After a minute or two of running, Bruce glances back over his shoulder. Nobody is pursuing him, and there is no sign of any dark, sinister individuals anywhere.
He turns around just in time to run full tilt into a machine-gun toting Peace Officer. Both go down in a heap on the floor.
Bruce, after shaking off the initial shock, points over his shoulder with his hands raised. "Si-a, there are several men with knives and black kaftans running this way. They are throwing their knives at me!...Someone might get hurt.." he adds, hoping that if the officer wouldn't do anything for him, he would do it for the general public. Bruce waits to see if the officer is going to arrest him or check out his story.
Bruce has tried to sound as sincere and honest as he possibly could with only a few hours sleep and all the rest of the events that have gone on.
After getting up, the Peace Force officer listens impassively to Bruce's story. When the Aurtralian finally winds down, he slowly leans to the right, looking over Bruce's shoulder (where Bruce becomes increasingly aware there are NOT any sinister looking people waving daggers), then slowly straightens back up and fixes Bruce with the sort of stare most people reserve for particularly distasteful items which have fallen out of a dumpster and landed on their front lawn.
Bruce looks in the direction of where the thugs should be and stammers "They were right...but....They had knives.." Bruce collects himself as best he can and takes off his hat. he turns to the peace officer and says "I'm really not feeling very well -- is there anyone you can call to escort me back to the terminal's hotel so that I will not bother anyone else with my delirious rantings?"
The Peace Officer once again leans slightly and looks over Bruce's shoulder, then leans back and stares. Ten seconds pass. Twenty seconds. Bruce notices that the area around him is becoming a sea of quiet and tranquility in the midst of Terminal chaos. Finally, the officer speaks. "Put your hands on your head and lace your fingers," he says in bored tones.
Bruce complies with the officer completely, becoming almost good at it. Bruce figures that if he is prison, at least the knife guys won't be there... Maybe the gods will smile on him and just teleport him to the hotel with a beer in hand... Or maybe he will be tazered... He doesn't care anymore. He is so tired and confused it all just seems like a bad dream. Right now, anyplace other than the terminal is a good place.
The officer quickly and efficiently cuffs Bruce's hands behind his back. He then frisks the Australian, efficiently pulling out his wallet and pocketing it. Finally, he then inserts his baton between the links, twists it once, and levers Bruce's arms up until he's hunched over with his arms sticking out above him.
"Walk" says the officer.
Bruce walks.
The trip through the corridors of the Terminal seems endless. Up ramps, down escalators, through passageways, along moving sidewalks. Bruce's ability to see exactly what is going on is severely hampered by the fact that he is hunched over, but it feels like he walks for miles.
"Stop" says the officer, tugging on the handcuffs.
Bruce stops.
The pressure on his arms eases, and Bruce gets to stand up straight for the first time in... how long? In front of him there is a set of double doors, and above the double doors is a sign reading "Jean-Christophe D'Aubainne Airporter Hotel". To Bruce, the doors appear as inviting as the gates of heaven.
A rustling sound makes Bruce glance over at the officer, who in calmly removing $200.00 from Bruce's wallet. He tucks the money in one pocket, and the wallet back in Bruce's pants.
"For the handcuffs," he says, then departs into the crowd.
Any pleas go unheeded, and Bruce eventually staggers in the doors (which,
fortunately, are accessible by handcuffed people).
Bruce spots Kitty and Ariel at the front desk. He notices that there is some sort of argument or altercation going on at the front desk. He walks up to the front desk, nodding a "Gidday" to Ariel. At the front desk he says, "Pa-don me! Excuse me! I need some assistance!"
Bruce then nods a "Gidday" to Kitty and says to her, "Thanks for the warning back there!" motioning over his shoulder.
Addressing Inga, he says
"Gidday! I have two requests. First, my name is Bruce Cooby and I believe
there is a room for me somewhere in this hotel. Number two, seems I was
at the butt end of a practical joke." He motions to hands handcuffed behind
his back. "You wouldn't happen to have a fingerfile or something to get
these off do ya?"
Looking at the two male clerks behind the desk, Bruce is reminded of two emus with their necks tangled together.
Inga, perky as ever, utters a cheerful "Yashure!" and starts tapping information into the computer, seemingly oblivious to the continued antics of Biff and Chip.
