"Between you and me, Liz, your sister Mary's a bit of a drag."
-Betelgeuse, London, England, 1558
Day 4.
Betelgeuse spends the next few days drifting in and out of sleep.
He wraps himself up in the covers, and nuzzles into the pillows, baking in his own body heat. A Betel-burrito. Hot and packed with meat.
He sweats, rehydrates, and then sweats some more. He's unsure how much water he's drunk but he should've pissed by now.
It wasn't like there was a manual on all things resurrection.
Hell, he'd be grateful for a pamphlet.
Or even a fortune cookie.
"Afterlife bureaucrats," he mumbles, half-conscious. "No forward thinking.."
It's late in the afternoon on the forth day that he finally feels rested enough to un-burrito himself. He plants his feet on the floor, scratches at his scalp, initially alarmed at his baldness before remembering his hair is clumped around the bathroom sink.
His eyes focus, and they dart over to the door, where some sort of business card has been slid into the room. With a heave, and another click in his knees, he picks it up.
The card advertises girls.
The picture is of a pretty blonde girl in black underwear, and there's a number to call.
Betelgeuse raises his brow and grins toothily.
It's like putting food in front of a starving man.
And he is starving.
What was it he said to Adam Maitland?
Time to make his new millennium.
Too impatient to fiddle around with Bob's phone, Betelgeuse turns to the 80s-era corded device sat by the bed and dials. He converses briefly with a gruff voice on the other end, guy sounds Turkish, Betelgeuse is sure of it, and there's some back-and-forth traditional haggling, before he hangs up, stretching like the cat that got the cream, and waits.
He drinks more water. In preparation, you know.
Soon, there's a timid knock on the door.
Betelgeuse answers, wrapped in his towel, and the girl is tiny. Her waist is narrow. She's borderline bow-legged. He…he could crush her. Ah, that would really ruin it for him.
D'you think he'll get a refund if that happens?
But she doesn't notice their size difference, and instead pushes past him into the room then turns, ginger hair bouncing on her shoulders.
"Pay first."
She sounds young, her accent Slavic.
Betelgeuse smirks, "Come on, honey, where's your manners?"
"Pay first."
He raises his brows, his bottom lip stuck out, and pouts.
"Please."
"On the table, by the bed," he winks.
She counts the notes, pauses, then re-counts, a sad look on her face as if she's just realized how cheap it is. Betelgeuse is a mean haggler.
You can't trick a trickster or con a conman.
The girl strips then, and Betelgeuse is pleased that her breasts are nice and perk. His reaction is immediate. Like the lifting of a drawbridge, the towel tents as his libido makes itself known. He tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, and she flinches at his touch. He's momentarily offended. What does she think he'll do? His eyes run down her small body, catching sight of the bruises blossomed along her stomach and hips, and he lets out a hmm.
Betelgeuse may have one or two very slight flaws, but violence against women has never been his thing, and he won't stand by and watch it, neither. Hell, his mother'd spin her grave (if she had one) if he ever laid a hand on a girl.
The girl takes his hand, pulls him to the bed, and makes to pass him a condom. He laughs and tells her about the agreement with Turkish man. He ain't gonna wear it. She mutters something under her breath, then presses her lips together but doesn't argue back. Betelgeuse doesn't need any encouragement to get hard, he's ready to go, and he's paid for the hour so he's going to get a full hour. He can proudly admit he's fucked his way through entire whorehouses, both when he was alive and dead, so one slip of a girl won't pose a challenge.
He motions for her to go on top, and he holds her in place, hands on her hips, not far from the bruises along her stomach. She's dry, and he pushes into her because she'll soon get wet, but sweet lord-
Welcome to life.
Start with a bang.
Hurhur.
Air expels from his lungs and he bits at his lip to keep control. It's just so good. Out of sheer gratitude he makes the sign of the cross, then a circular motion with his hand for her to rock her hips faster. Her body reacts; she gets wet, and it's better. He doesn't care for her moans, they're too flat and fake, so he tells her babe, babe, listen, just-just shut up, just ride, come on, faster.
His hands cup her buttocks. His palms are hard and calloused, her skin soft, and he squeezes as she bops up and down on him then grabs up at her breasts. He gives her a break then, she's earned it, and pulls her down so her breasts meet his chest, and he hugs her tight. He wouldn't be a gentleman if he made her do all the work. She looks uncomfortable having her face so close to his (pfft, he's not that repulsive), but he's focusing on thrusting up into her, pleasure building and radiating throughout his body. He comes with a loud groan, and he's certain his balls have nigh-on emptied themselves.
All that ache and pain of coming back to life, and doctor, he's cured!
It's a Christmas miracle.
But they're barely a third way through the hour, and as he said, he wants the full hour and also a little doggy-style would be great, some reverse cowgirl, and what the hell, he'll take some classic missionary, too.
By the end of the hour, it's three Christmas miracles.
