Author's Note: Well, folks, long time no drabble. Having not been able to write anything for almost a year, it is so great to finally have a story finished. Hopefully this has made that nasty writer's block take a hike!
Room 423
Mandy's painting her fingernails—cerise, darlin', it's the only way to go on Friday—when there's a flash of bright light from one of the rooms across the lot. 423, shiny black Chevy parked at the door. With a grumble she screws the lid onto her nail polish bottle, slides off her stool. Fanning her hands as she goes, by the time she's knocking on 423's door her nails are almost set.
A tall guy with lady hair answers after the fifth rapid knock, blocking her view of the room with his body. He's a jumpy critter, she can tell right off the bat. "Hi. Uh—"
He's about to come up with some B.S., Mandy knows the look on the guy's face, so she just elbows him out of her way. The twin beds have been pushed together against the far wall, the coffee table in the middle of the room has a large bowl on it that's still smouldering. The floor has some weird red graffiti on it. The guy that booked the room with tall guy is standing in front of the window with a big ass steak knife, and next to him is another guy in a trench coat with a shiny barbecue skewer. A stick of a lady with red hair has (perfectly manicured) hands frozen over the bowl as wisps of smoke curl around them, and a scruffy fella with a beard in a black coat is loitering next to the minibar. Standing on the graffiti is some blonde guy who looks mighty pissed.
"There's a set price for the room, folks," Mandy says, popping a bubble. "If ya'll want a fancy dress indoor barbecue pyjama party, it's gonna cost ya extra."
THE END