(This is a rough draft)
“We’re late,” shouted Eric, “late, late, late – What the fuck is going on back there?”
The door breached wide-open, followed by Eric marching from the hotel room with two lunar eyes, distorted hazelnut locks, and a vintage Grateful Dead t-shirt, a black backpack strewn over his right shoulder; duffel bag in the adjacent hand.
“I thought you said checkout was twelve?” A voice echoed from the shadows.
“Fuck, it was twelve until you accidentally ingested that last dosage, placing our frequency on the galactic grid, now every grid-worker, reptilian, locust, and their astral mothers will be looking for us.”
“Christ!” The voice reverberated from darkness.
“Yeah him too,” Eric said, “Are you almost done, how long were we THERE?”
Eric peered into the hotel room, white bedsheets scattered across the floor, a ghostly figure pacing back and forth with a navy blue hoodie.
“Yeah, I feel like we’re missing someth- …. Did we leave anything on Zeta Reticuli?”
The ghostly figure, stepped into the fluorescent hallway – his pale face blanketed by greasy blonde hair, eyes consumed with black shimmering pearls.
“I hope not, John. My god, I hope not.”
In the next room over, Matilda fastened pristine white bedsheets over the hotel mattresses – her slender cocoa figure removing dirty laundry and placing it within her carry-cart. The weekend was complete, which meant the building required a deep clean.
A good day to make money, she thought, Mucho dinero.
An opportunity to visit her mother in Chicago, who never forgave Matilda for relocating outside Philadelphia. The holidays were approaching after all.
Or maybe, she thought guilt-fully, I’ll finally see the Bahamas, the Virgin Islands, somewhere warm, tropical; rum-runners on the beach, somebody to clean my roo-
Peering around the hotel room, Matilda noticed an absence of dollar bills, federal reserve notes, dead presidents – tiny green men. Her heart; pounding, while strumming through tea packets, coffee filters, and hotel room amenities. She desperately rummaged underneath bed frames, underneath tv stands and coffee machines, she scoured the refrigerator and eventually the trash can.
The fifth room without compensation, no tip, nada.
A voice barked from the radio standing upright on the carry-cart.
“Matilda, Room 222 and 231 are ready for checkout. Prepare them in the next hour, quickly! Over.”
There would be no vacation, she thought, only semen-stained satin sheets, mildew shaded shower tiles, and the radio static with infinite demands.
Hail Zeta!
Two synchronic, male voices penetrated the wall.
* * *
“Housekeeping,” Matilda called, knuckles striking the steel frame of Room 222.
Investigating the silence, she determined the bedroom was safe for entry and slid the maintenance key alongside the card reader.
Bleeeeeeep. Click.
The room absorbed the intruding hallway glare, illuminating bed frames, nightstands, a flatscreen television, and an office chair stacked meticulously against the far side window, fortressing the hotel bedroom from sunlight. Studying the furniture, Matilda scratched her forehead meticulously, sweat trickling across her fractured, bleach stained fingernails. Who would do such a thing and why?
Matilda sighed, resting her bottom against the naked mattress, sheets strewn across the stained spiraled carpet and atop the furniture bastion.
Her radio buzzed and hissed.
“Fresh linens and soaps to Room 402. Mop the lobby when you’re done!”
The words occupied the empty hotel bedroom.
Ignoring the voice, Matilda rose to her feet surveying the once occupied space, furniture mounted by the window, sheets strewn across the floor, but otherwise in decent shape. Did she dare search for the tip?
Glancing toward the tv stand hopelessly, Matilda would not find the green bills.
Instead, a crystalline powder resurrected itself against the opaque furniture, twinkling from the reflection in her eye.
Cocaína, she thought, observing waves of sparkles splashing the overcast bedroom.
Matilda was no stranger to cocaine, remembering the stone face of her Uncle Morales who viciously collected cartel debts in Mexico, her Uncle Val – who’s decapitated head provided supper for the village dogs, her sister’s ex-boyfriend who wore kevlar while stacking kilograms next to AK-47s, extended magazines, hand grenades, and loose Xbox 360 discs.
I left Mexico, she thought, to escape this?
Room 304 needs vacuum, ASAP.
Matilda eyeballed the white crystals while nervously peering over each shoulder.
She had tried cocaine before, many times in fact, and if this was her only compensation for the day: Who is to stop her now?
Just a taste, she thought, pointing her index finger toward the vibrating crystals, pressing the granulated shards against her moist skin. A warmth cascaded her arm, fastening to the center of her chest, as the substance clung to her finger.
Matilda rubbed the crystals on her gums and presumed working. Her eyebrows rose as her mouth adjusted to the chemical invasion. The expected taste of gasoline and bleach was replaced by something lighter, almost tasteless, unrecognizable.
