Polly Sherman glances about the empty lobby, pencil grasped loosely in her hand. Her bright blue eyes are wearily scouring the place for some inspiration. Finding none, she returns her gaze to some bland sketches of the room's stuffy furniture. An unexpected, cheerful burst of whistling catches her attention.
Basil Fawlty saunters into the lobby, grinning alarmingly. Confused, the waitress stares at her employer. Something is very wrong here. Very wrong indeed. Basil seems so… so happy. It's a rather disconcerting sight for Polly. She has simply become so accustomed to the hotelier's constant state of manic depression; his current, jovial appearance is extremely perplexing.
"Hello, Polly!" Basil sings, waving at the girl. "How are you on this beautiful afternoon?"
"Mr. Fawlty, it's miserable outside." Polly gently gestures at the windowpane, which reveals a gray and dripping world. "On the news they're saying that we're in for the storm of the century!"
"Ah yes, but it's a wonderful day nonetheless." Eyes twinkling, Basil strolls over and leans on the desk. "Do you know why?"
"Not really, Mr. Fawlty," Polly admits, bewildered by his jolly demeanor.
"Look around you!" Basil waves about the vacated lobby. "What do you see? Notice anything unusual about this place?"
"There's a mangy moose head on the wall?" she guesses, observing the tacky decoration.
"No." The buyer of the stuffed Alces alces cranium frowns, slightly offended. "No, don't you see? The hotel is positively empty! Terry's in the kitchen, making me a sandwich. Sybil's out visiting her witch of mother. Manuel's away… well, doing God knows what." The waitress bites her lip, bearing the secret knowledge that the Spaniard is currently off feeding his pet rat, which he has, despite Basil's threats, kept hidden in his room. "And best of all? None of those damn guests flitting about!"
"Sir, the Major, Miss Tibbs, and Miss G—"
"Permanent residents don't count," Basil counters, swiftly. "I'm talking about those nagging, nitpicking, Nazi-tourists that scurry in and out of the bloody place, alwayslooking for something to criticize."
"But aren't you worried about the lack of guests?" Polly asks, anxiously. "I know Mrs. Fawlty is."
"Silly Sybil. You'd think that after nineteen years in the hospitality industry she'd either stop caring so much or just lose her mind and get it done with."
"But, Mr. Fawlty, we're empty at the peak of tourist season. It is rather concerning…"
"I know that, dear. But think of it this way: without that dreadful riff raff mucking about, complicating matters, for once things are running right!"
"Running right into the ground," the waitress mutters, darkly.
"Sandwich's ready, Mr. Fawlty!" Terry calls from the kitchen. Basil skips off to receive his food, ignoring Polly's backtalk.
"BASIL." A fuming Sybil bursts through the front door. Her expression is extremely cross, her appearance disheveled. Leaves and twigs adorn her swirling tower of hair and she is brandishing a thin sapling like a stave. The overall effect is quite frightening. "BASIL?"
"Yes, dear?" Basil emerges from the kitchen, munching on a delicious sandwich. Bemused, he notices the small tree his wife is carrying. "Ah, the arboriculture convention ended early, then?"
"This landed on me as I walked in," his wife hisses, teeth gritted.
"Of course it did, dear!" Basil assures her, cheekily. "The weatherman did say cloudy with a chance of falling plants!" His teasing only increases her rage.
"Basil, this… this tree was growing in the gutter."
"I don't see how that's my fault," Basil snaps, exasperated now, "I didn't plant it there, if that's what you're implying. It's not my intention to cultivate a rooftop orchard."
"I asked you to clean the gutters last week! Basil, there's a major storm coming. If the spouts are clogged with leaves and bloody trees," Sybil vigorously waves about the sapling to emphasize her point, "the water will spill down and the wine cellar will flood again!" She snaps the slender trunk in half, angrily chucking the fractured wood out the front door. "Now, please excavate those down spouts before it starts to rain! I'll send Manuel to help you—"
"Don't bother, I'll just do it myself." Sulking, Basil slams down his lunch on the desk and stomps off to locate the necessary roof-cleaning equipment. Sybil grabs his sandwich, swiftly devouring it.
"Thank you, Basil."
"Anything for you, my livid lumberjack," he mutters, happy mood utterly destroyed.
Thoroughly soaked and immensely agitated, Basil scoops damp, dirty leaves out of the gutters and into a bucket with a small gardening trowel. It is softly drizzling, causing the roof of Fawlty Towers to become quite slick and dangerous. The hotelier is precariously perched at the edge of the roof, gripping at the shingles in order to steady himself.
"Please excavate those down spouts," he mimics his wife, seething. "Christ, what a nag. Basil, answer the phone. Basil, pick up some milk. Basil, don't hit those guests. Every bloody five seconds…" The tall, thin man flicks on his transistor radio. An upbeat tune blasts through the cold rain.
"If you ever get annoyed, look at me I'm self-employed! I love to work at nothing all day! And I'll be taking care of business (every day), taking care of business (every way), I've been taking care of business (it's all mine), taking care of business and working overtime."
"What a load of bollocks!" Basil bristles at Bachman-Tuner Overdrive's suggestion that self-employment is an incredibly easy way of life. He fiddles with the radio again, flipping the channel to a respectable news station.
"—issued flood warnings in anticipation of this upcoming storm. Officials have stated that flights across the south are to be delayed until the dangerous weather passes. It is recommended that civilians avoid driving in the storm unless it is absolutely necessary. Also, individuals residing on the floodplain should take measures to prevent water damage in their homes."
"Already on it, mate," Basil snaps, continuing to shovel.
