Seconds out

Fournier has a wild face on him and he knocks chunks out of the room on his way through the door. That and the blood on his lip suggest he mightn’t be in the optimal mental state. Never mind that some of us have paid good money to get there, the bowsie just waltzes in as usual.

The feller and the missus aren’t too keen on us leaving and there’s a bit of windmilling going on before himself lands on his back and I get a sashay on. Fournier’s up the hall accosting another guest, some kind of burbling noise coming out of him and he pinning the poor man to the floor, for what reasons escape me. The chap seems overwhelmed and lets himself be dragged into the room next door while myself is down the hallway sharpish… Fournier-less, and after a corner or two it occurs to me that said room might be our berth and not just a scene of whatever crime he’s cooking. About face.

Around half of Fournier is on the bed, arms flung up around his face. As I make my entrance the bathroom door opens and his new friend creeps out, dribbling on the carpet and looking something like a molested rabbit… I retire the shark in his direction and give him the door, an opportunity he does not squander.

The window’s open and the cold air helps… picks me up far enough that I’m willing to see what liquids Fournier has brought with him. The man himself opens his eyes long enough to glance at me, makes a noise like a turkey doing a cryptic crossword, and firmly shuts them again.

I crawl around a bit but I can’t find what he’s done with his suitcase… which strikes me as very rude of him, but those are the shakes, those and the ones looming somewhat and making me think maybe he has the right idea, so I shut things down a bit and stretch myself out. Tomorrow is another day.

Exeunt

Soon enough it gets to where the shark is afoot. All teeth and piggy black eyes, a natural outcome of divilment and excess… directed at my new compatriot in arms and, of course, shoes, he of the coatlessness nouveau. It’s a smirk I say, a smirk, a divilish smirk. Unclear whether he notices. But away! before he does, lest questions be directed in wrong directions. Not I my lord, not I. It went a-wandering indeed, went in search of its fortune, terrible thing but they do grow up, ahh, they do.

The lobby wishes to dance with me. I stand straight; excuse my manners. It would of course be rude to turn a lady down. Arms up, da da daa, da da daa… the floor flirts, a coquettish little wink and a touch of the hand. Not tonight my dear, not tonight. I may be that brand of gentleman in certain other lives and times but not tonight, I shall lay with you perhaps anon, but, I…

… up the stairs. Shifty little beggars too, roiling and tossing, like… the sea, made of… jellyfish… all in good fun though, it seems, or at least they have the benefit of the doubt for now, but well they know there will be no nonsense or words will be exchanged. In point of fact I am prepared to say there will be ructions.

A commotion… shocking rudeness at such an hour but I hear a commotion down the hall, and so caress my way down one wall, pardon me… a door presents itself, an aperture. My, and quite a tableau indeed…

“Ma’am,” I say, shark once more in vogue, to the be-towelled vision before me. She shrieks most musically, if a touch confrontational. I regret the lack of a hat to tip. “If you will excuse me,” I murmur.

The fellow is easy enough to pull off, although I believe he clips my ear once or twice. I give him the old Queensbury routine while Fournier tucks the tackle into leg number two – grey pinstripe, a fetching look, and so I tell him although he seems distracted. With himself suitably trousered, the time seems ripe for a hasty skedaddle.