Post by Kakkaraun on Aug 26, 2003 20:38:13 GMT -5
I just got really bored and wrote this. It's not my usual style. Does it suck ass? (Note that it's obviously not complete, I'll probably use it as inspiration for a complete story.)
The hotel room's floor was littered with a galaxy of many-hued debris. Trash, rubbish, garbage--it was all there and it was all dirty. Half empty mugs covered the table like a magnificent shag carpet of once-frosted glass. A spilled bottle of pills made its home next to an overturned lamp and a pad of paper on the desk near the window. The floor was stained brown, black, red, and a multitude of other frequencies.
Walking in, I nearly tripped over an opened suitcase. Its contents were tossed to the floor all around it: tattered and faded jeans, wrinkled shirts, soiled underwear, socks that stank of weeks of abuse. Nestled in the cozy recesses of a hooded red sweatshirt was the gun, gleaming silver in the dawn's warming glow.
I took an old, blue, collared shirt, and used it to pick up the rusty weapon. It was a revolver, service issue, from the days when cops still carried six-shooters. I popped the cylinder out and checked it; only one bullet was marked with the tell-tale dimpling of the firing pin. The serial number had been scratched off.
I was worried.
I kicked the door shut with my heel, and propped a nearby chair under the handle to make sure it stayed that way. The door's conventional locks had been broken, snapped, cracked, and the frame was splintered like some legendary home-run baseball bat. I put the revolver in the inside pocket of my black leather jacket. Its weight was little more than an annoyance, but I was worried about being searched.
I walked into the bedroom. It was completely devoid of any sign of activity or life or even death. The bed was spotless and made, and the telltale residue of a line of fine South American cocaine didn't grace a single flat surface. There were no spent needles, no empty glass nitrite capsules, no odor of the smoke of grass or hashish. There weren't even any empty cups or cans or discarded glass bottles of strong drink. The 20 inch television was sitting in its proper place, off, and the remote sat atop it. In short, the room had no story to tell me.
The bathroom, however, had quite a tale to divulge. Art created of shaving cream and red lipstick graced the blue, patterned walls with its displays of geometric beauty. The sink was full of some blackish, foamy liquid, and I was afraid to learn what it was. The toilet was full of ashes and roaches and piss and shit. The room fairly raped the nose with its rank stench. The floor of small linoleum tiles was covered with coconut skins and grapefruit peels and melon rinds, crushed beer cans and broken bottles and scattered pills. Hundreds of cigarette butts surrounded a tall pile of ash, sitting next to the tub. The shower curtain lay in the far corner of the room, huddled like some ancient wrinkled grandmother. From the curtain rod, laden with naked plastic circles, hung a length of twine tightened into a noose around the neck of a small stuffed donkey. The other end of the rope was tied around my young friend's wrist like the string attached to a child’s balloon.
He sat, slumbering, in the tub, snoring like a great hibernating beast. His brown, curly hair was greasy from going nearly a week without being washed, and a healthy growth of beard graced his chin and face. A fine, thick cigar hung from his mouth, burnt nearly to his lips. In his hand he held a small, battered tape recorder, held together by lengths of duct, masking, and electrical tape. He appeared to be wearing the same suit I had seen him in four days ago, but it was significantly more stained now than it was then. I didn't know what he had on below his waist, though, because the water was so dark and murky. A small plastic boat, decorated in the colors of yellow, green, and white, floated at the other end of the tub, bobbing and rocking to the rising action of the sleeper‘s chest.
I wasn't sure if I wanted to wake him--not yet. It's best to let people sleep off their binges in totality before messing with them. I opened the drain of the sink and tub, and went to look around for a phone, so I could call up a six pack of beer and a couple shrimp cocktails. I wanted to relax with a good meal before I walked into the lion's den.
EDITED for format.
The hotel room's floor was littered with a galaxy of many-hued debris. Trash, rubbish, garbage--it was all there and it was all dirty. Half empty mugs covered the table like a magnificent shag carpet of once-frosted glass. A spilled bottle of pills made its home next to an overturned lamp and a pad of paper on the desk near the window. The floor was stained brown, black, red, and a multitude of other frequencies.
Walking in, I nearly tripped over an opened suitcase. Its contents were tossed to the floor all around it: tattered and faded jeans, wrinkled shirts, soiled underwear, socks that stank of weeks of abuse. Nestled in the cozy recesses of a hooded red sweatshirt was the gun, gleaming silver in the dawn's warming glow.
I took an old, blue, collared shirt, and used it to pick up the rusty weapon. It was a revolver, service issue, from the days when cops still carried six-shooters. I popped the cylinder out and checked it; only one bullet was marked with the tell-tale dimpling of the firing pin. The serial number had been scratched off.
I was worried.
I kicked the door shut with my heel, and propped a nearby chair under the handle to make sure it stayed that way. The door's conventional locks had been broken, snapped, cracked, and the frame was splintered like some legendary home-run baseball bat. I put the revolver in the inside pocket of my black leather jacket. Its weight was little more than an annoyance, but I was worried about being searched.
I walked into the bedroom. It was completely devoid of any sign of activity or life or even death. The bed was spotless and made, and the telltale residue of a line of fine South American cocaine didn't grace a single flat surface. There were no spent needles, no empty glass nitrite capsules, no odor of the smoke of grass or hashish. There weren't even any empty cups or cans or discarded glass bottles of strong drink. The 20 inch television was sitting in its proper place, off, and the remote sat atop it. In short, the room had no story to tell me.
The bathroom, however, had quite a tale to divulge. Art created of shaving cream and red lipstick graced the blue, patterned walls with its displays of geometric beauty. The sink was full of some blackish, foamy liquid, and I was afraid to learn what it was. The toilet was full of ashes and roaches and piss and shit. The room fairly raped the nose with its rank stench. The floor of small linoleum tiles was covered with coconut skins and grapefruit peels and melon rinds, crushed beer cans and broken bottles and scattered pills. Hundreds of cigarette butts surrounded a tall pile of ash, sitting next to the tub. The shower curtain lay in the far corner of the room, huddled like some ancient wrinkled grandmother. From the curtain rod, laden with naked plastic circles, hung a length of twine tightened into a noose around the neck of a small stuffed donkey. The other end of the rope was tied around my young friend's wrist like the string attached to a child’s balloon.
He sat, slumbering, in the tub, snoring like a great hibernating beast. His brown, curly hair was greasy from going nearly a week without being washed, and a healthy growth of beard graced his chin and face. A fine, thick cigar hung from his mouth, burnt nearly to his lips. In his hand he held a small, battered tape recorder, held together by lengths of duct, masking, and electrical tape. He appeared to be wearing the same suit I had seen him in four days ago, but it was significantly more stained now than it was then. I didn't know what he had on below his waist, though, because the water was so dark and murky. A small plastic boat, decorated in the colors of yellow, green, and white, floated at the other end of the tub, bobbing and rocking to the rising action of the sleeper‘s chest.
I wasn't sure if I wanted to wake him--not yet. It's best to let people sleep off their binges in totality before messing with them. I opened the drain of the sink and tub, and went to look around for a phone, so I could call up a six pack of beer and a couple shrimp cocktails. I wanted to relax with a good meal before I walked into the lion's den.
EDITED for format.