"In other news, Torquay police have issued a statement warning residents to look out for a pair of robbers that have been terrorizing the region. So far, the duo have raided several convenience stores and a cheese shop…"
"Oh dear God, not the bloody cheese shop," Basil mutters, sarcastically, "What's society coming to? Surely a Venezuelan Beaver Cheese shortage will spark off mass suicide..."
"The robbers have also targeted several banks and local hotels." Basil's eyes bulge. The gardening trowel slips from his grip, clattering off the roof as he listens intently to the rest of the broadcast. "The pair's modus operandi changes depending on the situation, although police believe that all of the crimes have been committed by the same people. Witnesses have revealed that the couple posed as tourists in order to gain access to the hotels that they would later burglarize. In other cases, the police commissioner has stated that the duo, '…took part in some more standard-type robbery situations, basically holding up banks and stealing cars at gunpoint.' So far, no one has been seriously injured during the robberies, but officials say that the criminals are indeed '…armed and dangerous.'"
"Oh God." Basil grows considerably paler, contemplating the possibility that the robbers may select Fawlty Towers as their next target. "Oh dear God."
"Meester Fawlty?" The hotelier groans as Manuel hurries across the lawn, cheerfully waving up at him. "Meester Fawlty?"
"What is it, Manuel?"
"I come to help!'"
"What? No—"
"Mrs. Fawlty, she send me! I help you!"
"I don't need any bloody help!"
"¿Qué?"
"Just get out of here!" Basil angrily pantomimes the action. "I told Sybil not to send you out to annoy me!"
"No, Meester Fawlty, I no here to destroy you!" Manuel denies, vehemently, "I help you!"
"Ugg. Fine." Basil rubs his throbbing temples. "Just throw me up that garden trowel, would you?"
"¿Qué?" Manuel blankly stares up at his boss, confused about the requested item.
"The garden trowel!" Basil tries again, gesturing at the fallen horticultural tool.
"Como?"
"The bloody trowel! The garden trowel!" Basil fumes, pointing wildly. "It's on the ground right there! The trowel, throw me up the trowel! I need it to clean the gutters!"
"Ah! Sí!" Nodding, the little Spaniard sprints towards the front of the building.
"Where the hell is he going?" Basil growls, exasperated. "Manuel, you idiot! It's right there! No! The trowel's right there! Where I'm pointing!" The waiter returns after a few minutes, struggling under the weight of the obnoxious garden gnome he is carrying.
"What are you doing?" Basil hollers, staring at the gaudy yard decoration.
"Iz garden troll, sí?" the waiter calls up, hopefully. "I bring garden troll."
"TROWEL, you idiot, TROWEL, NOT TROLL! BESIDES, that's a bloody GNOME!"
"I throw you troll?"
"No! Don't—"
Manuel throws the garden gnome, succeeding only at nearly knocking Basil off the roof. The hotelier barely catches the bulky object, before furiously tossing it back at his oblivious employee. Concerned, the waiter catches the falling lawn ornament and gently places it on the ground.
"Meester Fawlty, you no catch?"
"NO! Of course I—ugg." Basil gives up attempting to reason with Manuel. "Catch this, you Iberian imbecile." Fawlty hurls the bucket of decaying leaves at the waiter. It's a perfect shot, the pail falls over directly the man's head, obscuring his eyes and becoming quite stuck.
"Ahh!" Manuel stumbles about, blinded. "No puedo ver!" Pleased, Basil watches from the roof as his employee trips about. Engrossed by the pain of another, he hardly notices the large cluster of people shuffling towards his hotel.
"Hey!" There are several startled exclamations as Manuel stumbles into the crowd, nearly knocking several individuals over.
"I say!"
"Watch it!"
"Ah!"
"Look out!" The confused group stares as Manuel slips and begins to painfully tumble down the front steps.
"It's okay!" Basil shouts, triumphantly. "He's from Barcelona!"
"Who are you?" a heavyset woman inquires, cautiously.
"The name's Fawlty. Basil Fawlty. I own the place. Who are you people? Are you all one party?"
"No." The speaker is a young, pretty American woman. "We've all come from the Exeter International Airport. The storm's picked up over there, it's caused mass cancellations, they're saying that the planes are going to be grounded till the rain and wind subside in a few days."
"Most've the nearby hotels are filled up," a bespectacled man adds, "Do you have any vacancies? We're all quite stuck here."
"Hmmm." Basil strokes his chin, as if deep in thought. "We might be able to squeeze some of you in. You can talk to my wife, Sybil, she should be at the front desk." Anticipating a lack of available rooms, most of the group scrambles into the hotel, striving to obtain shelter. Along with a few other concerned individuals, the pretty girl and her tanned male companion remain outdoors, staring up at Basil.
"Hey, man!" the American guy calls to him. "You shouldn't be up there! That storm's moving in fast!"
"You call this a storm?" Basil asks, mockingly. He notices the man's Florida Gators t-shirt. "Ah yes, you're from Florida."
"Yeah…."
"Not used to a bit of rain?" Basil muses. The Floridian shakes his head.
"Actually, Florida gets plenty of storms, terrible hurricanes—"
"Please, you namby-pamby Americans simply can't handle our typical British weather," Basil snaps, dismissively. 'Personally, I find it bracing." The hotelier stands up dangerously, smiling approvingly at the dismal weather. "This is a true man's climate—"
Thunder scrapes loudly in the heavens above. Four consecutive flashes of lightning momentarily illuminate the soggy yard. Squeaking, Basil wobbles and pitches straight off the roof.