Two Stars Too Many: Part Two

When we last left our hero, he was riding a man-beast towards the entrance of a swanky hotel/resort. And if you have no idea what the fuck I’m talking about, stop what you’re doing and scroll down and read Part One first.

And so, without further delay, I bring you Part Two:

So there I was, riding this gentle giant towards the gold-plated doors of the Montagery Resort, wondering what might be waiting for me on the other side:

A gold-plated wonderland with gold-plated walkways and gold-plated walls and gold-plated elevators and gold-plated elevator attendants with gold-plated teeth and . . .

Just then, two non-gold-plated attendants opened the doors for me, ushering me into what could only be uncreatively described as nirvana: The floors were adorned with the finest Italian marble and exotic plants seemed to be growing from everywhere, making the place seem like some kind of fantastical jungle paradise. In Italy. OK, so maybe their interior decorator could have used a few tips, but his (or her) heart was in the right place.

“Good morning, Mr. Googlethorp,” came a soft, feminine voice. “I’m glad to see you’ve arrived safely,”

I glanced down from the height of my man-beast to find an adorable woman smiling up at me. “Oh, hello. I didn’t see you there.”

She was dressed all in white and her hair was the purest blonde.

“I’m Angela,” her vocal chords chimed. “We spoke on the phone this morning.”

“Oh, right. Thank you again for your help with the traffic.”

“It was my nothing, Mr. Googlethorp. Here at the Montagery, your pleasure is our pleasure.”

Your pleasure is our pleasure. Your pleasure is our pleasure: I knew it was a line they fed all their guests. But I liked the way it sounded pouring from her lips, like fresh-spun honey, thick and sweet. I imagined that phrase stamped in gold at the employee entrance. Or maybe stitched on a baseball cap. Printed on a bumper sticker. Or tattooed just above one particular hostess’s angelic derrière.

As I continued to have impure thoughts about Angela, she led the way to the bar and my man-beast followed. Within minutes, we arrived at my reserved table and to my surprise, my favorite drink was already waiting for me: Lemon-lime Gatorade and Bourbon. They even trimmed the glass with a plastic monkey, just the way I like it. I mean, some people prefer those stupid fucking little mermaids that hang on the rim of the glass. But really, when it comes to drink decoration, nothing beats a good monkey.

So I downed a couple or six G & Bs, and before I knew it, I was in my room, sleeping soundly. No, seriously. I have no idea how I got there. But once I managed to open my eyes and crawl out of my 500-thread-count cocoon, I discovered just how much the staff had done for me:

A pair of heated slippers was waiting on either side of the bed, to ensure my feet would remain warm and comfortable. And a fluffy robe was left out for me to slip into. Which was a good thing, since I was only in my boxer shorts . . . Wait a minute, how the fuck did I get in my boxer shorts? Was I really that drunk?

As I slipped into my robe, I glanced over and noticed some additional gifts that were left for me on the night stand: a small box of chocolates and a flute of chilled champagne with a strawberry resting at the bottom of the glass.

I chugged the champagne and devoured the strawberry, then stuck my fingernail in all the chocolates. They were all the same: Dark chocolate Pepsodent creams. My favorite. It’s like eating candy and brushing your teeth at the same time.

I invented Pepsodent creams when I was ten years old. First, I sucked out the liquid filling of a cherry cordial with a cocktail straw, then injected the Pepsodent into the resulting cavity using a standard everyday toothpaste syringe. Needless to say, it’s an acquired taste. And thanks to the Montagery Resort, I was lucky enough to have acquired an entire box of them. How did they find out about Pepsodent creams? Did they interview my friends and family? I sure as fuck didn’t tell them. What else did they know about me?

Just then, the phone rang. It was Angela again. I knew her voice the moment I heard her breath hit the receiver.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Googlethorp.”

“Hey, Angela.”

“I didn’t want to call until you woke up.”

“I appreciate it.”

“You’ll see that we took care of everything for you. Please let me know if there is anything else you need.”

“OK, sure. Thanks.”

“Enjoy your afternoon, Mr. Googlethorp.”

“Uh huh . . . Hey, wait. How did you know I just woke up? . . . Hello?? Hello???”

Fuck. As nice as the place was, it was really starting to give me the creeps. What I needed was a relaxing hot shower. I went to my suitcase to get some fresh clothes, only to discover that someone had unpacked for me and placed my clothes in various drawers. It was a nice gesture. But exactly who was folding up my underwear while I was passed out in the bed? And come to think of it, who undressed me for bed? What kind of fucking hotel was this anyway? Rather than go into panic-attack mode, I headed for the shower.

The bathroom was breathtaking. The same Italian marble that was in the lobby, covered the walls and floors. I guess they got a great deal on Italian marble, or maybe they knew a guy. The shower itself was so advanced it took me over twenty minutes to figure out how to turn it on. Jets of water were shooting at me from every angle. It wasn’t as much invigorating as it was frightening. By the time I figured out how to turn the shower off, I was exhausted.

I stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel.

“Enjoy your shower?”

I quickly covered myself up and spun around, expecting to see someone standing in the bathroom, but no one was there.

“Angela?”

“Yes, sorry to startle you like that.” Her voice was coming from a speaker in the ceiling.

“Are you watching me, right now?”

“Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“Is that even legal?”

“Well, I think it is. After all, you’re aware that we’re watching you. And you signed the agreement before you were even accepted to be a Montagery guest.”

“I did?”

“Yes. Please, finish drying off. I’ll send Edgar up to take you to lunch.”

“No, no. Thanks. Uh, can you not watch me for a few minutes, please?”

“I’m sorry. That’s against the Montagery Doctrine.”

“Well, it would really please me if you stopped watching me for thirty minutes.”

“As you wish, Sir. Your pleasure is our –”

“pleasure. Yeah, yeah. I know, I know.”

I quickly dried off and got dressed. I could’ve spent an hour trying to find all the concealed cameras, but I decided it was best just to get the hell out there. I packed up my things, pulled on my shoes and went for the door.

It wouldn’t open. It was as if it was locked. From the outside.

“Is there something you need, Mr. Googlethorp?” the demonic Angela said.

“Yeah, how the fuck do you open this door?”

“Do you need to go somewhere? I’ll send Edgar.”

“NO! NO! NO! I just want to get the fuck out of here!”

“Don’t be silly, Mr. Googlethorp. Everything you need is right here.”

I started to wonder if that tattoo I imagined on Angela’s back might actually be a branding.

“I don’t give a fuck! I just want to go get some fresh air!”

“Edgar is on his way.”

“Fuck Edgar! I’ll walk!” I yanked on the door handle.

“Mr. Googlethorp, please, show some restraint.”

“Restraint? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

I ran for the porch and jumped over the railing. (Fortunately, I was too cheap to get a room above the first floor.) The moment I landed on the unnaturally green grass, sirens blared. I looked up and saw three businessmen in their three-piece suits, riding their man-beasts to their next conference. Everybody who wasn’t working for the resort was riding on someone’s back. I knew there was some kind of stupid metaphor in there somewhere, but I didn’t have the time to figure it out.

I stood up just in time to see a swarm of those fucking Montagerites running towards me. Rather than wait and discuss things in a civilized manner, I chose to run like hell. I ran through the golf course, where I was chased by several electric carts. I ran through the parking lot, dodging most of the parking attendants. And then I ran right into Edgar, man-beast extraordinaire. Fuck.

Edgar grabbed me by the back of the neck and squeezed just enough to keep me in check until a winded Angela caught up with us.

“Phew,” she panted in an unfortunately non-sexy manner. “you gave us quite a scare there.”

“Sorry. I just want to go home.”

“Nonsense. There is so much more to experience.”

“I don’t want to experience anything. I just want to go home.”

“I think what you need is pill #3.”

Angela reached into her bag of tricks and pulled out a bottle of pills.

“You’re going to drug me?” I stated the obvious.

“Drug you? We like to think of it as more like help you enjoy things more. Now open your mouth.”

Angela brought the bright yellow pill up to my tightly pursed lips.

“Oh, c’mon, Mr. Googlethorp. You’re going to make us do this the hard way? You’ll like it. It tastes like lemon. Yummy-nummy lemon!”

I shook my head. Angela looked at Edgar and gave him a nod. Before I knew what was happening, Edgar used his free hand to pinch the sides of my mouth and open my jaw.

“eh oo ee ee, eh I oo ee!” I screamed incoherently.

Angela lowered her hand and snapped her fingers. Immediately, Edgar let go of my face.

“What did you say, Mr. Googlethorp?”

“I said . . . ” I paused not so much for dramatic effect, but to stretch my sore jaw. “It would please me, if I could leave.”

Angela stood there like a brainwashed freak caught in headlights.

“This is highly unorthodox, Mr. Googlethorp.”

“But that is what would please me.”

“Well . . . ” The program clicked in. “Your pleasure is our pleasure.”

And so, they allowed me to leave the Montagery Resort, under one condition: that I ride Edgar to the valet station. So I hopped on old Edgar one last time and let him take me to my car. And as I drove off and saw the attendants waving to me in my rearview mirror, I breathed a sigh of relief. I vowed from that point on to stick to the understated elegance of five-star resorts, and leave the extra two stars for those who can appreciate them . . . Then again, they did have Pepsodent creams.

Comments 7

  1. Lani wrote:

    Hey this was funny. I like the story. You really do write well. Angela was scarey.

    Posted 12 Apr 2005 at 5:20 pm
  2. Smivey wrote:

    Thank you, Lani. Consider my ego sufficiently fed.

    Posted 12 Apr 2005 at 5:41 pm
  3. Lani wrote:

    Where is Edgar? I need a ride to the ladies room.

    Posted 12 Apr 2005 at 8:00 pm
  4. kris wrote:

    i don’t know which i’d rather, a ride on edgar or a ride on angela

    ok i do know

    Posted 13 Apr 2005 at 2:55 pm
  5. Lani wrote:

    Oh, oh…you might have to wait your turn with Angela. Smivey’s got first dibs.

    Posted 13 Apr 2005 at 5:50 pm
  6. boredhousewife wrote:

    Turned out great, man. Full of silliness, just like you. ;)

    Posted 14 Apr 2005 at 10:10 pm
  7. smivey wrote:

    Silliness? This was a serious work of fiction. Damn it! I’ll never be a writer.

    Posted 21 Apr 2005 at 2:26 am

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