The Return of Friendly Tony, Part 6: Love, (Native) American Style

Welcome back. We're up to part 6 and things are really heating up! What awaits me in this next chapter? Well, come on, you're going to have to read it if you want to know. I'm not going to summarize it for you, for Pete's sake.

If someone would have told me before I walked into that hotel room that my evening would be even worse than my morning, I would have scoffed at them and perhaps insultingly tossed some old grains of rice at them. The idea was too far-fetched, my misery too complete, for anything of the sort to be possible. Yet they would have been right, and shown the foresight of George Orwell, as my evening became a smoking ruin the instant I laid eyes upon the three corpses lying within a hotel room that was reserved under my name.
Well, lying may not be the proper word here. They were in fact sitting, the three of them posed in a macabre diorama that indicated a sort of undead love triangle. A gypsy woman, who resembled a more ethnic Bret Butler, sat in the middle of the beige loveseat against the far wall, and one of the Native American mystic corpses had his arm wrapped around her. I wondered if this was the sort of thing they had in mind when they named the loveseat. The other mystic sat on the floor, staring up at the couple with eyes like foggy marbles. He looked very upset at the pairing, although admittedly his morose expression might just have been due to the fact that he was murdered.
I closed the door and gawked at the eerie display in front of me for a few minutes. I’m not sure if I was expecting the scandalous scenario in front of me to play out in dramatic, unexpected ways, or if I was just reluctant to start hauling around corpses, but either way I did a pretty good impersonation of a statue for a little while.
The stark realization that I would have to deal with this mess post haste snapped me out of my malaise. Revealing these victims to the police was not an option; my name was, after all, attached to the hotel room, and I doubted anyone was going to believe the magic white out pen story. My extremely erratic behavior this morning with the desk clerk no doubt would lend even less credence to my claims, as her eyewitness accounts would likely paint me as just the sort of kook that might murder minorities and pose their corpses in mildly amusing ways. No, I’d have to make this situation disappear, and I’d have to do it by myself.
A quick traipse through the hotel revealed an abandoned room service cart two floors above my room, which I stole as covertly as possible. I didn’t want to be seen, as a fellow wearing Wolverine pajamas wheeling a cart around is a bit suspicious. Fortunately, I made it back to my room without incident. My plan was to slip the bodies under the cloth covering the cart and place them onto the rack at the bottom of the cart. This was fairly easy for the gypsy girl; I removed her from the arm of her beau, who seemed to glare at me (I think it was just the hangover, though), and shoved her onto the cart. She was fairly small, so though a bit of purple silk kept creeping out from under the cloth, I got her outside and into the dumpster out back with little difficulty.
I was not so fortunate with the mystics, who were quite a bit larger than the gypsy. Neither of them wanted to fit under the cloth, so I used the complementary garment bag in the closet as a makeshift body bag. It was still too small to fully cover either body, so I had to wheel each corpse outside with a chunk of garment bag hanging out that looked like it was stuffed with pumpkins. Transporting the first mystic went without a hitch, but on my trip to bring the second one to the dumpster, I ran across a portly couple in Hawaiian shirts. They stared at me, and then looked at the bulging protuberance at the bottom of my cart.
“Damn Gucci,” I said preemptively. “Always trying to escape.” They shook their heads in what I assume was sympathy, and I was on my way.
As I stood next to a dumpster containing three recently deposited bodies, I pondered my next move. Corpse disposal was not a hobby of mine, and I was somewhat less than well-versed in how one might best rid oneself of incriminating evidence. In spite of that, I knew that if I left these bodies in the dumpster I was essentially begging to have them discovered. I had to do something, and I had to do it quickly. The next morning was going to be garbage day.

See you Monday on Myspace for part 7. I'm getting chills! I really need to turn the air conditioning down.


Garrett Steel said…
I can imagine the ethnic Brett Butler as well as if she were in the public library with me right now. But how, pray tell, did you know that the garbage was to be picked up the very next day?

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