Work does intrude though. Mainly it's a matter of counting the cash register, dropping the cash into the safe, and occasionally sending in credit card batches. Not that I have to do that very often since most of our "guests" couldn't get credit at the pay-day loan store. It is an endless parade of human misery walking in through my doors all night; junkies stumbling in, covered in infected sores, with only the most tenuous grasps on reality. Toothless crack whores looking for a place to give their johns a quick and easy gum-job for five dollars a pop. I get a ton of drunken derelicts come in looking for rooms. I can smell them from behind the bullet-proof glass. They are looking for some place private where they can drink themselves into a stupor and die after they pissed the last chunk of their liver away.
You think this would depress me, but no, not really. In fact it's kind of heartening to know that there are people in this world so much more desperate and pathetic than I.
Anyway, a truly bizarre thing happened to me last Tuesday. I was reading the latest issue of Shaved Beaver when I was startled by this pounding on the window. I looked up from the article I was reading called "Bald Snatch Tales" and saw this weaseley looking fuck with a thin mustache, a huge gold chain and a greasy comb over. "What the fuck do you want?" I said, pissed. I was really into "Bald Snatch Tales".
"Hey man. I got a favor to ask you."
"Fuck off," I said. "Look at the sign, it says payment in advance unless you're using a major credit card. No debit card bullshit."
"No. Hold up. I'm already a guest here." To prove this, he pulls his room key out and rattles them. "See, I'm in a bind and I need your help, BAD. Can you come to my room and help me out?"
I shook my head. "That's against policy. Can't leave the desk after midnight."
Comb-over boy didn't say anything. He just slapped a one-hundred dollar bill against the Plexi-glass. "Can you come to my room and help me out?"
"Are you a fucking fag?" I said. "Take that bill down to Baker Street if you want to get your dick sucked and leave me alone."
Comb-over boy just laughs. "Son, I'm no homo. What I want you to do is real easy. If you're not interested, I'll just get one of those bums sleeping in the park to do it for me. But I don't want to walk that far. So do you want to make an easy hundred bucks?"
Well, I thought, I could use the money. Living with my mom was becoming a nightmare. She had gained another fifty pounds since I got home and now she couldn't bathe because she couldn't fit in the tub. She had to clean herself in the living room with a rag attached to a stick. I had the horror of seeing her naked just the other day; her ass was like two purpled veined trash bags filled with cottage cheese. I needed new living arrangements fast, and one-hundred dollars would be a nice boost in that direction.
Still, as I locked the cash drawer in the safe and stepped out of the office, I wasn't convinced this guy wasn't a fag who wanted me watch him fuck his boyfriend or something. For a hundred dollars, I'd at least find out.
I followed comb-over down the walkway to our "Presidential Suite" (that was a laugh; the only President who would ever set foot in there would be Bill Clinton so he could fuck some fat Jewess with a piece of fried chicken.) He stuck his key in the door, then looked at me. "I hope you're not easily shocked," he said, then opened the door.
The scene inside wasn't so much shocking as just numbingly weird. There were eight people inside; four black guys dressed in Nazi uniforms, two white guys in Indian headdresses, one wearing this leather harness with raccoon hides attached to it and a gimp mask, and this other fellow laying in the corner on the filthy shag rug, cackling and repeating, "Just...meat" over and over again. They looked like Village People of Hell.
Both the beds had moved to the sides and propped up against the wall. In the center of the room there was a plastic kiddie pool with this chick wearing a cha'dor kneeling inside it. She was covered in this mucous like substance which I soon realized was semen. Holy shit, I thought, these guys are making a bukkake movie.
Comb-over stuck the one-hundred dollar bill in my hand, then shoved this digital camera towards me. "Here, I want you to video-tape my guys while they all jerk-off in this Muslim slut's face," he said. "She's not really Muslim, she actually from Venezuela, but I doubt many people will notice with those robes on. You cool with this?"
"Sure," I said. "I'm totally down with this."
"Good," he said, walking over to the guy muttering on the carpet. "I didn't want to just use a tripod. I wanted to give this movie a real `gonzo' feel. But our `cameraman' just couldn't wait to get into the drugs until AFTER we shot the footage, isn't that right?"
