An X-mas Carrel (Part 2)

You arrive, a bit the worse for wear after your ordeal at Theif or No Theif , at the "distinguished" hotel where the producers have stored you -- resplendent in the cheap orange parka Angelo and the other stagehands gave you after the pirates made off with your clothes and most of your dignity. "Any messages for Avery Mann?" you ask the desk clerk who shrugs and goes back to ignoring you.

Well, fine. You didn't really expect anyone to call you here anyway. Besides, you're starving. You make your way to the restaurant off the lobby. "Hey! Isn't that that 'Orly' guy from the show in the Mâitre D's spot? What's he doing here?" you think. If the Comte d'Orly (if that is his real name) recognizes you, he gives no indication of it.

"Yes, m'sieur?" he squeaks in an accent that would give local dinner theater a bad name, "'Ow may I 'elp you?"

"For starters, I want a tiny piece -- just a sliver, really -- of an enormous steak and kidney pie ..."

Orly interrupts, declaring hautily, "I am sorree m'sieur. We 'ave no steak, we only sell -- 'ow you say? -- ze sizzle! Non? Anyway, we serve onlee ze gigantic pieces of ze tiny leetle pies."

"What! How is that even possible?"

"Zat, m'sieur is what all ze fighting is about!"

At that, you hear the distinctive snap, clack, and fizzle of a flintlock. "Flash in the pan!" You dive for cover just as an ex-rum demijohn crashes through the restaurant's stained glass room divider. "Pirates!"

You crawl toward the kitchen, hoping that the misfire wasn't meant for you, and call back to Orly -- "Just send some mustard and a bit of sour gruel to room 222." Apparently still weak on attention to detail, the pirates take no notice of you, but continue squabbling over some incidental bauble with considerable shouting and brandishing of weapons -- all unintelligible.

Despite the fact they are bent upon your destruction, you feel a slight twinge of pity for these lost souls. Don't they know that their boarding pikes and muskets are outdated? Fat chance they'll have when they're outnumbered fifty or a hundred to one!

No one takes any notice of your egress through the kitchen. Apparently this kind of thing is not uncommon here. You break into the alley to find a pack of dogs fighting over a single bone. "Have to leave that out of the story," you think. "It's just too obvious!"

There's a fire escape in the alley, and climbing up on the trash bin, you easily scramble to the second floor. Now you won't have to deal with the desk clerk about getting a new room key.

Your traveller's checks and luggage are still in your room. Apparently the pirates didn't see the value of a hotel key, or they were too lazy to climb a flight of stairs. Maybe that's what they were fighting about.

After what seems like hours -- but is really only 120 minutes -- a bell hop appears. "Room 222. I saw that on TVLand. It's sooo tiresome learning new things! I hate work. Here's your gruel." You take the bowl eagerly, then realize that the boy is waiting for a tip.

"The producers will take care of you," you explain dismissively. "Thank you. Good-bye." You didn't mean to slam the door, but you realize that the bellhop probably hasn't moved so fast in weeks as he did trying to avoid having his nose bruised.

Well, that's the power of personal recommendation. If you don't like the little cheese-ball, you don't have to tip him, you don't have to apologize, and you don't have to explain. "Bumfug!" you grumble.

You make short work of your porridge, then settle back in your chair with your iPod for a little Chrissie Hynde. You must doze off -- after all, you've had a busy day. At any rate you feel a cold chill in the room.

"Whoa-ohh-ohh-ohh-oaha. Back on the chain gang!"

There before you is Seth Grodin, shambling across the room like an orangutan in a modified duck-walk, his arms thrust behind him, wrists pinned to the floor by what appear to be a pair of charm bracelets.

"Gro-o-o-din!" you moan. "What do you wnat?"

"Yeah, well, in life I was Seth Grodin. But now I'm selling plots for Forest Lawn. You should look into one. Oh, yeah. You'll be visited by two or three spirits. I assign them titles and write them checks, but I never know if any of them are actually going to do anything. They'll explain everything. ... Maybe."

"What's with the charm bracelets?" you ask.

"These? Oh, these are the strong boxes I was so attached to. They're small, but extremely dense. I can make you a very attractive deal on some ..."

You notice the head and shaft of a brick hammer protruding from his polished cranium. Pexto. Stowe hammer company. Stowe, Vermont. Nice tool. Apparently, Grodin has had a bad day too.

"Well, sorry you have to go. My best to Forest Lawn. 'Bye, now!"