Screw those other
people. They landed on a nice, pristine beach; they can find their own
way to the hotel once they've finished tanning. You've got bigger plans.
Maybe you'll get lucky and the staff will give you a fancier room that
had been reserved by one of the poor schlubs who didn't escape via magic
crapper. That hope gives you the extra strength you need to
single-handedly haul your luggage from the carousel to the curb.
The note you got from the producers of Wheel of Fortune says that you'll
be staying at the luxurious Coup de Soleil hotel. Fortunately, there's a
shuttle bus going there right now, so you needn't spend any of your
toilet-soaked money on a cab. Better still, it's almost empty on account
of everyone else rushing down to check out that plane that just crashed.
The people that are on the bus with you are a little troubling. What
kind of person just ignores flaming wreckage, you wonder. You eye all of
them menacingly, though ironically it is you who appears to be a
dangerous lunatic, clutching your ratty luggage and smelling like a
men's room. After a short time, your stench has pervaded the whole of
the bus, and the driver is reluctant to announce your impending arrival
at the hotel, lest he get a mouthful in the process.
You hop off the bus,
anxious to check in and begin your vacation as soon as possible. The
concierge informs you that you'll be staying in room 187, and orders a
few bellhops to help you with your bags. You hand them over and skip
merrily down the hall. You make it to your room long before the
bellhops, and have ample time to plan out your next move before they
arrive. You offer them a tip, but they politely decline, wanting not a
single cent of your foul-smelling currency. Man, putting off the odor
removal is looking more and more like a really great decision on your
part. Kudos.
To your surprise, the cleaning crew is still there. Well, let's see if
the stink will help me out once more, you muse. You raise your arms and
let the stench fill the room. Even the industrial-strength pine-scented
cleaning chemicals are no match for it, and the cleaners drop what
they're
doing and bolt out the door. Wow, at this rate, you may never bathe
again. Enough talk; the show promised that this trip was “all expenses
paid,” so it's time to sample the expensive-but-disproportionately-small minibar.
You grab one the larger
bottles near the back and down the whole thing in two gulps. Man, this
must be one of those Maui Wowies you've heard about. You don't much care
for the taste, and the burning sensation in your stomach is far stronger
than it would be from a typical night at the bars. What kind of booze
did I just throw back, you wonder. You check out the label:
Oops. Looks like the
cleaning crew must have set this one back there whilst trying to scrub
some of the filth off of the windows. Unfortunately, you don't know the
number for Paradise Island's poison control hotline. The good news is that
when the cleaning crew returns, they assume that you drank the cleaner
to try and eliminate your awful stench, thus you are remembered as a
considerate idiot, rather than a myopic one.
