Okay, so 200 isn’t going to do it, but judging by the mouth on this little bastard, I’d say there’s some wiggle room.
“What would it take?” I ask.
“You’re Emma Roxy, right?” he asks.
Oh, this isn’t going to be good.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“I’ll do it for free,” he says.
I did not expect that.
“Why?” I ask.
I could swear there’s something about a gift horse and looking it in its mouth that could be useful here, but for the life of me, I can’t remember the saying.
“I saw you in Drathmore: Vengeance from Space a while back,” he says. “Just answer one question for me and I’ll go tell your dude whatever you want me to tell him.”
“It’s always nice to meet a fan,” I tell him. “What’s your question?”
“When you were playing Mistress Death Head, were you using some kind of tape or was it one of those push up bras or what was going on there?” he asks. “I’d seen you in something else, but I could swear your jugs were like double the size.”
“Don’t they usually give bellhop jobs to well-spoken, well-mannered individuals?” I ask.
“Lady, when you walked over here and tried to bribe me, I earned the privilege to pull my tongue out of your ass,” he says. “So come on, I’ve got money riding on this.”
“You bet on the method of breast presentation in some low-budget, sci-fi flick?” I ask.
“Funny you’re looking down your nose at it,” he says. “I guess now that you’re hot shit, you’re going to dismiss those earlier movies as just paying your dues or whatever.”
“I don’t think I’m hot shit,” I tell him. “What did you bet it was?”
“I said they did the whole thing CGI,” he says. “There are a few shots there where your titties react to one motion or another in a way that I think violate the laws of physics.”
I chuckle a little.
“Really?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re attractive and all, but I just don’t see those things being real.”
“Is that what this is really about?” I ask. “Are you trying to get me to show you my breasts?”
“Well,” he says, “now that you mention it, I don’t suppose I’d mind taking a look.”
“Yeah?” I giggle.
“Yeah,” he says. “So what’s up, are you down or what?”
“Okay, first off, late 90s, junior high, stoner kid,” I start, “people don’t talk like that anymore. Yeah, you might get all of those phrases spread out over a few conversations, but never all together like that. When you talk like that, it makes you sound like a moron. Second off,” I continue, “why don’t I walk over to your manager and tell him about the little proposition you just made me?” I ask. “I’m sure they’d frown on the whole me trying to bribe you thing, but when you stack that up against sexual harassment of a guest in the hotel, do you really think I’m going to be the one to get the fucking whip?”
Grudgingly though it may be, I can now start thinking about step two.
While the dipshit bellhop’s getting Damian out of his room, I’ll be gathering the supplies I had room service bring up for me. Step two is accomplished when I’ve successfully made my way into Damian’s unoccupied room.
Step three comes after about 15 minutes of double-checking my various ingredients and matching them up with the prope
r instructions.