Fuckheads

You choose to stay in a Love Hotel you wear the consequences, accept the goings-on all hours no complaints. Clacking up the stairs and along the corridor 2AM, water gushing either in the floor or down the wall—first few minutes after entry and then twenty minutes later. TV and music piping. Half-way through the three month term management introduced a midnight to noon promotion, Weekdays ONLY. Sunday two-hourly for the foreign workers was peak earner—Indon and Filipina helpers and Indian and Bangla construction workers, 10AM through early evening before they needed to return. Nearby a dozen Karaoke bars line the street either side, all plastered with notices warning there must be no soliciting on the premises, strictly. Last night Hollywood B-grade Stick feature volume off the dial. Lady was 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 over a half minute duration something like Memememememememe. 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? Lady had achieved the effect alright, pulling the mug along to the cliff-edge and hurling down to the rocks, where he would dash out his pea-brain in sticky globules. Good job. Again too, the fellow could not manage more than the single syllable, certainly more raucous than his queen—at the peak a long dagger had been plunged deep into his aching heart to finish off properly. Tortuous hallelujah of fulfilment, sung in the corridor directly outside. 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.