The Resort Manager's Tale.

In a dank smelling, cheap hotel room, somewhere in Western Australia, an unpleasant looking young man hangs up the phone. Next to the phone on the bedside table, which is covered with an array of adult magazines, most of which featuring farm animals, lies the hotel's complimentary notepad, on which he's scribbled a few notes, the last of which during the phone conversation he just had with Matt, the caretaker/in-house chef of the resort he manages in Queensland. He attemps to pick up the notepad, but the cheap whiskey he had for breakfast has killed his hand-eye coordination, and he knocks onto the floor a plastic replica of a woman's genitalia, bought not 24 hours ago at the sleazy shop two streets over and already worn and torn. He tries again, and this time succeeds in picking up the notepad. He struggles with the words, not because of the handwriting, which is bad, but because he was never properly taught how to read; he was home-schooled by his mother, a chimpansee.
IndentThe note reads:

- See local doctor -> renew prescription syphilis.
- Buy razors to shave back.
- Buy puppy in window -> drown it.
- E-mail Martin about arranging a wedding at resort, July 20th.

He throws the notepad on the bed, its sheets crusty and stained, and limps over to the bathroom, for his daily session of pimple-squeezing, something he, over the years, has learned to take pleasure in. For several years now he has had a Rainbow Jar, a simple glass jar, it's label inexpertly torn off, in which he collects all the pus he extracts from his face - the name of the already half full jar pertaining to the change in colour brought on by the passage of time; from white and yellow to an autumnal orange, all the way to the brownish green chunks at the bottom, of which he is most proud.
IndentOnce in the bathroom he avoids looking at the toilet bowl for fear of remembering yesterday's epic bout of constipation, and he shuffles over to the mirror on the far wall. Looking at himself, devising a battle plan about the order in which he'll attack the pustules on his face (the almost green one throbbing on his upper lip will make a fine grande finale), the Rainbow Jar waiting expectantly for the day's spoils, a thought enters his mind.
Indent"July 20th," he says to his reflection with a lisp brought on by his two missing front teeth. Several instants pass before he realises why that date rings a bell.
Indent"The double birthday!" he exclaims, and in the excitement he leaks a few drops of urine. He hardly notices it anymore.
Indent"No room for a wedding," he then ponders. "Oh, I know, I'll keep that Martin guy on a leash for a couple of weeks, throwing him the occasional bone in the shape of an e-mail in which I will appear more than willing to help him, taking his reservations, etcetera, so that I can use him as a back-up, should this birthday business fall through. Then, once the double birthday is booked, and the money in my pocket, I will simply ignore him!" He smiles a gap-toothed smile at his own deviousness.
Indent"And then, if he gets impatient and calls me, I'll just tel him he never made a reservation, and oh dear, look at that, we're fully booked for that day!" At the thought of having this conversation his smile widens to the point that his upper lip bursts open and an instant later a fat gob of pus is dripping down the reflection of his face.
Indent"Aaaaw," he moans, and tripples off in search of a spoon.