Must be cut. I don’t feel a thing…
Matilda; uninterrupted, began placing bedsheets into the dirty laundry hamper attached to the carry-cart, dismantling the furniture against the window.
A vacation, she scoffed, could you imagine?
Matilda removed the final blanket, casting specks of sand which twinkled against the soft white, hotel bedroom.
I just haven’t worked hard enough, she thought, If I worked more I could afford a vacation. I mean Hell, can’t even get good cocaine here.
A salty breeze whipped Matilda’s nostrils, her hotel uniform fluttering against delicate cocoa flesh. Streaks of tangerine sunlight enveloped the far corners of the bedroom, erupting into a mural of kaleidoscopic clouds and a rising sun.
Matilda, Room 402, why haven’t you been to Roo—
Radio chatter disintegrated into the seagulls overhead, who stalked Matilda as she trudged through sand dunes.
Which way was the Ocean?
* * *
Eric and John sprinted down the hotel hallway, long hair pounding against shoulder blades, sweat absorbing into six-day-old outfits, their eyes – radiant marbles casting astral convulsions against the physical world. The hallways morphed, plunging the duo into the creative breast of H.R. Giger – distorted realms of ancient alien civilizations, peculiar and psychic organisms with coarse undyed exteriors; hierarchal networks of servitude, and a malignant destiny amongst the stars.
Approaching Room 222, they noticed the door was propped open with the deadbolt lock. Radio chatter whispered through the cracked door, alerting Eric that somebody occupied the bedroom.
“Damn. Really had to leave it behind, huh?”
“Two of us, my guy,” said John, “besides I was being interrogated by those things.”
“Well now look where we are, absolutely FUCKED… and LATE.”
“Can you imagine, I mean seriously imagine coming back to the scene of the crime. We’ve lost it. Absolutely lost it. This place is swarming with Federal Border Patrols, Zetas… those fucking google-eyed, red-caped shits, you didn’t give them any information, did you?
John who stood transparent, a ghost amongst the dense world, pushed through the hotel bedroom door, observing as the knob turned to ectoplasm. Wiping the slime on his cargo pants, he entered – retinas scanning. The room was picturesque minus the night stand, television, and desk stacked against the hotel window; and the bed which clutched a woman in her early thirties, cocoa complexion, short and delicate, with trimmed locks and a heart-shaped tattoo on her inner, left arm.
John gasped, observing the Mexican woman with glowing eyes that pierced the ceiling and beyond. Eric bolted into the room, pushing the carry-cart aside, darting for the furniture monstrosity. Reaching underneath the desk, he retrieved a clunky digital device, clutching it like a newborn.
“Oh man, seriously, how could John leave you with… with…with those things.”
The device clicked on, digital LEDs flickering, before rendering an elongated list of zeros: The scale. Analytical Scale, to be exact.
“Eric -”
“I mean fuck, I even built this anti-gravitational force-field to prevent any saucer landings. You think… you think this was easy… you think what we do is eas-?”
“Eric! Who is she?”
Attention drifting from the furniture malfunction, Eric spun toward the bed, locating the woman, delirious, vacant – PLUNGED into the abyss.
Eric motioned his hand over her buoyant eyes – unfazed and distant.
Cocking his head around the room, he noticed the white crystals perched on the television stand. His eyes widened and his smile escaped.
“Fuck, what the hell is this right here?” Eric pointed to the crystals.
John removed his attention from the woman lying on the bed, focusing on the glistening dust. His eyes – following the sparks of astral beams which projected from the crystals, illuminated the anxiety which now struck his stomach.
“We fucked up,” said John, sweaty palms swimming through greasy blonde hair.
“We?” Eric shouted, “How many fucking doses did she eat, John.”
“Left a gram on the table before leaving, peace offering to the Zetas and all… Your instructions…remember?”
“A gram… a gram of ninety-nine POINT ninety-nine percent, needlepoint LSD…”
* * *
Matilda trudged through sandy dunes, following the seagulls who chirped and beckoned underneath the sapphire sky – Palm trees erupting beneath her cocoa feet with each advancing step, blanketing the trail with luscious forests, wild boars, and buzzing insects. The ocean must be close, she thought, disregarding the circular metallic object hovering above the seagulls, ominously tracking her movements.
The sand spewed from her feet in geometric swirls, conjuring mathematical recipes and the faces of deceased family members, converging into a tree trunk, and erecting into the forest canopy. Following the seagulls, Matilda observed the salty air dissipating, the ocean breeze – drowsy. Behind she observed lush forests occupying the once barren dunes, and the hotel roof poking above the tree line.