Then the registration desk telephone starts ringing. "Hey Chip, could ya get dat?" she says, still tapping away. This prompts Biff to start in on the "Yeah dude, get the phone, like, you know?" lines and Chip to, well, CHIP in with "Biff'll get the phone. I have a customer. Welcome to the hotel, I'm Chip! How can I help you, I'm Chip!"
Meanwhile, Kitty heads over to the elevator, and tells the operator to take her upstairs to her room.
The phone rings for a moment, then stops while Biff and Chip are still arguing over who is supposed to answer it. Inga seems to have some trouble with Bruce's room reservation, and has to check the computer a couple of times, and finally asks how "Cooby" is spelled, but eventually manages to find something.
"Hokeydokey," she beams, "Yerinroom414heresyourroomkeyandtowelyerluggageshouldalreadybeuptheresorrybutIdon'thavenofileornothinbutdermaintananceguycomesondutyat8:00andIkensendimupifyawantindermeantimehafanicestay!"
Her responsibility to Bruce completed, she belatedly goes over to the phone, picks it up, and says "FrontdeskthisisingacanIhelpyou?"
Bruce looks at the room key, then at Inga, then at the room key. "Uh Miss! How am I suppose to get the room key? What time is it? How long do I have to wait until the maintence guy comes!?"
nga says into the telephone again "Hello? Hello?" then hangs up
in disgust. She walks back to the front desk (where Biff and
Chip, oblivious to the continuing spectacle they are making of themselves,
continue to try to attract Ariel's attention), says "Turn
around, burger" to Bruce and drops the key into his hands, along with
a towel.
"Now den, ya chust take der key upta da room n' stick it in da lock.
Maintanance'll be in in aboot an hour and I'll leave 'im der
note. Hokay?"
Inga is no longer perky. She makes shooing motions to get Bruce away from the counter, and turns to Ariel. "Perky" is turned back on as if by a switch. "GutmorningwelcometoderJeanClaudeD'AubainneAirporterhotelmynameisIngahowmayIhelpyou?"
About this time the elevator doors open, and the security guard who went upstairs with Marda and Leo steps out. She begins walking towards the front desk with a determined stride.
She does not appear happy.
Ariel glances warily at Biff and Chip, a slightly feral, defensive look in her eyes, then turns to Inga. As she regards the other woman, her carries a look that bears more than a passing resemblance to idiocy. "Um... I... think I have a room here. I don't really know. My name's Ariel Black. Can you help me out?"
Bruce sighs a deep sigh and slowly walks towards the elevator, trying
to figure out in his mind how on earth he is going to get hotel room door
open with his hands behind his back...
Inga glances over Ariel's shoulder towards the advancing security guard. Her face takes on that "It's gonna hit the fan" look commonly seen on people who get caught up in other folks domestic disputes. "I'll be right back..." she says distinctly, "... with yer towel." With that she disappears into the back room.
Meanwhile, the security guard passes Bruce on his way to the elevator. As the Australian tour guide tries desperately to slink away unseen, Cheri stops, turns, and barks "FREEZE!" in a voice so compelling that Bruce's feet just plain stop moving. Cheri walks back looks Bruce up and down and says "Wait here. Wait EXACTLY here. Don't even think about running." She then turns and walks back to the front desk.
"Was there some reason that nobody answered the phone when I called a moment ago?" she asks quietly.
Biff and Chip, who were,up to this point, arguing about who was going to escort Ariel up to make sure she found her room, get suddenly VERY quiet. They both turn to face Cheri, casting sidelong glances at one another and shuffling their feet. Cheri reaches out and taps the little bell on the counter, and both Ariel and Bruce note that it is now quiet enough in the lobby for the sound to echo. Even the string quartet has stopped playing, and is watching the scene at the front desk with interest.
A moment passes, and Cheri says "I see. You didn't answer the phone because you were busy. You didn't answer the phone because you were doing something else. You didn't answer the phone because you were FUCKING AROUND AGAIN!" The final portion of her statement echos through the lobby with the force of an artillery shell exploding. Biff and Chip both jump at least a foot in the air.
