When I last checked in, everyone at the hotel was going madcap. The hotel itself was retracting like a jet bridge, while the bellhop in the burgundy hat was running his left fist and forearm into a hole in the plaster.
The monkey on the loose stole the hat and put it on the severed head in the bidet. A guest in a loud mocking tone called down the hall, “Burgundy Boy! Burgundy Boy! Where’s your hat now?”
This slow crawling, fast acting, squirming bug steam into nostrils of grown men as they writhe madcap in cut time, with very little — like crunch, repeat, crunch, repeat… throwing the plastic from the balcony into the small unburnt patch of grass.
Around it, the boardwalk on fire. A tar fire. You squirm on your belly and feel the burn in your gut; you stand on your feet and feel the core scorch your rubber. They let anyone and their cousin stay in this hotel these days. Watching as the tatters of kerosene-soaked hand towels fall into the fire.
Only watching, because there are sensations, smells and things to touch, that Alpha Strategy are dealing with that I’d rather not deal with. Gurgling, gargling, piss, yolk, HCAs, wet tents, and a whole stew of other things, like ruminant tripe, burgundy brains. I ask for some napkins, but all the napkins in this world aren’t enough to clean up this mess.
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