Everything about the hotel was precise. Efficient. Polished. Exquisite.
The revolving door traversed its circuit with the smooth grace of the hands of a Rolex Milgauss.
The minimalist Nordic mise-en-scène of the lobby required every detail to be precisely ordered. The staff were not excepted - name badges were poised at precisely-calculated angles, shirts formidably starched, hair sprayed firmly into one of a handful of approved styles. Everything in the hotel innately...belonged. Nothing was out of place.
Nothing, that was, until Gordon Knight strutted awkwardly through the door.
Of average height and below-average weight, Gordon could not have been far into his twenties. He wore a pair of jeans which may have been labelled as skinny-fit but hung off his spindly legs like the sail of a Sunseeker yacht would hang from the mast on a windless day. The print on his black hooded top depicted a computer-game hero wielding an unfeasibly large gun, and was peeling at the edges with age and wear.
Gordon headed straight to the desk. His long, tatty-looking mullet shed a hair or two in the course of his transit; an ever-observant cleaner readied her dustpan as the young man addressed the receptionist in an overly-loud, oddly-modulated voice:
"Hello it is pleasant to meet you. I hope you are having a good morning. I require the key to room 420. I am expected."
"Welcome to the Grand Kiwi Hotel, sir. I'm sorry but I didn't catch your name." The receptionist was polished poise personified.
"I didn't tell you my name. My name is Gordon Knight from Townsville, Maryland! I'm also known as The Ace, for many obvious reasons." His voice had an odd nursery-rhyme cadence when he gave his name and origin.
"Aha...yes. You are indeed expected, Mr Knight."
"I told you that I was."
"Absolutely. Here is your keycard. Take the elevator to the fourth floor and turn left once you get there."
The keycard was a solid piece of brushed aluminium. It glistened in Gordon's grasp as he strode toward the elevator. A smooth, silent elevator ride took him to the fourth floor; a left turn and a brief walk brought him to a tall door made of solid Scandinavian pine. Although he had a keycard, Gordon found himself knocking on the door. He shivered in barely-concealable anticipation.
Finally, he was about to experience what he had dreamed of for so long. All those other dreams paled into insignificance before this. Compared to this, that time where he'd tickled those five-year-old girls was as nothing. This time, it wouldn't just be about feet. This time, nobody's parents would get all weird with him.
This was it - his ultimate quest for glory.
The door opened.
"Mr Knight, I presume? I've been expecting you." purred a honeyed voice with an International School English accent.
Gordon hesitated to reply. How could he not? Before him stood a vision in black and white latex. Her thigh-height boots, her hourglass figure, her porcelain skin were just as she had described herself to him over the internet. He could not verify her hair colour, as none of her tresses were visible outside an ornate, horned Viking helmet.
The top half of her face was covered by an exquisite Columbina mask, black as night and inlaid with gold and precious stones. He noted with distaste that she wore inky black lipstick over her shapely lips, but swallowed this distaste in order to drink in the overall epic badassery of her attire. She looked like a classy Bayonetta-type heroine, and she was to be his companion for the whole night.
"Won't you come in?"
Gordon found the nerve to cross the threshold. The beautiful woman shook his hand with both warmth and formality.
"Very pleased to meet you. You may call me Lisa."
has somebody he can look down on. His enormous six inch foxdick must feel really massive compared to the Tinfoil Knave's tiny little duck.
