The flickering sign that overlooks coming and going traffic says so.
The motel's typical customers are unfaithful businessmen and raunchy prostitutes that have been banned at the La Quinta.
The wallpaper is patterned with sequences of sea greens and eggshell whites. The bathroom has a rusted padlock inside to prevent pervy intruders. Inside the bathroom are complimentary deodorizers and cleansers that empty after a single use.
They're simply for convenience.
Highway motels provide plenty of serviceable, user-friendly consumer needs.
I'm squatting in room 404 on the fourth floor in the shithole. I ask myself, what is beneficial to me, the consumer? I examine around, blinded by the overclouded black of the eve. The only light source is the burning blaze of tobacco at the end of my cigarette.
Anyway, what is convenient in room 404?
Complimentary deodorizers and cleansers?
An aftermarket 27" television with basic cable?
A twelve-hundred page novel about wine and miracles crammed in the night stand?
The man and woman fucking in room 406?
Don't get me wrong, I'm not a frustrated pervert.
The walls in this second-rate motel are so thin, a bullet can penetrate right through them. If I wait till the perfect moment, when the thoughtless bitch next door reaches her climax, I can crunch the trigger of my gun.
The man is a large mass of pudge rolls, leading me to believe that he's a bottom fucker. Through the delicate walls, his groans are much more smothered sounding than the women’s. She's 5’11", that includes the thrift store stilettos. Subtract the additional twenty-something centimeters, and I should disengage the bullet about sixty inches up from the floor base. Luckily, her loud, raucous gasps will indicate her clear-cut position. There will be a satisfactorily loud pop and fat fucker will eyeball the bitch collapse. Her bony body will become a gore smeared rag doll, blinding his vision with a tint of crimson. His disorientation will allow the time I need to make a spotless, quick escape. The dirty weekend woman I'm assigned to polish off, her name is-
You know what? Maybe I should start over.
I think I will.
The cure for life. The one thing that, being absolutely relentless and inevitable, you need not worry about. Many call it the end. Others, mostly prayerful, born-again simpletons, will call it the beginning. I call it my wreck of chaotic vengeance. It's when I shall allow my filthy, diminishing carcass of weathered bones to release microscopic, toxic dead cells into the air breathed by materialistic generations.
The world is my scapegoat.
Who am I?
My name is Harry Walken, and it's about time for me to retire.
Why do I do what I do? Why do I make countless bad decisions, only to feed the satisfaction of people with no sense of morality or decency?
It hides my neurotic traits.
I love my socks.
Instead of wasting my hard-earned dollars on useful consumer needs, I buy lousy socks. Relatives even buy me foot garments for the holidays. It's pathetic.
That's right, a comfortable, woven hosiery that covers the foot and should not be used otherwise. Otherwise meaning drooling, immature individuals that spit-shine the ol’ water pump and need something readily accessible to clean up man-cake batter. Otherwise meaning the fashionably-challenged, tightwad cultural phenomenon of socks and open-toed sandals. Go ahead. Say it. I know it's an obsession.
Prescription drugs and tender hugs... nothing can hide the fact that what I do, places me inbetween the devil and the deep blue sea. Imagine waking up every morning and seeing a murderer in the mirror. Imagine your life indulged in absolute hell because you've placed the wrongs before the rights. Imagine a gun being your only friend.
The devil finds work for idle hands, and I chose to be this triggerman.
Other than depriving the less fortunate from life, obsessing is another thing I'm good at.
Like smoking. I've smoked more cigarettes than the majority of the European population. Why do non-smokers tell me that smoking is bad? I already know this, and furthermore, I don't give two shakes of a stubborn shit. I would rather die by choice, and I'm not a fanatic when it comes to tight-fisted dust bags that move to Florida.
God's waiting room.
Anyway, the average person uses approximately fifty-seven sheets of toilet paper each day. I challenged this. Twenty-two. Six of the sheets were used to clean up a poorly executed aim.
Or maybe I'm just crazy and like to think that I'm fascinating.
Make a booming sound like artillery here.
I'm non compos mentis.
I don't acknowledge when my telephone rings. I never pick up. I'm a call back person. I allow the caller to leave a message at the beep. It's a clever move, considering my profession.
"You have four unheard messages. First unheard message;"
"Mr. Walken, this is Steve from House Special Heaven. Home of the best, cheap wholesale, and reheated globs of MSG that American Chinese food has to offer! I am calling regarding the complaint on your recent take-out order. I give you my sincerest apology, and I am proud to offer you two free wonton hot dogs with your next order. So long now, and remember, man with one chopstick go hungry!"
Mr. Liu refuses to offer Chinese-language menus to non-Chinese customers. So, if you want to know the delicacies in your meal, like liver, chicken feet, or a robust cat gall, hopscotch away from House Special Heaven.
"Second unheard message;"
"Hey Harry. It's Eddie in 203. I partied way too much last night. I've been bowing before the Porcelain God all morning. It's brutal. Give me a call man."
Eddie is the definition of hard drinker. I came into acquaintance with him at the White Lizard. Turns out, he hangs his trucker hat in 203, right atop my rental. He lives with his senile, decrepit grandmother, and he would rather drink Irish moonshine than get a mean blowjob.
"Third unheard message;"
"Hey Harry. It's me."
"I was at Shoppe Stock yesterday... the many times we went... together. Remember the time you tried to put a candy bar on layaway? You were so determined. Or, remember when you set all of the alarm clocks in housewares to go off at five minute intervals? It's the little things, right?
"I miss you."
I'll explain later.
"Fourth unheard message;"
"Hey. It's Charlie. You owe me. The dead drop is the abandoned woman's womb. Upper level. Check the honcho's office."
"You have no unheard messages."