A Day in Tegucigalpa

Reads: 151  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Action and Adventure  |  House: Booksie Classic
was planning to make 15 pages, but cut it short, 5 times short!...eh? Enjoy the plot, constant change in font and the errors! Thanks!

Your's truly...Don Vito Corleone.

Submitted: April 24, 2008

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 24, 2008

A A A

A A A


A Day in Tegucigalpa

 

“Beep beep beep” says the broken alarm clock at the “Sheziah Motel”. My name is Gregory Pulpman and I work in insurance, and also I picked the stinkiest, dirty, cheap, and crime-filled country in the world: Honduras for my one week vacation, more like detonation! And the worst place in Honduras is the capital: Tegucigalpa.

I live in an apartment in Central London. The insurance company I work for is Collins Cover. I am James Collin’s manager, and yes James Collin is my boss. Oh yes the great James Collin who owns manors in: L.A., Genova and Tokyo. I work eleven hours a day, four days a week.

 One day James noticed that I hadn’t had a vacation in 3 years, and that was in Cornwall for 9 days. He advised me to go to somewhere hot and spicy! Two places leapt to mind quickly: The Middle East and the Americas. Because the Middle East had war violence, but the Americas only had plus I could be put somewhere safe area. I placed my hand over my eyes, parked my finger on my globe in the Central America region. BAM! I put my finger right smack bang on Honduras; I told my sectary to book a nice fly-in meal and movie. But there was a problem; all the 4 and 5 star hotels were reserved by government and business officials. The 3 star hotels were under repairs, So I choose the good old fashioned Sheziah Motel, two stars and no the alarm clock is broken.

“God this place is cold during the winter!” It was 6 degrees Celsius. “Man its cold I need a shower” I crept into the shower, turned the hot handle and out came nice soothing water below freezing. “Agggghhhhhh!!! What the hell was that?!” I ran to my bed grabbed the phone and dialed room service, I yelled into the phone: “Why on this damned earth do you have a hot shower that flows out water colder than Alaska?!” The voice of the accented maid said “Espanyol! Espanyol! Eh cozineburge!” Gregory asked “What the hell are you talking about?” She responded “Is this how you say... pancake?” I gave up and tiredly bellowed “Get stuffed!” I tried to cheer my shelf up by reading what was in the bookshelf: Dictatorship books, local magazines and anything by Maxell Powell. I wasn’t going to read dictatorship books because there filled with propaganda, not local magazines because I can’t read Spanish and definitely not Maxell Powell. Bored, bored, and bored. There nothing to do but pace up and down my room. At, last an option arouse. Maybe I could go down to the games room and play some pool or pinball. I opened the door and went down the stairs with my slippers. In my way was a Mexican janitor.

I said “Pardon, could you move please?” He was a shoddy man with black hair under his cap promoting an oil company, a

 

worn out coat without buttons and OP shop shoes and jeans that didn’t really fit. The poor man replied “il stares e dus” “Pardon?” “Dus! Dust!!!” “Now I get what you’re saying. Signora, where is the games room?” “It ot orde” He said with his mammoth-size accent. “I beg your pardon?” “It ot order! It out of order!!!” He shouted so loud it woke everyone in the motel. A few seconds later I heard a lot of angry moaning and a huge amount of very angry yelling. What’s going on down there?!?!?!” for some strange reason the janitor shouted even louder again “IT OUT OF ORDER!!!!!!!!!” Now there was so much noise being made by the angry residents, it was so loud it would even burst the eardrums. The racket was heard 7 blocks away.

Gregory’s tummy started to rumble. He needed something inside it, so he ambled to the “Breakfast Bar” Closed, closed and closed opens 7:30-11:30. That’s what the signs said on the rails over the Breakfast Bar.

 “I need fun!!!” I screeched in my head. I wish everyone in the world knew how I felt, even those bloody starving kids in Africa. There was nothing else to do, but sit on the barstool that was by my side. As I thought about things to pass the time, maybe I could book a flight to the U.S. and spend the rest of my time there in a 4 and a half hotel. I was sighing a lot of the time on that barstool. I did anything I could to be entertained in the smallest amount. This was the true meaning of patience.