The girl must be a master clock-watcher, because she cleans herself in the bathroom, gargles her mouth with water, dresses and then leaves. It's been exactly 60 minutes. Not one minute more. She slams the door in a tantrum-like manner, and Betelgeuse lies flat out on the bed before he, too, showers quickly. Someone's been in the room when he was blacked out, and they've replaced the soap, provided fresh towels, and put out one of those disposable teeth-cleaning sets. The shower has been scrubbed clean, and the nest of his hair is gone.
His watches and bracelet are laid out carefully along the sink, and his clothes have been laundered too. They're folded up and smelling of a fresh summer breeze.
He dresses, feeling great, even though his fingers are clumsy with the buttons. Nothing like a triple serving of release to get a guy going again. He heads out the back of the hotel to the smoking area. The hotel is one floor; no more than 10ish rooms all connected by one cold hallway. He walks through to the empty reception, and stops by a rack of yellowed tourist pamphlets and out-of-date promotional flyers. The reception area is a small desk in a corner, opposite of which was a sagging sofa, and next to that, a dirty vending machine.
On his second day, he'd picked at the first pamphlet he saw, and it was mystery solved. He's in Köln. Nothing remarkable or memorable about Köln comes to mind, so it's baffling how he ended up here. After questioning the logic, he'd tossed the pamphlet to the floor in a huff.
When he gets to the back exit, Betelgeuse stands by the door and sticks a cigarette between his lips, striking a match.
He puffs out a cloud of grey smoke and coughs again, when an accented voice pipes up.
"The walls are thin. And the doors don't soundproof much. You might want to consider that next time."
It's the punky girl from reception. She's perched on the short brick wall, one leg crossed over the other.
Betelgeuse has seen her twice before, sitting and sucking on her electric cigarette, mouthpiece stained from whatever color lipstick she was wearing. Purple, this time.
She's not spoken to him since he arrived.
"My bad," he says roughly, leaning against the wall. "Didn't know you could hear us."
"You know Svetlana's only seventeen," she sucks on the electric crayon and pulls a face. "And you look old enough to be her dad."
He smacks his hands to his face and mimics The Scream.
"Scandalous!" he cries in a broken voice. "Won't somebody please think of the children?" and then he snorts. "Kid, boys and girls used to be married with kids by the age of sixteen."
"Yeah, in the Dark Ages."
He grins widely. "Exactly."
She blinks and tries not to look intimidated. Instead, she scratches at her afro and checks her phone. In the silence, they enter some odd rhythm. She sucks on the crayon and as she exhales, he puffs on the cigarette, and vice versa.
"So you shaved the hair, huh?"
He looks at her and taps the cigarette.
"I kinda liked that look," she continues. "It was wild. And punk. Now you look…" She trails off, and Betelgeuse smiles and motions for her to finish the sentence. "Like a skinhead."
He explodes into laughter and slaps his thigh. She jumps and drops her phone.
"Let me tell you," he laughs, dusting off his shoulders. "A guy like me? I don't care about race. It means nothin'. At all. Any dead guy'll tell you that. In the end, when you go, race is the last thing you care about," he snickers again. "Skinhead…"
She ignores his dead guy comment. Her face is hard. "That's a pretty ignorant view to take."
"I've been called many things, honey," he says nonchalantly. "Ignorant ain't one of them."
She narrows her eyes. "Where are you from?"
He exhales smoke. "Where are you from?"
As much as he's enjoying the conversation, he's not expecting her to answer. It's nice to be spoken to like an everyday fella, even if it is to be accused of hatred, but she surprises him.
"South Africa-"
"Ooh, do tell."
"-my parents came here because my mom was told she'd crossed the color line. My grandparents don't want to know their mixed granddaughter. They shut my mom out for daring to marry a black guy. So yeah, people care about race," she snaps, then sucks hard on the crayon.
"Not back in my day, they didn't."
"What, the nineties?"
"Sure," Betelgeuse drops the cigarette and crushes it under his boot.
"So?" she then says impatiently.
Betelgeuse pulls a confused face.
"Where are you from?" she shifts herself on the wall. "Let me guess. You've been released from prison, drifting about a bit, and now…" She stops, because he's laughing again. "Come on, you know I know that's not your ID, right?"
"You're fun," he chuckles, then coughs again. He again hacks back and spits. It's not black, but a dark red. "Phwoar," he grunts, sniffing hard.
"That's gross."
"Hey, uh, who cleaned my stuff?" he asks then. "Let's be real, this place doesn't look like it offers laundry services."
She taps at her phone. "That would be Natalya. If you don't want her to do tha-"
"Hey, no! Absolutely!" he waves a hand over himself, "I didn't know this shirt could be so white."
It's her turn to laugh then. "Most people complain when she does their laundry. This isn't that type of hotel, and guests don't appreciate someone going through their things. Natalya doesn't care, she compulsively cleans," she stands, and gathers up the magazine she was sat on, guarding herself from the damp. "I'll be at reception if you need any help."
She walks past him, and she's barely to his shoulder.
Betelgeuse lingers. He picks at his fingers. Then feels his bald scalp. He's certain there's some regrowth already. He walks in a circle. Stares up at the overcast sky.
