Hurt Me Daddy, for I Have Blogged

Jake wasn't working when they walked up. It was the older Indian man whom they said would take over the hotel once Jake's grandfather died. "312, please." "Someone's booked it tonight." "Anything else on the third floor?" "Um, sure...314." "Fine." She got the key and took Darlene by the arm. "Do you think it'll cool down by tomorrow?" Darlene was nervous. "I doubt it." They arrived at 314 and opened the door. The interior was much nicer than 312, a decadent secret that had been kept away. "Mind if I do a line?" "I don't allow my clients to get intoxicated in front of me, it's my policy." She'd begun setting up the target on the wall, near the telephone. Darlene had wandered in to the bathroom "I hope you're not doing anything like that?" She laughed. She'd refreshed her memory of knife-throwing all week in preparation for this...

She was not new to going to strange mens' rooms. But this was different and mildly silly. "You know, I expected him to be down here in the lobby." "Yeah, this is kinda shady..." she chuckled. Tim walked up to the concierge's desk. "I'm looking for a Mr. W. Svenson." Jake shifted his weight. He wasn't usually here at this hour. His eyes met hers and there was a scared, uncomfortable moment. Wasn't she the one who was always going around with that guy who lived in 312 and all sorts of other men? Jake cleared his throat. "Ok, one moment." He called up. "Mr. Svenson? You have some guests in the lobby to see you." A few seconds. He hung up. Another man was in the elevator when they got in. She and Tim giggled at the awkwardness. Considering her job, she should have learned to ignore that sort of thing by now, like smelly gym socks in a corner somewhere, but it was just too random. "So you think I should s...

"Shit. Shit shit shit shit," cursed Jake. He threw his pen away from his drawing across the desk and ran outside. The bum clearly had a head wound. It was bleeding a hell of a lot. He was completely laid up on his back. Pupils did not seem to be rolling back in his head. He was just out cold, with open eyes. And bleeding. "Hi, 911? It looks like there's a transient passed out on the sidewalk connected to our property. He appears to have a really terrible head wound." Jake gave them the address. He hated dealing with crisis situations, though he had to do it on a fairly regular basis. It seemed like 15 minutes before the ambulance got there. He fumbled with the crumpled-up pieces of paper and rosary in his pocket. Jake felt ineffectual. The bum seemed to be coming to on his own as the medics showed up. They tried to get his information and tried to get him to talk straight. Eventually they hauled him away. Jake shook his head and shuffled back inside to his...

She closed her eyes and cocked the gun as he strained and moaned. It sometimes took a lot for her not to laugh at inopportune moments. The alarm went off. "Time's up, fuckhead," she said with a brotherly chuckle. He lay there panting. ---------- The man in the fuschia suit was always outside smoking. Jake had seen him countless times that weekend. "Who the fuck wears a fuschia suit," he muttered to himself behind the desk. He would put money on the fact that this guy was a tweaker. He couldn't tell what his age was. Jake went back to his sketching. This time it was a strange, Boschian fish-bird that had been emerging. He wondered about the symbolism. He'd always liked Bosch's art and had wondered about all the alchemical mysteries in it. Sometimes during the graveyard hours, he'd play solitaire, or flick each card in the deck across the room by squeezing it vertically between his thumb and index finger until it snapped out. Jake always ...

She walked up to the counter. "I need a room for the night." "Sure." John took out his credit card. Jake processed everything, knocking his doodlings off of the desk accidentally. She stared, looking distant. "Room 312." Jake handed over 2 sets of keys. -------------- Jake listened to the quiet of the late night and the noise seeping in from the restaurant. He heard drunken laughter and a man squealing and giggling, high-pitched. He exhaled in and out sharply. It had been overcast earlier that day and outside it had felt heavy and humid. There was something unusually heavy about everything at that moment. She walked into the lobby, still wearing her coat. "Excuse me, do you happen to have a cigarette, by any chance?" "No. Sorry." He smiled a little but felt afraid. It was late. "Thanks, man." She briskly walked out the lobby door, with purpose. There was something strange and familiar about her. She smel...