“No, Doris… hear me out, ok? Doris. Listen. It’s on the pillows too. Yea. I know, I know Doris. Fucking shameful. That’s fine, Sweetheart. Go get him.”
whistling…
…beep, beep, beep.
Gasp.
+++
Presented now.
A cavernous void stands before you.
You attempt to reorient yourself with your surroundings, though the looming darkness is all encompassing and offers you no direct view of the outside world, or the sky above.
The only sources of light seem to be emanating from the phone beside you and from the face of the radio, as it displays a set of digital numbers lying dormant on the muted screen. Belonging to a station you don’t listen to…
12:20
You glare out into the glowing cinder block cube of reverberating heat, with no indication or idea if it’s almost half past noon or about a quarter after midnight.
A stomach punch acknowledgement that it matters neither way.
Upon first take, there doesn’t appear to be anyone in direct sight, apart from the one asshole that’s currently visible in the slim reflection of the rear view, which you now adjust upward to check your hair.
Interesting
You appear to be all buckled in… though you notice the belt is curiously wrapped around your neck, before returning to its original over the shoulder position and then dropping back down across your chest, before finally coming to rest at hip level.
You also deduce that your pants are bundled around your ankles and your underwear seem to be missing in action. Further apprehension sets in when you realize you’re behind the wheel of a vehicle that does not belong to you.
Unless you somehow inherited a hangover and a limousine.
The ignition is turned over, but the engine does not appear to be running. You confirm this when you note that air conditioner isn’t on, and your shirt is completely drenched in what smells like top shelf booze and economy class affection.
Think bubbly rather than bright.
Try I’ll be in touch, not I’d like you meet my mom.
And like their clearance rack fashion sense, you begrudgingly take note that your shirt is it is most definitely not pressed.
Readjust the mirror.
Only this time, in an effort to catch a sneak-peak of what’s causing all the ruckus. An unmistakable baritone, emanating from somewhere behind you…
“Doris, hear me out okay. Doris. There’s cum everywhere. And I mean everywhere Doris, believe you me.” Now overheard in the background, advocating into his phone about the benefits of the bringing a black light and your own bedding supplies with you when choosing to stay at any Major Resort.
You recognize the mystery voice all too well.
Christ.
A grizzled face appears through the opened partition which separates the drivers cab from the passenger area.
Meet Frank:
“Here, eat a few of these. Perk you right up,” he says to you. A hand then passes forward a small leather pouch.
And a jar of pickles.
Kosher. Spears.
Cold.
Hmm…
The alarm lights up the screen again, this time to inform you that your interview is scheduled for the top of the hour. With someone named Trisha.
The plot thickens…
Okay.
Focus…
Think.
Definitely don’t remember operating a Class-A motor vehicle. Or how it came to be parked in this particular location. Though…
You don’t even know where this particular location is.
And who the fuck is Trisha? And how…