Cheri continues in a conversational tone. "You know, it's bad
enough that I have to work here without even a partner. It's bad
enough that I can't even carry a radio because this place is wired
like shit. It's bad enough that this place is always crawling with
all kinds of craziness without you two NOT EVEN BOTHERING TO ANSWER THE
PHONE WHEN I CALL!" Cheri's strides around the side of the desk and
advances on Biff and Chip, who backpeddle furiously and stammer "It wasn't..."
"I didn't..." "... won't happen again!", etc. Cheri,
however, is not interested in apologies. With the skill of a long-time
professional she maneuvers the two into a corner, unhooks a cattle prod
from her belt, and gives each in turn a swift shot to the groin.
In each case the reaction is the same - both Biff and Chip scream, grab
their nuts, and collapse on the floor semi-conscious.
Cheri puts the shock prod back on her belt and looks down at the two on the floor. "It's MY ass that goes on the line, boys. If I'm in trouble, if there's an emergency, if I need assistance, that phone is the only way I have to get it short of coming down here. If somebody needs help, the only way they can get any is to call the front desk. I warned you last time, I zapped you this time. Next time I WILL without fail break all the fingers on both your hands, and knock out your fucking teeth for good measure. Don't cross me again, boys. It isn't healthy."
The string quartet begins to play again. Inga comes out with a towel and a room key, but Cheri stops her. "I have a problem. Could you give me a minute? It's a bit of an emergency." Turning towards Ariel she says, not unsympathetically, "It'll just take a sec. Sorry for the inconvenience." Turning back to Inga she says "We have a room mixup - I need the proper room registration and room keys for Sam Dart, Nigel Timmons, William Levine, and Marda Ordilesque."
Inga sets down the towel and key and types on the console once more. "OK, here we go - Sam und Marda are in Room 413. Nigel is in room 411, und Mr. Levine is in 416. I'll getcha der keys." Inga hurries into the back room and emerges with keys to all of the mentioned rooms, along with 4 towels. Cheri takes them, says "Thanks, Inga," and walks off.
Inga glances at Biff and Chip, still lying on the floor, moaning and drooling, then turns and hands Ariel her key and towel. "Haff a nice stay," she says.
Cheri moves back to Bruce, who still stands rooted to the spot. "If I uncuff you," she asks, "will you carry these damned towels upstairs for me?"
Bruce nods emphatically. "Mo-a than happy to help you, Miss. I'd be happy to delive-a towels to the whole damn hotel to get these cuffs off!"
Cheri reaches into one of the pouches on her belt and pulls out a large ring of keys. She tries a half dozen before there is a slight *CLICK* and the cuffs pop off one of Bruce's wrists. She quickly unlocks the other cuff, pockets both cuffs and keys, and hands Bruce the towels. "Let's go," she says cheeerfully and heads for the elevator.
Over at the front desk, Biff and Chip are still lying on the floor, curled up into little balls and whimpering. Inga looks down at them, and then towards Cheri. Softly, (so only Ariel can hear) she mutters "Bitch," under her breath.
Bruce follows Cheri, rubbing his wrists under the pile of towels he is carrying. "Thanks, I thought I would nev-a get outta those!"
Ariel shrugs, and heads for the elevator, glancing down at her room
key again.
"Follow me," Cheri says, striding purposefully down the hall.
"Nigel," she says, tossing a key, "you're in room 411. Levine, you're in 416. Get your towels from the Aussie. Anyone see what happened to the kid?"
Nigel takes the key from the security guard. "Didn't she run off downstairs or something? I don't know. And are you referring to the nude gentleman? Or is there some other "Aussie" from which to garner some bath linnen? And have you had any luck locating my luggage?"
"I believe she means me, mate. Name's Bruce." A sandy blonde medium-build fellow with a leather jacket and black "Aussie" hat (similar to Crocodile Dundee), looking somewhat frazzled, holds out towels for both Nigel and Levine.
Levine picks up a generic towel and his key and heads for his room. "Nice meeting you, Nigel," he says genially, as he goes. Levine, his key, and his towel, disappear into one of the rooms. Cheri jerks a thumb at Nigel.
"OK, burger, you've had enough fun for one night. Why don't you get some sleep?" She turns to face Bruce, who now clutches only his own towel. "You too, Aussie. And be more careful with the Peace Force in the future, all right? A lot of them don't have a sense of humor."
