet… he missed the ring… Dumbass.
“Of course.” His eyes sank back to the monitor. “It’s going to be $87.52… Did you want to leave that on your Mastercard?”
He brought his eyes back up to Mrs. Sweet, saw her distracted look, her playful smile vanished and formed into the look of a person who knows they’re about to witness an accident, a mixture of horror and helplessness. His eyes followed hers off towards the parking lot.
The wind chime filled the lobby with noise again, provoking a wince from both of them. Then the hulk walked in. Okay, that may be a slight exaggeration but this guy was huge, he wore a v necked, skin tight, short sleeve shirt to show off his biceps, pecks and tan, though his bearing gave the impression he had never even gone outdoors as a child, much less now. Over six feet and as big around the chest as a reasonably sized tree trunk, shit brown hair and eyes and a physique to make sculptor blush and you’ve got the picture of a man who was every woman’s dream, and knew it.
“What room number?” he barged into the conversation, carrying a pair of suitcases, a gym bag over his shoulder. Even his tone was pretentious. Jason’s eyes flicked back to Mrs. Sweet. She smiled at her husband. “We’re just about to find out.” She looked back to the young man effortlessly answering his question. “Yes, please.”
His fingers clickity clacked over the keys and in a moment the printer buzzed to life. “You’ll be in 113 and if I could just have you sign here, here and initial here for our no smoking policy…” the rest of the paperwork spiel droned out of trained lips as Jason continued his ocular examination of his new favorite guest.
“Well?” The hulk speaks.
Jason looked over, maybe he was a little distracted, his look questioned the question.
“You gonna give me the keys?” The big guy was getting impatient. Good, he can wait, thought Jason, returning his attention to the civil one in the group.
“Checkout is at noon, breakfast from seven to nine and…” a glance at shitty Mcdouchnozzle, “here are your keys. If there’s anything else I can do for you, my name is Jason and I’ll be here until morning.” He was already looking longingly towards his stool.
“Can I get a wakeup call before you go back to bed?” She was teasing again, and it brought more unbidden warmth to Jay’s cheeks.
A few keystrokes… “It’s all set.”
With a roll of his eyes and a snort of some perceived deficiency Mr. Sweet snatched up the pair of keycards and started walking into the depths of the Drummond. Mrs. Sweet gave Jay another smile and turned to follow her husband. “Night night, sleepyhead.” The sound of her heels, on the polished floor, echoed off, only to be eventually swallowed by the carpet in the hall.
“Can’t you at least pretend to not be a prick some of the time?”
Darren Sweet unceremoniously tossed the bags on the bed with a grunt more of annoyance than effort.
“Can’t you at least pretend to not be a whore some of the time?”
The smile Rachel Sweet had been so generous with moments before turned to a glare of disdain. With a sigh of frustration she gripped her clutch tighter, stepped into the bathroom and locked the door taking a long look in the mirror.
‘It’s just a weekend. You only have to pretend to be happily married for a fucking weekend, so buck up and get through it. After that you can dump his ass at some corner, or train station or where the fuck ever he wants and get back to Tampa. Then you won’t have to see him again until the hearing and everything will be just fine… You can do it, so just toughen up, play nice and it’ll all be over soon.’
She broke contact with her own reflection for a moment as her mind added a post script, seemingly designed to poke at her.
‘Never should have agreed to this.’
She turned on the shower, letting the water warm a bit and begin to steam the mirror as she disrobed. Rachel Sweet was, as we’ve said, an attractive woman, in the prime of life at thirty one years old, educated and fit with a body most men would love her to hold against them.
“Just a weekend.” She muttered as she unclipped her earrings and laid them on the counter. Her eye caught the sparkle of the diamond on her finger. Her face drew down in disgust as she removed the ring as well, making sure to leave it well aside of where she intended to pile her other jewelry. After removing her tennis bracelet, which doubled as a medical alert identification, and the fine gold crucifix she wore, she stepped into the hot water and drew the curtain closed around her.
Darren had pulled his suitcase to the far side of the bed, taking her annoyance as license to pick which side of the bed he wanted and to find the hotel remote to see if Sports Center was on. He unzipped the cheap nylon of his case and surveyed the contents, pulling out a few bits and pieces, toiletries mainly, and his free weights he eyed the bulge wrapped in his Yale sweatshirt and flipped the top of the case closed. He sat at the foot of the bed, on the side he’d claimed, as marked by his suitcase, idly curling the ten pound dumbbell as he watched the highlights.
