Being the Unpleasant Chronicles of one Sane Individual's attempts at existing Out Of His Element.

Sunday, April 3, 2011

Information, profanity and the option of facial removal.

    Two people have threatened my life today, and it's not even breakfast time.

    Let me start by saying I have no idea why these two individuals each decided upon the concept of ending my life as a solution to their personal issues, but I sincerely hope they don't approach every problem they encounter with the same degree of aplomb and style. I would imagine that it would make Scrabble a very difficult game to play.

    Now, normally speaking, any sane individual would take not one, but two threats against their life and limb to be a good sign that they've done something wrong. Likewise, any sane individual would likely not put themselves in such a situation as to have the phrase 'cut your fucking throat open' thrown at them in anything but the lightests of contexts. Like, say, a very boisterous poker night. However, a sane individual would not stay in such a location as I have for any extended period of time, and as such, it's entirely possible I am no longer sane.

    I may have to change this blog's tagline. Damn. I liked that one so much.

    Now, about this blog. The purpose of a blog is to chronicle things, apparently. I was never up on the whole concept of journals, so, you'll have to excuse me if I go about this in a more indirect fashion, but, I plan on using this blog to chronicle the outstanding events that transpire as I trudge through night after soul-crushing, mind-numbing, noun-verbing night on the graveyard shift at what is possibly the worst place to stay in a city full of truly awful places to stay. To avoid legal complications - my employer is not the litigious type, but the same cannot be said for his cadre of lawyers - I will be calling this place of employment The Sycamore, I will be referring to myself as Z., and I will be giving each and every independant individual I must reference colorful (and, I assure you, apt as all motherfucking hell) monikers and codenames. Also, there will be profanity. My apologies in advance, I was raised better than that.

    So, getting back to the two men who each came to the conclusion that my throat would look better with a seam in it. The hotel in which I find employ is well known to be a rat's nest, a hovel, a wretched hive of scum and villainy that would make Alec Guinness roll over in his grave, right before he returned to wondering why the fucking hell people can't stop seeing him as Obi-Wan Kenobi. We host scores of individuals that, were the world a more well-to-do place, would have never escaped their electrified cages on ScumFuck Island.

    ScumFuck Island, incidentally, is a misnomer. It's actually an archipelago.

    I'm drifting. Back on track.

    Right. Killing me. The Sycamore serves as host to no small number of degenerates, reprobates, delusional lunatics, drug addicts, professional (and amateur, and even the occasional journeyman) sex workers, derelicts, outcasts, pariahs, and gourmands of all of the delights in life that are composed primarily of emotionally, physically or psychologically harming other people. Now, don't get me wrong, a few of the tenants are decent. Good, even. Hard luck plays no favorites, and some of these people just don't deserve to be locked up in this multi-story warren with the bile-spewing scum they're forced to coexist with. Why the Sycamore? It may be our low, low rates. It might be our friendly staff. It could be our quaint, old-world charm. Or, like many things, it could be the fact that, once set on a downward spiral, things tend to keep on spiralling downwards, gaining downward-spirally momentum and spiralling, in a general southerly direction, until they have hit the bottom of the barrel.

    Incidentally, The Sycamore exists two floors beneath the bottom of the barrel.   

    As you can imagine, playing host to this Sterling Clientele™ on a regular basis, anybody with the capacity to get evicted, 86'ed and asked to never return on pain of police intervention and/or severe Glaring At, must be a truly unique individual. One must cross several lines, do a great deal of damage and show no urge but to propegate one's own existence at the cost of others to even be considerered a potential candidate for perpetual ejection.

    The more notable of these two life-threatening types today had been 86'ed twice.

    The former, we found when a guest - one of those polite, well-to-do types who shows up only mostly shitfaced drunk and only slightly cranked out on kitchen chemicals - attempted to check into their room for the night, only to discover (to their surprise as well as my own) that they were having some difficulty getting settled in, what with the pair of stinking chemical-suckers screwing sloppily on their rented sheets. While said guests - who, I presume, would have preferred a mint on their pillow, but, hey, for what we charge, who can be picky? - were being resettled,  I took the liberty of having the aforementioned intoxicant afficianados ejected by my very friendly live-in Go To Guy. Go To Guy (hey, look, my first by-proxy pseudonym!) takes a lot of delight in his job, because Go To Guy gets to do the fun things, like dragging people around by their collar and using the phrase 'dumb motherfucker' prodigiously.

    I like Go To Guy.

    Anyway, as G.T.G. (my first acronym!) is hauling this pair of Sterling Clientele™ out of the lobby, the male of the two stops to engage me in conversation. The following, I promise, is verbatim.

    Male Scum: Dear Sir, why am I being made to exit this lovely establishment?

    Yours Truly: Why, my fine man, you have not paid for the room you have inhabited for the past fourty-eight hours.

    M.S: I fail to comprehend your logic.

    Y.T: In this, our capitalistic society, one exchanges currency for goods and/or services, conventionally speaking. Engaging in carnal activities in a room which has not been paid for is, at its essence, an act of theft against this, our fine institution.

    M.S: I disagree with your assessment of the situation, and feel you are being unfair.

    Y.T: Unfortunately, I am in disagreement with you as well.

    M.S: It would be real easy for me to jump the fuck across this counter and cut your fuckin' throat open, boy. You hear me? Real fuckin' easy. Nobody would give a shit about some fuckass like you. I'm respected, motherfucker. Hear that? Respected. You're fuckin' nothin'.

    Needless to say, I was perturbed. Thankfully, G.T.G had, at this point, adjusted the gentleman's attitude by way of a firm (but kind) headlock and a kind (but firm) threat of police involvement, and the two departed my company in short order.

    The second was a bit less thrilling. A prior tenant returned in order to try and procure a room, as he had grown tired of passing out in his own home, appparently, or had been asked to leave, or needed a new venue for his sock-puppet performances of My Fair Lady. Honestly, I couldn't explain what the circumstances are, as this young man had the speech capacity of a mildly concussed boar. Fortunately for him, his hygiene and general appearance matched that description as well, so, he was ahead of the game.

    From what I can tell, this one had the means and the motive to inflict severe bodily harm on, to quote, 'any motherfucker talks to him like he dumb or some shit', but, thankfully, he lacked the motivation. Still, before he departed - after occupying my lobby for, oh, let's say an hour, because I'm feeling fairly time-conservative - with his drugged-out girlfriend in tow, he made sure to let me know exactly how unimportant I was in the grand scheme of things, primarily through what might have passed for interpretive dance in the more art nouveau circles. In a more down-to-earth sense, he made some kind of alien, karate-chopping gesture, told me to 'suck a fuck' (which, I think, was from a movie he must have seen and parsed at least 12% of) and threatened to cut my fuckin' face off. Also, presumably, from a movie.

    You know, in all seriousness, I am beginning to have my doubts about this job.   

    That's a lie. I've had my doubts for some time. Fortunately, instead of doing something proactive about it - like, say, seeking better employment - I've decided to dump every single story about The Sycamore into this handy-dandy piece of high-tech novelty.

    You're welcome, Internet.

    That's it for now. With any luck, next time won't be such a goddamn eyesore of info-dump and backstory.

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