She paused, waiting for the seagulls to evaporate into the cobalt horizon, except they paused simultaneously; insisting Matilda to follow – Hovering below the metallic disk. Matilda broke herself from the flock, walking in the opposite direction and planting astral seeds with each footstep.
Close, she thought.
* * *
“Maybe we weren’t cut out for this, man… laying all this acid?”
“Don’t you know what’s at risk? Nonsense, next time we’ll be more careful…. Gloves….Next time, I wont look into that fuckers eyes… Hear me… Telepathic little shits!”
“Did they get anything on you?” Asked John.
“Just some embarrassing childhood memories… I showed the neighbor-girl my weiner and she ran away – nothing important.”
402, 401, 303, 302, *static*, WHERE THE FUCK are you, MATIL-?
The radio interrupted Eric and John, who hovered above the incoherent maid.
Eric’s eyes widened as he dashed toward the carry-cart parked in the corner of the hotel bedroom.
“Z3-EtuI work-ship with hypothermal blast shields, anti-gravity core-processors, and access to Zeta satellites. This is our ticket, John.”
John studied the hotel carry cart which smelled of bleach and body odor.
“And what about her?” John pointed to the woman.
Eric eyeballed the carry-cart, menacingly clasping for answers.
“There’s enough room. We’ll take her with us.”
“Huh…?”
Eric frantically bolted to the side of the bed, clutching the incapacitated woman’s hands, instructing John to grab her ankles.
“On three, we lift and place her inside the escape pod” Eric said, nodding his head toward the dirty laundry basket, “If anyone deserves a chance to survive, I guess it might as well be her.”
One. Two. Three.
Eric and John seized Matilda from the embrace of the hotel bedroom, gently motioning her feet towards the carry-cart, gliding her soundly to the bottom of the dirty laundry hamper.
A smile painted Eric’s face who clutched the radio between white knuckles.
“This is C-E 4577754, Permission to enter Federal space-ways – Over”.
* * *
The ocean bass reverberated against Matilda’s cocoa figure, as the hotel uniform oozed beneath luminescent rays and alchemized into a violet swimsuit. The forest emanating beneath tender feet, ceased into a hurried sprint, as Matilda ascended the final sand dune. The ocean peaked over pebbles, rebounding sparks of vibrant sunlight, waving to Matilda who desperately trudged closer.
Almost there, She thought, just a little bit more. Muy pequeno.
Reaching the top of the sand dune, Matilda lost her footing.
Millions of sand particles transmuted into a steel slide anchored against the horizon – a metallic tube descending thousands of feet into the ocean. Landing on her bottom, Matilda grasped at the steel contraption – hands disintegrating to astral dust. She plunged feet forward, arms gripped against her chest, soaring across the slick metallic slide, and descending toward vibrant waters.
The violet bathing suit splintered to cosmic debris, exposing Matilda’s cocoa complexion to the shivery steel slide. The acceleration snapped her eyelids shut, propelling her to incendiary speeds.
The water – nearer, nearer…nearer… as gravity seized Matilda, unapologetically plunging her to the purifying pool, shattering the surface, – sinking.
Arms flailing, mouth inhaling, legs twisting, Matilda convulsed beneath the surface. Waves invaded her nostrils – corking her throat, plowing her lungs, and stuffing her stomach.
Was this it? Death. Muerte.
Matilda tore the suffocating waves – clawing with busted bleach fingernails – cursing, squealing, drowning as bubbles flickered and dispersed from wriggling lips. No, she thought, I can’t give up…must keep goi— Useless.
Body tremors ceased, convulsions dissipating amongst the ocean wobbles.
Still – perfectly still. Statuesque. Dea—
A radiant fluorescence captivated the opaque waters, as the metallic hover-craft swooped overhead, casting particle beams toward Matilda – elevating her figure from crowding tides. Droplets disintegrated beneath a golden gloss, toasting her cocoa complexion. Matilda’s eye’s stapled-wide, her naked figure ascending to the bowels of the metallic hover-craft.
* * *
Dismantling the furniture contraption and wiping tabletops, Eric and John prepared to leave the hotel; they prepared for lift off… again. Pushing the loaded carry-cart, John paused as Eric reached for the doorknob.
“Hold on, we almost forgot something,” said John, shuffling between pockets, summoning a tattered velcro wallet, and placing a twenty-dollar bill on the tv-stand.
“Good thinking,” said Eric, twisting the doorknob and emerging into the hallway- light casting geometric shadows and mathematical formulas, sputtering into the static outline of SpongeBob Squarepants, and rupturing into a piñata of extravagant rainbow fireworks.
After tucking the bill beneath a television remote, which slithered upon his touch, John delivered the carry-cart from the hotel bedroom, meeting Eric who stood wide-eyed, stroking the untrimmed facial hair perched from his chin.
