Hot Towels

No matter how much Jill shook him, Jack refused to move. His inebriation required blocking all sights, sounds and smells, until he would awake, refreshed, sometime next year. That was his plan.

“I’m not imagining it,” Jill yelled. “It stinks.” She sniffed the air. “It’s coming from you,” she hissed. Jack didn’t have to open his eyes to know she meant him.

Jill turned the ceiling light on, burning the retinas of eight other students on the floor of the Amsterdam hotel room. On a mid-term impromptu group holiday together they had reasoned that accomodation wasn’t the best use of their funds, so had booked into one room under only two names. Sneaking past the receptionist had worked well enough, or so they thought.

With a mighty heave Jill rolled Jack over the side of the bed, throwing duvet and pillow after him. Instead of stains, a perfectly folded white towel was revealed beneath Jack’s pillow. She had discovered the fragrant source. Gingerly, Jill uwrapped the pristine toweling package, and screamed. Within the luxury folds sat a chunky brown egg, curled from a human behind.

It was a fecal admonition from the hotel staff. Payment per person, not per room. They spent the remainder of the night searching their bags for extra Easter surprises, before departing with pink eyes that lasted far longer than their hangovers. They hadn’t eaten there, although Jack regretted a luxury shave in the hotel barbers, where his stoned face was softened with extremely hot towels.


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