Comb-over kicked him right in the ribs and he started screaming, "WE'RE ALL MADE OF MEEEEAAAT!"
"Shut up," Comb-over said. "You just lost your cut of the profits, dipshit. Anyway, just press the red button on the side there, and try to get this from as many angles as you can. And don't worry if the camera gets splattered; it's water resistant."
"I think I can do that," I gulped. This was an unrealized dream of mine, being part of a porno-movie shoot. Too bad the chick was all covered up in robes, but I figured maybe they'd come off afterwards.
Anyway, I got my image in the viewfinder and waited as the other seven dudes started beating off. They must have had Viagra or something because it didn't take them long to get the juices flowing. Within eight minutes, all of them had blown a load into the chick's face, and went back to working on the next load.
Now, bukkake is much slower paced than most other porno. I spent a good hour just taping them busting their nuts on this robed chick. She didn't let out a sound beyond a similarly bored sigh. I was starting to get a mind to blow a load on her myself. I asked comb-over, "Hey, do you think I could bust one off on this chick? You think she'd mind?"
Comb-over looked disapprovingly at me. "Sorry fella. These guys have all been tested for sexually transmitted diseases."
"I swear to you I don't have AIDS," I said, even though after my prison experience, I wasn't one hundred percent sure.
"That's the problem," Comb-over said. "All these guys do. We're making a movie for the extreme porno consumer. You wouldn't believe how many sickos out there have a fetish for this, and will pay top dollar to see it."
"Whoa," I sighed, making doubly sure that I didn't get any AIDS infected semen on me as I filmed. "What about the chick though? Is she cool with that?"
Comb-over shrugged, "Doesn't matter. Mamacita no habla anglais, si?"
The girl looked at him and her eyes looked puzzled. I had no idea what her expression was since there was a cloth covering her face. Right then, she took a big load in her face from one of the black guys in an SS uniform. Oh well, I thought. Sucks to be her.
After another hour of taping, the bottom of kiddie pool was lightly covered in a layer of milky covered semen. "Okay, that's enough of that. Take five guys...smoke `em if you got em."
The chick stripped off her come soaked clothes. She was wearing a bikini underneath, and she didn't look all that hot. She had stretch marks all over her stomach, and was distressingly skinny. It looked like Comb-over had yanked her off the streets of some South American ghetto to get her up here. I turned off the camera.
"Here you go," Comb-over said, tenderly bringing her a syringe that was undoubtedly filled with heroin. Her eyes lit up when she saw it and she didn't look like she could stand to wait for Comb-over to wrap the rubber tubing around her upper arm and push up a vein. Not that it was hard since they were all dark purple and sticking up through the skin. The girl gasped as he pressed the plunger of heroin home.
The girl looked like she was in bliss for about ten seconds, then she started to shake. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head and foam started froth out of her mouth.
"FUCK!" Comb-over said. He kicked his cameraman on the ground again. "I told you not to cut that shit with strychnine you stupid fuck!"
"MEEEEAAAAT! MEEEAAT!" is all he got out of him.
The chick stumbled around. Her foot stepped in the kiddie pool full of cum and she slipped, her head hitting the corner of the nightstand that was propped up in the corner. There was this crunch that sounded like two ball bearings grinding together in a sock. She fell to the carpet, just twitching now, her head twisted back at an unnatural angle. I stood there in shock.
Comb-over threw his hands up in the air. "Great. Just fucking great. Stuck in a seedy hotel room with drugs, AIDS infected African Nazis with HIV and dead hooker! What the fuck are we gonna do?"
"Whaddya mean `we' peckerwood," one of the black guys sneered.
"Yeah, I gotta get back to the office dude," I muttered, edging for the door.
A lightbulb seemed to go off in Comb-over's head. "I know what we can do!" He looked at me. "Do you have like a fire ax or anything around here? Or maybe some knives?"
I could see where he was going with this. "We might have a saw in our maintenance closet..."
