Gonzo, part I

The elephant was cause for concern.

The concierge was frantic, and wore a look of desperate resignation, the kind reserved only for a man who knew that what he would have to report to his boss the following morning would very surely cost him his job, his self-respect, and all of the luxuries that had come with the under-appreciated ability to historically keep the peace in a four-star hotel in the middle of the Mexican Riviera. It was hard for me to have any real sympathy for the sonofabitch as I lay crouched behind an awful fern watching the entire scene unfold from the elevator hallway. The bastard wore an offensively red tie that screamed angry, spirit-crushing things at me every time we spoke. He had to have known this would happen. Well, maybe not this (how could he?), but something equally as career-rending.

The large Samoan stood in the foyer wildly flailing his mitts at an army of invisible seagulls. In between blows, he would gesture broadly in the direction of the fern and I, shouting incredible things in a language nobody would believe existed. As bellhops approached him in an attempt to perhaps calm the wild beast and lure him out into the open where a wooden cage ratcheted together with twine and mysterious saps was surely waiting, he took his giant tattooed hand and with one smooth effortless motion pressed the face of the poor fucker that approached first awkwardly into the granite wall beside them. It wasn’t long before the scene had escalated into a horrorshow of vicious slapping noises, panicked racial slurs, and wildly strewn pillbox hats and brass buttons.

This is bad, I said to the fern. My limbs weren’t built for the kind of abuse that animal was dishing out. If he ever gets through that wall of horrible red felt and underpaid generosity, I thought, we’re done for. I screamed sharply, and threw an ashtray in the direction of the front door, but it was too late. My attempt at creating an unnecessary distraction was successful, and the rabid oaf knee-deep in bellhop looked right at me and began lumbering over. SHIT, I thought. So this is how it ended. I should have just left the bastard keep his money and his wife. What the hell did I know about raising Samoan children on the lam? Cursing, I wrestled the trembling fern from its pot and bounded towards the elevators. Jamming on the call button, I waited patiently, as if not under direct threat of being momentarily stamped out of existence whilst holding onto a rather large organic sprout of questionable defense. I turned slowly towards the fire exit several feet away at the end of the hall. The frothing demon couldn’t know that I was about to make a run for it. The elevator was on its way, dammit.

I leapt for the door with a springheel that surprised myself. Smashing clumsily through the mesh-windowed door, I slammed it shut using all of my bodyweight to barricade it as best I could. Panting heavily, I realized with a sorry abandon that the fern had been severed brutally in between the doorframe. It’s better this way, I said, you’d never survive where I’m going. I’ll send help.

By the time I saw crazed Samoan’s eyes glaring at me through the window, my reaction time had surely been slowed by the tremendous amount of chemicals coursing through my blood. I remember flying up against the opposite wall and tumbling less than gracefully down a flight of stairs before the world went black. I remember hearing angry, but satisfied epithets being spittled at me in some grotesque language nobody had ever bothered to put in print. I remember the awful smell of body odour and questionably-sauced chicken dinner before I lapsed into unconsciousness.

It would be some time before I would be able to properly recount what happened next.