‘Just one more night, then I’ll have my alibi and all this bullshit will be behind me.’
He glanced over at the sound of the shower coming to life in the bathroom, shaking his head.
‘Selfish bitch… Bad enough I need you here but you’re just gonna live it up and rub my face into every little fucking thing you can, aren’t you? God it’ll be good to be rid of your lying manipulative ass. Jesus, you don’t even fuck worth a damned, had better hookers…’ He smiled a little at the thought of his dalliances and turned back to the television, sitting for a few moments before he dropped the dumbbell, not caring that it made a clang when it impacted the thinly carpeted floor.
The Drummond Hotel was built at the end of the Great Depression, one of the many structures of that era that were only financed due to the subsidies the US Government was offering under the New Deal. Mark Allen Drummond, then in his early sixties, commissioned the hotel as somewhat of a legacy. Really, it was a second chance of a legacy, what he’d really wanted was a bronze of himself before the town hall of Harrodsburg, PA. A philanthropist, adventurer, member of any committee or organization dedicated to the wellbeing of the town, county or state, Mr. Drummond was a man of action, a man about town, respected, loved and admired. But, like many men of that era, and even today, when Mark Drummond wasn’t kissing babies, he was stealing their lollypops. Of the adjectives that best fit him, no one seems to remember those that perhaps best suited him. Thief, Liar, Swindler, Manipulator, Perjurer… Murderer.
Drummond had taken a personal interest in the Hotel’s construction, while neither an architect or an engineer, he involved himself heavily in the design process. His legacy was to have the best, be constructed from the best and serve only the best. He’d spin in his grave if he knew the Holliday Inn would one day open a hotel that not only overshadowed the opulence of his own, but had been only a fraction of the cost.
Needless to say, the Drummond had seen better days, as is the nature of free market enterprise, when times are good, expansion is considered, maintenance is at a premium and most everything is for the asking… in times of famine, we try to charge guests for extra towels. That was only one of dozens of bad decisions the succession of Hotel managers had thrown against the proverbial walls of the Drummond to see if they’d stick. I don’t need to tell you that these were exactly the sort of ideas which pressed the beautiful old structure, once the secret getaway of the East Coast’s elite into the threadbare gilt flaked edifice of desperation that hired local kids without a drug test.
A dull thud, punctuated by the whipping wind made Jay look. Outside the lobby’s glass door he watched the top heavy potted bush start rolling away at an awkward tilt, affording to the tapered pot it was rooted in. Not exactly out of the ordinary, he was in no rush to go and fetch it, departing his beloved stool and grabbing his coat and a smoke before heading towards the door. As he wasn’t expecting any more arrivals he delicately removed the wind chimes, grimacing when, despite his best efforts at holding them steady, they still rang out in the still lobby. He laid them on the countertop of the reception desk and headed out, stopping just inside the door to light his cigarette before going out into the night.
The wind was one thing, the wind chill, another. He shuddered involuntarily and said a silent thank you to whatever was above that it hadn’t started snowing. He stepped toward the plant, now precariously caught at a wedge protruding from the long since shuttered valet stand’s stones. He dragged the pot, not bothering to right the bush, out of the wind and had a look around while puffing on his cigarette. Out came the little pipe and his lighter flicked again, just a little weed to brighten up his mood. It was late, approaching three and all was quiet, the perfect time to have a smoke and then do his ‘chores’ as he called them. Then the first flakes started to fall.
Thinking thoughts that could only be described as loathsome, he had another puff and slipped the pipe back into his pocket preparing to go fill up the mop bucket. When he pulled the door open the lights overhead flickered.
“Uh oh…” he hesitated, watching, then… Darkness. “Fuck beans.” He snorted in agitation, and stepped into the lobby letting the door close silently behind him. Walking quickly for the computer to trigger it’s backup, the emergency power supply came to life with a loud clack and its signature three warning tones. “Yeah I know the fucking power is out…” he grumbled to no one. Rounded the desk and quickly logging in to the system Jason double clicked the icon on his desktop to initiate what he affectionately referred to as the ‘Oh shit, we’re all fucked!’ emergency backup.
