She stumbled forward a few steps, her legs shaky. Around her, dazed guests and uniformed hotel employees began slowly moving and sitting upright.
“I am fine. It is over,” she muttered. She looked up at the swirling blue-gray cloud of smoke that filled the atrium and watched as a current of wind tore at its center. There, on the eighth floor directly opposite and above her, muted rays of sunlight poked limply through a jagged round hole in the marble-veneered hallway. She knew instantly which room stood in the path of that horrific hole, but counted and recounted the floors beneath to be sure.
“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”
She felt something warm begin to slowly slide down her lower back before detaching itself and landing on the granite floor with a wet, syrupy thud.
“Oh Christ. Oh Jesus,” shrieked a man sitting next to her as he grimaced at the object on the floor.
She looked at him for a moment before turning to look down at the projectile that had struck her.
“No,” she whispered again, shuddering in revulsion. On the floor sat a bloody fist-sized mound of pink, dimpled flesh, impaled with a two-inch shard of hair-covered skull. The hair, a familiar mix of dark and gray, glistened under a sickening layer of wetness in the light.
∞
The streets and markets of Port Harcourt were eerily still as the throngs stood captivated, gazing and pointing at the thick column of smoke that drifted lazily up from the Garden Landmark Hotel. He watched them as they stared. Mothers with children on their hips, men collected in tight circles, smoking earnestly as they noisily gestured and gawked. Heads peeked out from every bus, cab, and window in view. He pretended to share in their interest, looking back towards the hotel every few minutes as he walked, occasionally asking the obvious question that was met with shrugs or empty expressions. As always, he found more fascination in the people watching the event than the event itself. He walked on through the city, his backpack slung over his shoulder, his pace swift but unnoticeable as he ambled between the paralyzed mob under a hazy, sand-drenched sky.
A few hours later, from the comfort of his first-class seat on the South Africa Air jet, he glanced down at the tall building and briefly observed the gaping wound that still bled a thin trail of black, acrid smoke. Then, as the plane rose into the clouds, he closed the shade of his window and happily surrendered to the sleep-inducing drone of the engines.
14.
Av Paseo Colon
Puerto La Cruz
October 25, 00:12
The Belt of Orinoco, Venezuela
To Whom It May Concern,
This letter will be Xeroxed and sent to people that I love and/or care enough about to want to help them get their hands on big huge wads of tax-free faloose, a.k.a., filthy lucre beyond your wildest dreams. This is not my usual gibbering nonsense, just a straightforward bit of advice to lead you down the road towards one hellacious payday.
I know of what I speak, you laconic cast of self-absorbed cynics and skeptics, and you know it. Who else would you ask for tips on how to get a taxi in Cairo, or order wine in Calcutta? Who else can safely steer you through the running of the bulls of Pamplona, or show you the proper way to wrap on a mawashi before a sumo match? That’s right – me.
Ever heard of the “Brainybuddies”? You will. Oh boy, will you ever. It’s destined to become the next big toy fad in the United States and will make the Tickle My Elbow and Radish Patch Kids frenzies look like tea and fig newtons at Grandma’s house by comparison.
According to a report I saw on the BBC just an hour ago, the Brainybuddies are poised to arrive in the United States. It’s a kids’ show that started in England over a year ago and in no time has knocked that weird, drug-crazed singing bitch off – completely off – the front pages of the Brit tabloids. There were near riots at Harrod’s and other British department stores during the last Christmas season as guards with clubs fought off gap-toothed hags screaming and kicking for Brainybuddies dolls.
There are four of these little bastards. They live in Brainyville and eat brainycustard. They have baby faces and skins of various colors and computers in their plump little bellies. Apparently two-year olds can’t get enough of them, and if the rugrats in the U.S. are anything like their euro-brat brethren, they’ll have Big Bird begging for spare change on the Sunset Strip by Jesus’ birthday.
According to the BBC, the big toy launch has just started. This will give the Brainybuddy marketing pukes just enough time for the inevitable “shortage” during the Christmas shopping season. I fully expect the eBay ads to be demanding (and getting) $500 each for these weird, mentally challenged-looking plush freaks by Thanksgiving. Anyone with a Visa card and a crisp wad of bills for bribing the inventory clerk at Toys-R-Us will be able to pay off their mortgage and send their kids to college by December 26.