There was more jostling from the otherside of the door, and a different voice called out. This one was male, nasally and annoying. Christian would have recognized the Bostonian accent anywhere.
“Bawby Willyams? Bawby Willyams, you—excuse me lady, I’m tryin’a conduct an intaview heaya! The fuckin noive of some people!” More jostling. Christian could imagine Dan shouldering his way past Bobby’s indignant manager, scribbling furiously on that legal pad of his—-filling it with all manner of bullshit and lies. “Is it true you got dat Christian Mac-Queen in dere wid ya? You two heaya for da gay thing or what? What, yous two guys fuckin’ or somethin’? Hey, you gonna open up or am I gonna be standin’ heaya all day? “
Fuck.
Room #1123 – Bobby Williams
Inside, Bobby could hear the retarded sound of a man asking lewd questions, then followed closely by that of Cynthia’s voice. He wasn’t sure what was the less of two evils really, but he knew one thing for sure, he preferred taco to sausage any day. Easing against the couch, well more like leaning on it, he listened to his new guest, Christian, talk about how its not that hard to do left turns all day. This had Bobby quirk a brow. “But….I’m used to doing right turns. Woah…this is going to be harder than I thought.” The consolation was that the chicks in the stands flash their breasts as you go around the track. Bobby only thought they did that in New Orleans, and this new development, did make him feel a whole lot better about this Nascar racing gig. Formula one cars go so fast, you would never get to see the tits, they’d be a blur. But if there were a lot of yellow flags, he’d be sure to see plenty. Folding his arms and leaning back, he shot Christian a sideways glance, and then nodded, saying it was cool for him to light up.
“I’d join you, but left me bong in the bedroom.”
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Christian looked contemplatively to the door once more, wondering just what on Earth was going on out there and how long he’d be squatting in Bobby’s hotel room. Whatever it was, it sounded….messy.
“I’d join you, but left me bong in the bedroom.”
“Well….it looks like we’re going to be here a while. Waiting would probably be more fun if we were both stoned. “
“A hotel guest seems to have had a tiny accident outside my client’s door. Could you come and clean him out of the way, please?”
Chewing gum, the red lipped cleaner looked up at the busty racing car manager, and she uttered;
Madame, ¿qué estás hablando? Él no es un invitado. ¿Y por qué me huele mierda?
(translation: Madame, what are you talking about? He is not a guest. And why do I smell shit?)
Pursing her lips, Cynthia took out a fifty dollar note and waved it before the cleaning lady, since she was now starting to lose patience.
“This can be yours, IF you clean away that man from the door. He is blocking access to my client.”
Looking at the money being offered, the bribe, the cleaner suddenly had a devious look and she nodded graciously, taking the money and then pocketing it into her red lace bra beneath her blue uniform.
Oh, por supuesto … limpiarlo. Me vuelvo y … hacer lo que pides.
(translation: Oh of course…clean him up. I be right back and…do what you ask)
The cleaner then went right on with opening the room door she was at, and went inside, taking her trolley with her. Little did Cynthia know, the room was occupied, with another guest, that had called for the maid’s extra special services. She even hung a “do not disturb” door tag on the door, and from inside you could hear the chatter of the maid, followed by the laughter of the occupant; a male and then a lot of moaning and bed springs squeaking.
Cynthia had been duped. She stamped her foot indignantly, as luck would have it, another door opened and it was none other than Tim Curry, the famous actor. He instantly wrinkled up his nose at the stench that was now coming from the door of Bobby Williamson, and it was at this moment, he recognized the fallen reporter.
“I say….whoever knocked out that bastard. I want to thank. Just a shame whoever did it, knocked the shit out of him.” Tim guffawed, before clapping eyes on the voluptuous Cynthia. He saw her strained facial expression and then pointed at the fallen and smelly reporter. “Did you do that?” He asked, curious to see if he was right. Cynthia’s shoulders drooped in defeat.
“Yes….it was me. Did the old…’bend and snap’ and he shit his pants. Just tried to bribe some cleaning lady, who turned out to be the hotel maid for hire. Now I am stuck with a stinky unconscious reporter and no way in to see Bobby Williamson, who is my client.” She heaved a massive sigh, as Tim held up his finger. “Don’t worry love…I have an idea. This is going to be payback for that little piece he did on me in Soho. S’cuse me.” Tim went to the nearest fire hose cabinet and opened it, unfurling the fire hose and gleefully grinning at Cynthia.
“Stand back, lovey. I’ve seen this done in the Moooovies. Time to wash away the great stain.” With that, he turned on the nosele and a massive jet of water blastered the unconscious Dan Weatherby. Cynthia couldn’t help but join in with Tim in his maniac like laughter as Dan coped a full on jet of water. It was a miracle the pair didn’t drown the poor sod.
Room #1123 – Bobby Williams
Inside the apartment, the door was coping a blasting from the fire hose outside, and then a foul sludge seemed to seep under the door. Whatever it was, had Bobby move right back. “Cor…what is she doing out there? I heard women her age had water works problems, but this is ridiculous. I’m getting my stash and bong. Come on…let’s blaze up.” Bobby said with chuckle, withdrawing from the lounge and going to his bedroom, bringing out a bag of weed and his bong. If ever there was a day he needed to smoke his cares away today was it.
He took a drag from the bong, and tipped his head back, lying on the big black sofa in his lounge. “Oh…Ohhhhhh yeah. So….so….right, you know this whole…racing thing. Like….I…I am…the bessssssst at Formula one….but, I got busted, man. You know? Sick! I need some…. *he inhales again, holding it in before letting out rings of green smoke. and smirking*…advice..Yeah…advice. How…how….how do you not get bored turning left….again and…again?’
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