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Motel monsters

Novel By: Nixie

There is just one chapter at the moment, I'm not sure I can promise more just yet. I'm just playing with idea and thought I'd get some opinions on it, so let me know what you think. (I wrote this at 4am... excuse any mistakes! :) View table of contents...



Submitted:Mar 11, 2008    Reads: 197    Comments: 7    Likes: 4   

The typical American motel room, fairs between the rotten smell of a chain smoker and that of a hooker! Some rooms have the remains of the guests before, such as bottle tops or used condoms on the bedside cabinet, and the thought of it alone would have you standing on one foot by the door, balancing - unable to move for the fear of touching something inhabited. There you will wait for daylight, or at least until somebody else turned that greasy handle�to let you out!
Like modern day homes, motel rooms carry personality traits, usually emotions plucked from those long gone,�for example -�anger, apparent in the bathroom mirror where a fist shunted and shattered it. Or better yet, passion, evident in the grazes on the wall where the bed backs onto it. Every mark tells a story and the story's foreseen the moment that door opens. With your first breath, you taste the liquor on your tongue, and if you're like me you will�spit at the floorboards by your feet, making them creak spontaneously at the other�end of the room, awakening some�spiritual entity!
By all this, you might be able to tell that this isn't the first motel room I've been in. Well, you'd be right, it isn't. I've been in many and I've seen it all, including the bodies, now�gone from this one.�This motel rooms personality traits: cobwebs, cigarette burns and coffee rings, are swallowed by that of another; Death!
The operatives; crime scene investigators and law enforcement, dressed in uniform, are fuelled by this trait and buzz around me like bees in a bee hive, carrying honey back to their queen - primarily the lab. But I am not a bee, and�I am not a criminal investigator or some retirement bum job on $60,000 a year, who nervously reaches for his gun at every hitched breath. No, I am the trait they have missed. I am the killer!
Below them I wait, like a pickle in a jar under the floorboards, with�the�bloody musk tickling my nose. My swollen wrist is�burning and begins to tingle as my pulse peaks; the result of heavy boots blocking the light above me. I reluctantly let it rest by my side along with�the firearm sweating in my palm. If the bees were to lift their noses, perhaps they'd catch the scent of me, maybe they'd�find the reminiscence of�gunpowder�that has�stained my flesh during gunfire, in the�air. But they won't, thanks to motel rooms and their shoddy keepers, they will not find a trace of me.
My placement, a midnight motel, is as perfect for me as it is for the monsters, and just as soon as the bees have collected their honey, I will move on to my next motel room in search of my next kill.
After bandaging my wrist to look nothing more than a sprain, I venture out and�a�mile or so down from motel, I find a dry gas station. There at the counter, a Chinese man hums into his multi-map, the radio fussing like an unstable marriage behind him. He grunts when I speak, but I thank him none the less and move on in behind him, heading toward the restroom in the back. The room is only big enough for one body, and even then, the door does not close properly! The smell is partridge, much like a piss bucket after months of hydration in the summer heat and when I lift the seat there's a yellow crust visible at the bass of the bowel.
����������� I decide, I'd be better off peeing on a cactus, and I smile at my attempt to humour my situation as I straddle and take aim, desperately trying not to touch the rim. I attempt to flush, the gurgling reminding me of a bubbling hot spring as it burps and refills. After splashing some cold water on my face I head out, immediately�noticind the�radio is�no longer playing. It's not until I�reach�the�counter that I realise -�the Chinese man, has gone!
����������� I stand still and calculate my position. There's a cool breeze slicing against the lightweight door, causing it to slap open and close, and above that, wind chimes follow suit in a random jingle. I do not hesitate when an unexpected sound hits me and before I know it I am pointing my pistol at the multi-map, sat on the counter, the pages flicking back and forth as it catches the draft.
����������� "Excuse me?" The Chinese man enters to my left and immediately puts both hands up when I swivel and point the firearm at him. I study him, he is sorry now for ignoring me earlier.
I sigh "It's Ok. You can relax, I need the bullets!" I reassure him as I let�the gun�flop carelessly in my hand.
His face tightens and his eyes swell�at my comment. I don't intend to hurt him,�knowing this�he lowers his hands�and he begins to�side steps around me.
I put the gun away and dust myself off. "Don't be doing anything stupid, I will use them if I have to!" I warn him and he nods uncontrollably. Happy that he won't tell anyone about me I smile, and exit via the front door leaving the chilling sound of rattling chimes behind me. �����
The morning brings relief as I spot a busted vehicle on the side of the highway. The rusted white Volvo is deserted, it's back left tier flat. As I step closer I pull out a pack of 20, flick the box open and place the fag between my chapped lips. I light and puff as I circle the vehicle; nothing much inside, this will do just fine. The heat is fierce already so I take off my jacket revealing low cut, black tank tope underneath and lean against the car and continue to suck, exhale and flick the fag while I wait.
����������� Approximately 20 minutes and three more smokes later, I see a black truck in the horizon, breaking through the heat wave. Killing my last bud, I let my dark hair loose and pump out my chest and wave it down. The truck pulls up, as planned and stocky man with a curly mop and beard leaned out of the window.
����������� "Hey there pretty lady, you got yourself into some trouble there" she shouts.
����������� I step forward, sure of myself "Damn car, just as shitty as my darn husband!" I curse at the wheel and looking about me, pretend to be completely helpless.
����������� "Well, where you heading sweet cheeks?" He doesn't hesitate to ask.
I celebrate with a swivel of the heaps, as I step closer to talk to him over the buzz of the engine. "I've been on the road for days, so, the nearest motel?" I shrug.
����������� The man looks ahead of him and fondles his thick beard with is grubby fingers. Finally he turns to me "About 15 miles I reckon. Why don't you hop in missy?"
����������� I smile gratefully and he opens the passenger door for me as I move around the front of the truck. He gives me a sweaty hand to help me up, I give him my good one�and I silently thank him before wiping�it�on the back of my pants and�close the door.


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