His bafflement returns.
Why Köln? Why now?
What, he comes back to life to…fuck around in some medieval city, nowhere to go, no idea what to do, no one coming after him?
He'd have expected someone from the beyond to come and fetch him back.
It couldn't be this easy. He's broken hell-knows-how-many rules by re-living, and he's just…getting away with it?
Uh, sure, okay. He'll take the win.
He rubs at his neck and returns inside. In his room, the bedsheets are a mess, and he needs to ask South Africa to get Natalya to change them. He hunts for Bob's (his) phone, locating it on the floor next to the unwrapped condom, and taps at the screen. Nothing happens. His taps harder, but it stays black.
He swears under his breath. Come on Bob, your phone's broken? What use is a broken phone? In this day n' age?
Betelgeuse grumbles again and heads back to reception.
He slams his hands down on the desk, startling South Africa. She pushes aside the magazine.
"Yes?"
He's bothering her. He likes that.
Betelgeuse drops the phone in front of her. "It's broken," he says gruffly.
She sighs, takes hold of it, and looks at him like he's an idiot. "It's dead."
"Yeah," he says slowly. "Broken, babe."
"You need to charge it. Where's your charger?"
He looks blankly at her and shrugs sheepishly.
She purses her lips, and it brings his attention to the small stud in her bottom lip.
"Would you like me to charge it for you?" she asks, as if he's a child.
Betelgeuse rests his chin in his hands and smiles widely, batting his eyelashes. Her eyes flit down to his teeth, then back to his eyes. He expects her to slap him at this point, but instead she rolls her eyes, sighs harder, and swivels in the chair.
"How do you not know how to charge a phone?" she says quietly, more to herself than to him. She plugs the phone into a cable and sets it aside. "Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?"
Betelgeuse snaps his fingers. "As a matter of fact, babe, yeah-"
"Don't call me babe."
"-how do I fix this…skin issue?" he pushes up his sleeve, revealing dry and irritated skin. His hands are the same, and the dryness continues along his jawline.
She recoils back. "Uh…"
"Right," he snorts. "Let me guess, not in your job description? Kids today shirking your responsibilities! Where do I go to fix it?"
"There's a Rewe supermarket nearby," she says, looking down at his hands. "Go choose some moisturizer. Um, nail clippers too." She tilts her head to one side. "Cool ring."
"Ah," he smiles. "Thanks."
"Where'd you get it?"
Looks like South Africa wants to figure him out. Sure, he'll play along. Give her a lil' tidbit. She is entertaining.
"Was my wedding ring."
"You're married?" she spits, and she looks part amazed, part disgusted. "Please don't say you have kids."
"I was," he shrugged, then leers. "And I don't. Always wanted 'em, though, so if you're up for it, I promise you'll enjoy it, and for sure, I am definitely the kinda guy you take home to mom and pop after the first date."
"Divorced?" she then mutters under her breath, "hardly a surprise."
"Hey!" Betelgeuse calls. "No! Hey, I'm a catch, honey! No, she was a whack job. Had all these insane beliefs. Thought she was a witch."
"Paganism is coming back."
"She's not," he grins.
She narrows her eyes at him. "Huh."
He folds his arms on the desk. "Yup, one night she just, uh, came undone. Talk about your spectacles. Red fireworks an' all! But, and it's so sad, we're separated," he points behind her. "Is it working now?"
She pulls an incredulous face. "Wait! Your phone's dead. If you want full charge, give it more than a minute, God!" She mumbles about patience being a virtue.
"Honey, normally I'd have all eternity to wait," he interrupts. "But I got shit to do, you know?"
"Like what?"
"Oooooh all manner of unseemly things."
That shuts her up. She checks the phone, taps the screen, and it lights up. She looks from it to Betelgeuse. To the phone. Then him.
"This isn't your phone."
"Never said it was."
For the second time, she surprises him.
"You are so from some prison somewhere," she says, pulling at the cable to pass the phone to him.
It's obvious how she knew the phone wasn't his. The background photo is Bob and his lover. Both need to smoke some weed or somethin' becausethey both look miserable.
She waits, watching, expecting him to do something.
"What?" he bites.
"You don't know the pin, do you?"
He scrunches his nose. "Pardon?"
"Give it here," she says, snatching it from him. She sighs, seriously she's some sort of serial sigher, and shakes her head. "Come get it tomorrow. I'll get it unlocked for you," she then adds for his understanding, "then you can use it. Unless it's urgent?"
He leans forward. "Aww, aren't you just a helpful little peach?"
He taps his finger on her nose, and she swats him away.
"Don't do that. And don't call for Svetlana again," she says, acting all brave and meeting his stare. "I've seen her leave rooms crying."
A grin pulls at his lip. "I can't promise that. A man has needs. But thank you, uh," he moves to try and read the nametag dangling from a lanyard.
She quickly stuffs it inside her jacket. "Call me O."
"Sure, O. Thank you," he's grinning wide now. "You can call me B."
He holds out his hand. She glances down at it and, surprise surprise surprise, takes hold and shakes.