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You call the lift. Machinery hums into life behind the lift doors as the lift begins to descend from the second floor.
"Dum-da-da-da dum-dum-dum, dum-dum-dum, dum-dum-dum!"
...is all you manage to hum of 'Bittersweet Symphony', before you hear:
'PING!'
…and the lift arrives at the ground floor. The lift doors slide open.
Inside the lift is a man in an ill-fitting bellhop’s uniform. He is a good twenty years or so older than the previous bellhop, but his skin, while darker in tone, has the same waxy look and greyish tinge. He has a ratty little beard and mustache, and several open sores on his face. He fidgets and twitches constantly, and frequently scratches himself. His fingernails are dirty and bitten down to the quick. His eyes have a well-meaning but guilty expression.
He nods a sheepish greeting.
"I don't suppose you happen to have a cigar?", you ask.
The man takes off his bellhop hat to reveal ratty, receding hair, and folds his hat in his hands nervously, shifting from foot to foot.
"I'm 'fraid not, sir… I 'preciate how a person such as y’self could want a fine Cuban cigar on a day like today, but I ain’t have no such thing." |
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