Nigel looks at his own towel and key and decides to put this day of lunacy behind him and goes to his room.
"Thanks, I'm trying Miss." Bruce looks at the number on the key and goes to that room, hoping he will be able to get some sleep to put some distance between him and the day's events. Bruce's room is a very nice Victorian suite with a bedroom, bathroom, and sitting room. His luggage is piled neatly on the bed, and his clothing is already hung in the closets, or put into drawers.
Bruce goes into the room, closes the door, and sighs. It has been
a VERY long day. Armed with his towel, he takes a long hot shower.
After his shower he prepares to get a little sleep, and goes to bed.
Bruce and Nigel step into the hallway almost simultaneously, just in time to see the door shut on room 413. Both head down the hallway to the elevator.
Nigel looks at the gentleman in the elvator next to him. "I don't think I've properly introduced myself, my name is Nigel Timmons. Pleased to make your aquaintance. I must apologize for my demeanor before, it has been a most dreadful morning and I'm afraid I took it out on those around me." Nigel extends his hand.
Bruce smiles warmly. "Gidday! Bruce Cooby." He shakes hands with Nigel. "Goin' for a bit of brekkie?"
Nigel gives the Aussie a puzzled look. "Brekkie? if you mean breakfast my dear man, then yes, I thought I would indulge myself. Care to join me?" Nigel and Bruce make small talk in the elevator, and head downstairs to The Club.
The restauraunt and bar of the Jean Christophe D'Aubainne Airporter Hotel is modeled after a Victorian era gentleman's club, and is named (unsurprisingly) The Club. There is a small library, a smoking room, a billiards room, a dining room, and a bar, as well as several smaller rooms for private parties. Nigel, for the moment, heads off for the dining room to get himself some real food, while Bruce heads for the bar and some liquid refreshment.
The bar at the Club is one of those gentleman's affairs where people mostly sit around in overstuffed chairs and have waiters bring them their drinks (though there is actually a bar at one end where one can order if one so chooses). There are numerous copies of the Al Amarjan newspaper about, as well as more widely read periodicals such as the London Times and the Wall Street Journal.
Bruce wanders in, selects an overstuffed chair, and motions for a waiter
as he flops into it. Nearby another man is working on a pint of Guinness,
and nods to Bruce as he flops down. Bruce responds with a cordial
"G'day!" and the man nods once again.
So it is a rather glum Charlie who belts down yet another glass of Guinness and notices for the first time another disheveled tourist type entering The Club. The individual in question plunks down unceremoneously in a chair near Charlie's and nods. "G'day," he says.
Holding his head, Charlie groans "Aough... wut koind uvva fookin place treats a poor touristy lad loike a fookin Enemy of the State or even an alien from space, I'd loike t'know..." He guzzles his stout. "Izzat your idear of a fookin vacation? Eargh?"
Bruce smiles. "Wait-a! Bring me a Fost-as and oth-a stout for moiy mate, he'a! Name's Bruce Cooby. Seems you've 'ad a time with 'he damn police too! Wat's yo-a stooory?" With that he settles back in his chair, hoping to be as drunk as the other gentleman is in a short period of time. After all, life has been hell...
In a big bollocky voice, Charlie mumbles "MIGHTY MYSTERIES OF THE ANCIENTS! VANISHING ARCHAEOLOGISTS!" (mutter) "Bleeding blessed Virgin's bastard baby boy... Ye'd think a li'le scholarly research was a fookin' deed of terrorism! Oghghrr..." He offers his hand. "Charlie Kennedy, no relation to th' yanks, and bein' a bit uvva writer *hic* uv bleedin SUBVERSIVE BOOKS as if I suppose her fookin Exhaustiveness ever reads a good thriller..." Charlie is an older deep-set man looking a bit rumpled, unmistakably Irish, jowly with thin white hair, who looks quite a bit like Ernest Hemingway, though not as much as he'd like.
Bruce shakes Charlie's hand warmly. "Wait-a! Whe-a the bloody 'ell is 'he service 'ere? At least ya didn't 'ave a police offic-a shove a gun in you-a face when ya walked in the door! How long 'ave ya been 'ere on this bloody ilind?"
