Skin’s crawling being back here… after so long in varied forms of Foreignesia where people couldn’t just come up and talk at you. But I’m home and there’s nothing stopping these chumps. Case in point is himself in spats and suspenders, making small talk with the doorman and trying to drag us in as we go past. No sirree.
This place, there’s the smell of talcum and wrinkles and money. New Rich oul wans, no taste to speak of… deep-pocket ladies who’ll be suckers for a man in wingtips. Fournier’s eyeing one up already, no doubt with painfully sincere motives. He shall be disabused thereof in shortish order.
This is his thing so while he waits around to be checked in I light up a cigar I found in his luggage and wander off. It’s like sucking wet cardboard. There are those kind of paintings on the wall with farms and, well, all that, and there’s this creamy paper you don’t want to look at for too long. That stuff with the kind of relief effect on it, catches the corners of your eye and starts to turn into ancient wisdom the longer you stare… at least til you remember you’re staring at fucking wallpaper.
Wallpaper of the old school… meaning probably somewhere here there’s a bar with a baldy carpet and battered upholstery. Oh m’darlin’.
Fournier walks up and says there’s only rich blood rooms left, we’re stuck with a double somewhere below the top floor. Fine by me. There’s an unspoken agreement that he’s taking care of it… granted I’m the one doing most of the unspeaking, but even if he tries to pull something off there’s still those old ladies to be mined. A course of action will present itself. For now I have a baldy carpet to get my hooves on.
