You choose to stay in a Love Hotel, you wear the consequences, accept the goings-on all hours and no complaints. Clacking up the stairs and along the corridor 2AM, water gushing either in the floor, or down the walls. First few minutes after entry and then twenty minutes later. TV & music piping. Half-through the three month term management introduced a midnight - noon promotion, Weekdays ONLY. Sunday two-hourly for the foreign workers was peak earner—Indo & Filipina domestic helperd and Indian & Bangla construction workers. 10AM through early evening before they all needed to return home. Nearby a dozen Karaoke bars lined the street either side, all plastered with notices warning no soliciting on the premises, STRICTLY. Last night there was a Hollywood B-grade stick feature, volume off the dial. Lady had been laying it on thick, giving the chump his money’s worth. (Past the Karaokes the red-light district, legal and non, stood a short distance off.) Single syllable concatenations of over half minute duration, something like Memememememememe. Jesus lord! There had been a weak impulse to rise from the bed and draw back the curtains on the back lane. Was it a dying cry for help in a foreign language; girl crawling hands-and-knees toward the drain in a trail of blood? It ought not really be ignored... Soon the lady achieved the effect alright, pulling the mug along the cliff-edge and hurling down to the rocks below, where he would dash out his pea-brain in sticky globules for the gulls to gobble. Good job. Again too, the fellow could not manage more than the single syllable, certainly more raucous than his queen. At the topmost peak a long pointed dagger had been plunged deep into his aching heart to finish him off properly. Tortuous hallelujah of fulfilment, seemingly sung in the corridor directly outside the door. Could you be bothered the pair might have been caught on the stairs five minutes after the second ablution, the Fuckheads, just for the sake of the files.
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