WHERE ARE YOU! YOU MIGHT AS WELL KEEP HIDING!
The words barked from the black radio towering atop the carry-cart, mailing intergalactic distortions to the pits of their stomachs, observing as hallway walls morphed into rows of alien obelisks.
“This way… to the space station.” Eric seized the carry-cart, John pushing from behind, both maneuvering martian landscapes invading their vision.
I swear to God, If I find you. Do not… let me find you.
“These Zeta’s are no joke,” said Eric, “Remember. Whatever you do, don’t look these fucker’s in the—
Ding.
The elevator door swung open.
Eric and John gasped, eyes charged – hands clutching the housekeeping carry-cart.
“What the hell are you doing with that?” The figure towered over Eric and John, who both peered directly into floor tiles.
A density struck John’s neck, head dipping – nerve-endings, fracturing.
He gripped the carry-cart with moist palms.
“This…?” John began, struggling to ignore the colorless, red-caped, inter-dimensional Zeta Reticulin standing before them: three black galactic eyes, unflinching lips – The pronounced feeling of fear.
“What does it look like we’re doing,” Eric interrupted with unstirred eyes, “We’re on our way out of here. Overstayed our welcome, very aware. Now please…”
“Two-two-two,” the creature began, “you should’ve been gone two hours ago, what the hell is going on here, where is my maid?”
Eric studied the smudge-stained floor tile growing legs, tongue sprouting – licking the end of his Birkenstocks.
“Maid…? Look we know you Zetas have profound proudness for your servant population… intergalactic prison planets, Andromeda Slave Trade and all, not easy work, we know….” Eric started… “But as ambassadors to your —“
“Know what she said back there…She said she’d rather DIE than work for a three-eyed FUCK!” John interrupted, seizing words from Eric.
The gray-scaled creature narrowed its brow, transmitting tortuous waves to both John and Eric, who had forgotten about their grip on the carry-cart.
“She’s gone.” Eric rebounded, calluses birthing from his palms on the carry-cart, “liberated one might even say…. A speck of….”
“She said, WHAT?!” The towering creature, slender, slipped past the carry-cart, charging the obelisk hallway. John lifted his gaze from the floor tiles, accidentally shifting a glance down the alien architected hallway, investigating as the gray alien mask receded, spawning a bronze fleshed man, with neatly combed hair and a crimson bindi in the center of his forehead.
“Nice work” Eric chuckled, sweeping sweat with his vintage Grateful Dead t-shirt, “Who knew the Zeta’s were so self-conscious?”
John vomited onto the carry-cart, stomach acid rinsing the surface and trickling into the dirty laundry hamper.
* * *
John and Eric descended through hyperspace, through the transparent glass-windowed elevator, waltzing through a vacant, un-mopped hotel lobby, and directing the loaded carry-cart into the parking lot. Locating Eric’s 2012 Honda Civic, idle beneath a cloudless sky, they removed Matilda from the vomit, bleach, semen-stained-satin-sheets, placing her comfortably against the blanketed backseat. Eric pried the driver door open, lunging himself behind the steering wheel.
“We lost a day of the music festival, so what… when they hear about our experiences on Zeta Reticuli, our harrowing escape, the mind control, the torture…. When we arrive with the doses we laid….we’ll be welcomed back as…. As heroes!”
John eyeballed Eric arms flailing – lost in translation. “Seriously, if we leave now —“
“Is this a good idea?” John pointed toward Eric behind the steering-wheel, who gazed attentively with marbled eyes absorbing the autumn sunlight. “What I mean to ask… is it a good idea, ya know,” Eric studied John cautiously, “operating your hover-craft after Zetas uploaded a STECH-79, NeuroTracker into your spinal cord.
How do I know they aren’t going to activate your spinal cord separator while we’re in hyperspace?”
John picked at his facial hair, eyes looming into the fractal concrete.
“I suppose you’re right, can’t afford another crash landing on a prison planet.”
Eric hopped over the center console, placing himself into the passenger seat – marbled eyes never blinking, while John positioned himself into the driver seat, moist hands clutching his iPhone transmuting Momentum by Cloud_D over distorted subwoofers.
“We should be able to unload these dosages at Submersion Festival, Dead and Co, maybe even Phish…cap it off with the local scene —.”
In the backseat, Matilda’s mystical eyeballs painted the automobile with levers, gizmos, and gadgets; her gaze ascended upon two gray-scaled, marble eyed Zeta Reticulins who operated their hover-craft amongst a star studded sky. The red-caped alien sitting passenger presented a black radio and spoke without moving a muscle.
“This is ZR – 1110222 from Prison Planet #467921, we have regained control of the ship and are inbound. Over.”
THE BADBOOB 