Charlie's response is partly lost in the beer. "Three and a half *urgle* in... in... interminidirable hours." He shudders. "So... er... I s'pose this is in the way o' bein' the bright spot of an otherwise fookin drear island? And what IS her exhaustiveness, anyhow?"
A waiter, dressed in immaculate white, approaches. "Wot c'n oi get fer yew two foin gents?" he asks in a broad, Glasgow accent.
"Errrgh..." rumbles Charlie. "Noother 'alf-n-'alf, 'n one for me maite... Lessee if we c'n civilize 'im any, wean 'im off that Fosters urine..." he adds with a smile.
"Would the sahs like their beverages deep or jumped?" asks the waiter.
Bruce, pointing to Charlie, says, "'ere mate, nothin' wrong 'ith Fost-as! But, I will take ya up on this shout!" Bruce smiles. Turning to the waiter, Bruce asks "Whot's 'deep ora jumped'? If 'jumped' is brin'in it out on a roo, then send out Skippy!"
The waiter rattles off his reply like its the sort of thing that he says every day (and probably it is). "Well sah, it's a custom heah on Al Amarja to add stimulants oah depressants to beverages. If one wishes stimulants, one may order one's beverage 'jumped', and if one wishes depressants one may order one's beverage 'deep'.
"Now then, would the sahs like their beverages deep or jumped?"
"Not f'r this boyo..." answers Charlie, rubbing eyes wearily. "It may be approaching his bedtime, if I c'n ever find that bleedin' hotel agin... just the one round o'alf-n-'alf, to acculturate the poor auzzie feller as it were..." He produces a weak smile.
Turning to the waiter, Bruce says "No additives mate, just the bee-a!!" Turning to Charlie, Bruce asks "What hotel you lookin' fo-a? Yur in the Terminal Hotel now! Strewth! Quite a mess gettin he-a, but now she's apples!"
"So long as vey don't serve me beer 'dumped'..." mutters Charlie. "Heh... Wot, vis? Vis'ear bar is still in v'otel? Blimey, I'm lost... *urp* So now ven 'ow about you? Been livin'ear all your life, I spose? Or fleeing Orstralia's benign socialism for a climate more amen... amenable to profit-taking? *hic*"
The waiter departs and returns moments later with the drinks
Charlie leans over to whisper to Bruce. "Are those guys ominously familiar to you? I've never before laid eyes on 'em... Wait! Don't turn around! Right behind you. Just... casually... pick up your plate... look at the reflection... casually... there!"
"Ahh, CRIKEY!" Bruce mutters when he catches sight of the "turban boys". Bruce guzzles his beer down in case he has to leave in a hurry. Whispering to Charlie, "Yeah mate. Them's the blokes that was chasin' me through the terminal with knives! Wonder what the bastards are doin' 'ere!" Bruce tries to hide himself from the view of the thugs as he watches them.
The turbaned thugs are escorted to a table at the far end of the room, and (so far as Bruce and Charlie can tell) order drinks.
"Bloody'ell!" exclaims Charlie. "You have any Irish blood? I orghta be worth two or three of'em, if you are! Course, if you're English you may have to stand behind me..." He starts rolling up his sleeves...
"Steady mate! Let me 'ave anth-a bee-a befo-a we sta-at somethin'! I wanna know what the 'ell they a-a up to!" Bruce, peering at the thugs like a hunter stalking prey, tries to quietly get the waiter's attention to bring over another beer. "And mate," Bruce whispers to Charlie, "I'm 'Stralian, not a Pommie!"
Charlie shrugs. "Woll, me Da usta say, a Strine is just a Brit in kangaroo drag... heh... boot I s'pose if ye never marched in Ulster it's all good. Say, you don't speak that wog language of theirs, do ye? Fookin wog fraternity party, it's turnin into!"
The door to the club bursts open and a man scrambles through, practically on all fours. A shortish man with roman features, he glances around wildley with piercing blue eyes. He lunges forward to the man in the chair who has his hands tied behind his back, coming to rest on the floor in front of him. His suit seems to have seen much better days but he appears unconcerned. He grabs Bruce's knees and cries, "My saviour!"...
In a stage-whisper, Charlie comments, "Bloody'ell! Hoosh yer fookin
gob, ye want them woggies to do'im?"