"Good!" Comb-over said, slapping two more hundred dollar bills in my hand. "Go get it. And bring some trashbags," he said, nudging the still twitching corpse with his loafer. "She's pretty small. It shouldn't take more than two."
I stepped outside the room, pretty much convinced that I was going back to jail and probably death row. My only real way out would be if I let him dismember the body and get rid of it. This never happened.
Anyway, I got the woodsaw out of the maintenance closet along with two Hefty bags off a housekeeping cart. I returned to the presidential suite and noticed that the nigger Nazis, the Indians and Raccoon leather boy had left, hopefully not to turn us into the police. I handed the saw to Comb-over and said, "I have to get back to office, people are going to be checking out soon..."
"No! You can't leave!" he said. He put the camera into my hands. "The Chinese have a saying that every crisis is an opportunity of something. Well, you're going to tape me while I chop this bitch up."
"What the fuck!" I said. "No way. Why do you want to make photographic evidence of this?"
"Because including snuff into this pretty much quadruples the value of this tape!" Comb-over said, yanking a gimp mask off the floor and putting it over his head. "Seriously, this stuff is big in Eastern Europe and Canada. I'll make millions inside a week! And no one's gonna miss her. I mean, it's not like I brought this chick here on a visa or anything."
I stood there dumbfounded. He cocked his head at me, "Look, I'll give you a cut of the money if you help me."
I didn't know what to say, I just raised the camera up and started shooting and tried not to look. That didn't matter though, since the sounds were even more sickening. The skin and the muscle made a sucking noise as the teeth of the saw tore through it. Then it made a horrible scraping noise as it hit the bone, followed by a snapping sound as the last little sliver of bone broke off. The worst though, was when he hit split the stomach and her entrails spilled out onto the carpet. The steamy smell of her guts was permanently etched onto a dark place in my psyche.
Comb-over just groaned. "Don't worry about this bro. After we're done, I'll hit Wal-Mart, get some rags and some 409 and clean this place up like nothing ever happened."
After one interminable hour of this horror, the girl was finally disassembled and placed in the two Hefty bags. "I'll chuck these in an incinerator in a few hours after I've got this place spic and span," he said, taking the camera from my hands. "Just go back to your office, and act like you didn't see anything. What's you're name son?"
"P-p-Poopy," I stammered.
"Weird name," he said. "Anyway Poopy, I'll be in touch with you. Just remember, you didn't see anything here tonight. ANYTHING."
I walked out of suite and went back down to the office in a daze. The sun was coming up. I felt like I'd just spent my whole night in Hell. I probably deserved to be executed for what I just was a part of. There was a drunk sleeping in the lobby of the office. I didn't have the heart to kick him out, even though I knew I had to before Sergei got in.
I didn't think I'd be able to sleep that day, but I ended up sleeping so deeply not even my mother's religious shows could wake me up. I must have been at the edge of mental exhaustion. And I didn't dream. I'm not religious, but thank God I didn't dream.
I dreaded going to work the next night. I was sure there would be police all over the place, ready to jump out and arrest me on sight, but everything seemed normal. Distressingly normal. After a few hours, I got the master key out and went over to the presidential suite. I trembled as I put the key in the lock and stepped inside. Everything looked like it was in place. There was no blood anywhere, all the beds were put back in their proper spot. Even the Gideon's Bible was right back where it was supposed to be.
So I went back to the office. Maybe it was all a dream? God knows I'd been through some trauma in the past year. This must have been all that subconscious shit bubbling to the surface.
Over the next few nights, I was able to convince myself that it was all just some waking nightmare, a hallucination, and things started getting back to normal for me. Just nights and nights of sitting in my bullet-proof office alone, reading girl magazines.
Then, just the other night, I noticed a manila envelope slipped under the door of the office with POOPY written on the front of it. I opened it up, and there were ten crisp one-hundred dollar bills, a DVD-R, and a letter. It read:
"Told you I'd make a ton of cash off this real quick. Here's your cut of the money. Don't spend it all in one place. Sincerely, Fletcher."
I picked the DVD-R up by the edges. It was cheaply made and had a homemade label across the top of it. It read, "The Aristocrats."