At last the Breakfast Bar was open and I ordered toast with there special Columbian Coffee. Price: 7.36 quid. Since when on this planet was the smallest meal ever 7.36 quid. I tried a local custom of there’s: Haggling. I bargained and schmoozed, but could only get the price down to 7 quid.

Anyway I heard that coffee from Columbia is very famous and it’s the best of all coffees in the world. I hope it isn’t one of those coffees that they make in Spain with preservatives to hide the gritty taste. It’s cheaper though to get the beans from Columbia then all the way in Spain.

When I landed in this country I started to find out that Honduras has a trade system of item, rather than money.

I had to remember that every 60 seconds I was on that barstool, 147 human beings had died. At that point in time I wish I was anyone of those people, because this was the worst 104 minutes of my entire life!!!!!(So far).

“DING” Is what the little bell on the counter said after it was taped by the delicate hands of the native waitress. “Il ordero for Columbia coffee witd tos!” I raised my arm anxiously, not really knowing what she bloody well said “That would be my order mistress” I said quietly. “IL WHATLO!!!” Just because she had nice hands doesn’t mean she wasn’t very rude. “Yes that is my order!” I bellowed. She said “Is botter”

She gave me toast that looked like it was made from the grinded up bones of a lamb, and a damn good looking coffee. I put the coffee in the ashtray in front of me. At last, the best part of my day: Drinking the best known coffee in the world. I was beginning to take my first sip when… BANG!!!

What was that? Well at least I still have my… COFFEE!!! My coffee, all over my face and the carpet. My mug was in pieces everywhere and… oh I think I’m going to be faint, there is a sharp and thick part of the mug in my right shoulder. At that moment I looked up at the ceiling and said “You got to be bloody kidding me, mate!” As though I was talking to “God”. I looked towards the window on my left. It has no glass. It must really be a cheap motel if its windows have no glass. I looked on the floor below the window; there were lots of little pieces of glass there, about 100.

Suddenly out of no where came two big bodied thugs, put a 44 Magnum to my head, lots of screaming by others around, they shuffled me out and threw me in the back of there van with complete darkness. I was kidnapped amid a piece of mug within my right shoulder. I stayed very quiet the one hour journey. When we arrived I thought they’d be smart, they let me see there faces and there hideout. No duct tape. It was a dark and slimy alleyway in a poverty-stricken street.

I was thrown into a room and tied up to a crudely made chair. I was harshly pistol-whipped for no apparent reason by a bloody ugly scumbag. Out of nowhere came a smirking 29 to 32 year old with a lot of bling and 10 strong people with watches and sunglasses guarding. A guard shouted at the bling guy and said “Rambo!” I shouted at him “Rambo, let me go free!” then he laughed and pistol whipped me. “HELP ME!!!” I kept on shouting when they were having lunch.

Out of nowhere (yes I have already said that) came a woman and she said quietly “Mi name Melia Gonzalez. I come to rescue you from Rambo Trevino, a drug bandit, I’m in the Honduras sector of the British Secret Services” I said “Oh” she put me in the front seat of the jeep and drove off at 80 mp/h an hour to the airport. She was going to book for the first plane out of this damned country. “VVVVVRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” was the other sound that was made when Rambo had found out I had escaped (made by motorcades). Melia handed me the wheel while she shot at the gangsters motorcades. We arrived and booked a flight to Mexico City, which left in 30 minutes. Melia told airport security that there were gangsters 1 mile outside the airport ready to shot the next aero plane that left or landed, to prove she was telling the truth she shown her badge. All flights were delayed. Hundreds of cops came and arrested Rambo Trevino and his meddling hooligans and I left in peace and quiet to continue my holiday with reporters and journalists in America, with a formal apology from the president of Honduras. James Collin felt weird and gave me and extra 2 months holiday.

 

Tar-tar everyone that’s enough for my diary.    

  


© Copyright 2017 Don Vito Corleone. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

More Action and Adventure Short Stories