Read Online A Bright Moon for Fools by Jasper Gibson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jasper Gibson
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disbelief. He began to whimper. Slade
headbutted him in the face, breaking his nose. The man was silent. He touched his nose and looked at his hand and saw the blood. Slade stepped back. He tried to give the man a roundhouse kick to
the head. He only got as high as his waist but it still sent him flying into rubbish on the floor.
“
Yes
,” hissed Slade. Then he ran off.
12
C hristmas woke with a hangover. The outer shell of his body recognised the comfort of pillow and sheets, yet inside there was turmoil; unnamed
forces raced about like frightened animals. His heart hammered at its cage.
He thought about beer, a cold, cold beer to slake his thirst. He imagined it fresh from an icebox, dripping lasciviously, erupting on his tongue with fountains of refreshment. He looked about
him and spied a bottle of water. It was empty.
Christmas was so hung-over his head was a different shape. His eyes were smaller, his skull swollen. When he pulled on his hat and looked in the mirror it didn’t suit him any more. He went
into the lobby but it was too shiny, too full of sheen. Everyone seemed to be staring at him.
“Mister Christmas,” said the junior manager, suddenly appearing before him. “Could you come with me please?” Christmas let out a deep sigh.
“How do I look to you?”
“Excuse me?”
“I said,” he repeated, holding his forehead, “how do I look to you? Do I look like a man who wants to have a conversation about mistakes that some credit card company has made,
which don’t even matter, as I have plenty of cash, or do I look like a man who needs some remedial assistance of a liquid or deep fried nature, should he be denied which, may result in some
unfortunate effluence all over your nice clean floor? Do I make myself clear?”
“Mister Christmas, while trying to make every effort—”
“This is an outrage!” bellowed Christmas, “Do you mean to hold me to ransom?” and with that he strode away from the startled manager.
Christmas hurried to the restaurant serving breakfast. He asked for a beer. He was given a Solera. He downed the thing and then looked at the bottle incredulously. How could
they be allowed to get away with this? It wasn’t beer – it was some horrific soft drink, thin, weak, but yes – cold. He asked for another and ate a quail egg
arepa
,
followed by a croissant, four fried eggs on toast, a bowl of honey porridge, a plate of potatoes fried with onion, a bowl of fruit salad and two double espressos. He signed his bill and returned to
the reception desk.
“Now then,” Christmas started, “apparently there’s some problem with— ” He put his hand in his pocket for his wallet. It wasn’t there. He tried his
other pocket. He tried all his pockets. “Sorry,” he said. “Just a minute.” He went up to his room.
Christmas strode through the door expecting his wallet to be on the sideboard. It wasn’t. It wasn’t on the bedside table. It wasn’t on the desk. It wasn’t by the
sink.
He undressed the room, checking every drawer, every fold, every corner, every gap. He manhandled himself. He shouted and swore. He had felt it this morning in his jacket pocket, or had that been
his passport? He went through his clothes. When had he taken it out? Where had he put it down? This morning? Last night? He checked the toilet. He checked the safe. He stood on the bed. He leant
out the window. He sat down. He leapt up again. He checked the room again and again, whispering, “This is not happening, this cannot be happening ...” Panic swept through his system. He
emptied his pockets, checking through his remaining bolívares, as if it could somehow contain a wallet between the paper notes. All together he had 263 bolívares in cash. His wallet
contained four thousand dollars. He looked under the bed. He kicked the bed.
Christmas went down to reception, sought out the junior manager, asked where the nearest ATM machine was located and informed him that he was
headbutted him in the face, breaking his nose. The man was silent. He touched his nose and looked at his hand and saw the blood. Slade stepped back. He tried to give the man a roundhouse kick to
the head. He only got as high as his waist but it still sent him flying into rubbish on the floor.
“
Yes
,” hissed Slade. Then he ran off.
12
C hristmas woke with a hangover. The outer shell of his body recognised the comfort of pillow and sheets, yet inside there was turmoil; unnamed
forces raced about like frightened animals. His heart hammered at its cage.
He thought about beer, a cold, cold beer to slake his thirst. He imagined it fresh from an icebox, dripping lasciviously, erupting on his tongue with fountains of refreshment. He looked about
him and spied a bottle of water. It was empty.
Christmas was so hung-over his head was a different shape. His eyes were smaller, his skull swollen. When he pulled on his hat and looked in the mirror it didn’t suit him any more. He went
into the lobby but it was too shiny, too full of sheen. Everyone seemed to be staring at him.
“Mister Christmas,” said the junior manager, suddenly appearing before him. “Could you come with me please?” Christmas let out a deep sigh.
“How do I look to you?”
“Excuse me?”
“I said,” he repeated, holding his forehead, “how do I look to you? Do I look like a man who wants to have a conversation about mistakes that some credit card company has made,
which don’t even matter, as I have plenty of cash, or do I look like a man who needs some remedial assistance of a liquid or deep fried nature, should he be denied which, may result in some
unfortunate effluence all over your nice clean floor? Do I make myself clear?”
“Mister Christmas, while trying to make every effort—”
“This is an outrage!” bellowed Christmas, “Do you mean to hold me to ransom?” and with that he strode away from the startled manager.
Christmas hurried to the restaurant serving breakfast. He asked for a beer. He was given a Solera. He downed the thing and then looked at the bottle incredulously. How could
they be allowed to get away with this? It wasn’t beer – it was some horrific soft drink, thin, weak, but yes – cold. He asked for another and ate a quail egg
arepa
,
followed by a croissant, four fried eggs on toast, a bowl of honey porridge, a plate of potatoes fried with onion, a bowl of fruit salad and two double espressos. He signed his bill and returned to
the reception desk.
“Now then,” Christmas started, “apparently there’s some problem with— ” He put his hand in his pocket for his wallet. It wasn’t there. He tried his
other pocket. He tried all his pockets. “Sorry,” he said. “Just a minute.” He went up to his room.
Christmas strode through the door expecting his wallet to be on the sideboard. It wasn’t. It wasn’t on the bedside table. It wasn’t on the desk. It wasn’t by the
sink.
He undressed the room, checking every drawer, every fold, every corner, every gap. He manhandled himself. He shouted and swore. He had felt it this morning in his jacket pocket, or had that been
his passport? He went through his clothes. When had he taken it out? Where had he put it down? This morning? Last night? He checked the toilet. He checked the safe. He stood on the bed. He leant
out the window. He sat down. He leapt up again. He checked the room again and again, whispering, “This is not happening, this cannot be happening ...” Panic swept through his system. He
emptied his pockets, checking through his remaining bolívares, as if it could somehow contain a wallet between the paper notes. All together he had 263 bolívares in cash. His wallet
contained four thousand dollars. He looked under the bed. He kicked the bed.
Christmas went down to reception, sought out the junior manager, asked where the nearest ATM machine was located and informed him that he was
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