While the machine considered doing what it was programmed to do, the young man found his stool in the dim lighting of the battery powered lamps and started rifling through drawers. It’d been months since the last outage but then it had been summer. This was gonna suck. Finally, his prize in hand, he tested the flashlight, a dim glow indicative of old half drained batteries was all he saw. The young man cursed again, probably a dozen flashlights at his apartment and fat lot of good they would do him here and now. He glanced at the thermometer and then around the lobby, waiting.
The snow didn’t stop it’s gentle assault on the hills and valleys surrounding the Drummond Hotel and why would it? Late January would bring snow, this was just a fact of life. The problem was that the power didn’t return either. By five, the temperature in the lobby had sunk to around forty degrees, Jason in his jacket and wrapped in a blanket was astounded the cold hadn’t woke any of the guests. By six Jason was seriously starting to worry, the accumulation had made the road disappear and it was a known fact that the Drummond, atop its hill with a mile and a half of driveway was not a high priority for the local plowman… Well, at least, not anymore. Finally around six fifteen, the walls rumbled and the droning hum of the Hotel’s old gas heater coming to life alleviated a lot of Jason’s worry. It was only emergency heat, just enough to keep the pipes from bursting but welcome in the frigid lobby.
“It’s freezing in here!”
He’d heard Mrs. Sweet coming, she’d been quiet but in the stillness of the lobby without even the soft music from overhead playing the click of her door shutting had echoed down the hall.
“The power is out.” His voice had the edge of sleeplessness to it.
“Yeah, I gathered when my phones alarm woke me up at six thirty instead of the wakeup call.” So she’s a little testy too.
Jason sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “Sorry about that, system is down.”
She replied with a sound in her throat that sounded a little like ‘you should be’.
“There’s fresh coffee?” he ventured.
She turned to appraise him and offered a hint of a smile letting him know he could get back into her good graces then turned to look out the lobby door. “A lot of snow…” she commented, quite possibly to herself.
“I had heard a storm was coming, but three feet in three hours? That’s insane, it’s got to be some kind of record.” He said.
She made another sound, and shrugged her shoulders before turning to face him again. She looked even lovelier in the darkened interior of the lobby with the early light. “You said something about coffee?”
The young man nodded and was off his stool, blanket discarded in a moment, his coffee mug in hand he lead her across the lobby to the little area where, had there been power and had someone shown up, there would have been breakfast waiting.
“The kettle keeps water boiling so it was still hot even though the power is out.” He explained, more to fill the dead air than because he thought she cared. He lay down his mug and grabbed a thick paper cup, offering it to her.
“Is that so? Good, then, I’ll have tea.” She smiled slightly. It was becoming evident to Jay that this was a woman used to getting her own way, even if it were only a minor victory in the circumstances. He reached for a teabag and plunked it into the mug before adding some water and turning to offer it.
“Milk and sugar?” she queries with no effort made to take the cup from him.
He added the requisite additives, starting to smile himself now, at the awkwardness of making tea for a guest and also the strange draw he felt towards her.
“Anything else, Ma’am?” He smiled, again offering the cup.
“Only that you never call me that again.” She smiled back, eyes alight at toying with the boy.
“Then what should I call you?” He turned back to fixing his coffee, as much for something to do as to avoid staring at her and grinning like a dolt.
“Rachel or Rach.”
“Yes Ma’am.” He took his turn to grin, turning back to face her.
She responded with a slight squint of the eyes but the smile made the threatening look a lie. “Look at you, so smug. Maybe I should tell your boss I caught you sleeping when you checked me in.” Her turn.
“Go right ahead, if you can get through. Did I mention the phones are down too?” his grin widened just a hint more.
“oooh… so he’s cocky. I’d say I like a challenge, except that you’ve already lost. Mobile, dumkampf.” Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks flushed, she was enjoying this give and take.
“One: You don’t have the number. Two, I said phones, as in plural. Reception is shit up here to begin with, but when there is snow on the ground it always takes them at least twelve hours to go fix whatever is messed up with the tower. Welcome to Pennsylvania.” His grin was one of victory.
“Well then, Hotel Boy, I suggest you get started building a fire so I can send a smoke signal.” They both shared a laugh at that and he rejoined.
“If you’ve got some matches, I’ve got a blanket and it’s Jason.”
“Hmmm, I think I like ‘Hotel Boy’ better.” She flashed a wicked smile and sipped her tea, looking off to signal that the conversation was at an end.
“Whatever you say, Ma’am.” He started back towards the desk, sipping his own drink.