always left a bloody mess, and sometimes I wondered if I’d ever get the front of the house back into respectable condition. But once they’d had a taste of me, and realized that there wasn’t an ounce of fresh meat inside, they lost interest in the hotel. Little by little, their ranks dwindled. These days only a handful came by. Hopefully they wouldn’t change their minds.
I swallowed the last of my tea, and set the cup on the empty bell cart. Rarely did I use the carts for anything other than transporting dead bodies, but occasionally there were a few other uses for them. I pushed the cart, broke into a sprint, and jumped aboard. The cart sailed through the lobby before veering off and crashing into the concierge’s desk. I fell off the cart and landed on my back.
The crazy shit I did these days for a laugh.
It was fucking pathetic!
The cherry wood desk was a French import, made exclusively for the hotel. It was one of many rare items that adorned the lobby, but the only one that I liked to fuck with. The concierge who sat behind it treated it like her throne. Anyone who did not sit at her table was beneath contempt, even the General Manager. Although Marge was a cranky, old bitch, she had something that the others didn’t: a ravenous, killer instinct. And if I had to pick who would survive a nuclear winter, I’d pick her every time, even over the almighty cockroach.
If Marge had something to say, she’d say it to your face. Once, and only once. Hell, she was going to die anyways; she didn’t really give a shit. And in the paradox of this life, I found that I enjoyed her far more now that she was dead.
“Sleeping on the job again, Marge?” I got up and pushed aside the cart.
The zombie groaned, rubbing her face in a pool of blood and spit. She peered up, caught a glimpse of me, and then planted her face back in the muck. Bloodstained files and papers were strewn across the desk, remnants of a personal project that would go unfinished without divine intervention.
“Come on, let’s clean up this mess.” I scooped up a handful of papers and dumped them in the trashcan.
Marge clung to the pile in front of her for dear life.
“You won’t find what you’re looking for in there, no matter how hard you try. Eventually you have to let go.” I grabbed a bottle of disinfectant and sprayed her in the face.
Marge squawked and then sneezed blood all over the cherry wood finish.
“I should have seen that coming.” I swabbed her nose with a paper towel, and then used the other end to wipe the desk clean.
The zombie stared at me, her memory sparked for an instant. She rose on her weary legs, grabbed the roll of paper towels, and rubbed the desk. When Marge grew tired of imitating me, she dumped the entire roll in the trashcan and looked back.
“That’s the spirit, Marge!” I patted her gently on the shoulder. I guess you can teach a decomposing corpse new tricks.
Margaret Smith was a middle-aged woman on the wrong side of forty, originally hired as a Front Desk Agent when she graduated from high school. Over the course of her employment, she had stints in Housekeeping and Room Service before returning to the front of the house for good.
Marge was old school, raised by nuns and emphatic that everything had to be done in a precise manner. “Everything has a proper place if you look,” she’d remind me at least once a day. The hag was hardcore, and wouldn’t let anyone outwork her, not even me.
Though a shadow of her former self, she still patrolled the lobby and picked up debris off the floor, making a bigger mess in the process. Still, I didn’t mind. One percent of Marge was better than one hundred percent of the dimwit douche bags that used to run the joint.
“Do you know what day of the week it is?” I held up a thin bar of soap.
Marge looked at the bar, and then at me.
“That’s right, Tuesday. Time to get washed up and-” I caught a whiff of her. “Uh…you smell rank.” I coughed,
I swallowed the last of my tea, and set the cup on the empty bell cart. Rarely did I use the carts for anything other than transporting dead bodies, but occasionally there were a few other uses for them. I pushed the cart, broke into a sprint, and jumped aboard. The cart sailed through the lobby before veering off and crashing into the concierge’s desk. I fell off the cart and landed on my back.
The crazy shit I did these days for a laugh.
It was fucking pathetic!
The cherry wood desk was a French import, made exclusively for the hotel. It was one of many rare items that adorned the lobby, but the only one that I liked to fuck with. The concierge who sat behind it treated it like her throne. Anyone who did not sit at her table was beneath contempt, even the General Manager. Although Marge was a cranky, old bitch, she had something that the others didn’t: a ravenous, killer instinct. And if I had to pick who would survive a nuclear winter, I’d pick her every time, even over the almighty cockroach.
If Marge had something to say, she’d say it to your face. Once, and only once. Hell, she was going to die anyways; she didn’t really give a shit. And in the paradox of this life, I found that I enjoyed her far more now that she was dead.
“Sleeping on the job again, Marge?” I got up and pushed aside the cart.
The zombie groaned, rubbing her face in a pool of blood and spit. She peered up, caught a glimpse of me, and then planted her face back in the muck. Bloodstained files and papers were strewn across the desk, remnants of a personal project that would go unfinished without divine intervention.
“Come on, let’s clean up this mess.” I scooped up a handful of papers and dumped them in the trashcan.
Marge clung to the pile in front of her for dear life.
“You won’t find what you’re looking for in there, no matter how hard you try. Eventually you have to let go.” I grabbed a bottle of disinfectant and sprayed her in the face.
Marge squawked and then sneezed blood all over the cherry wood finish.
“I should have seen that coming.” I swabbed her nose with a paper towel, and then used the other end to wipe the desk clean.
The zombie stared at me, her memory sparked for an instant. She rose on her weary legs, grabbed the roll of paper towels, and rubbed the desk. When Marge grew tired of imitating me, she dumped the entire roll in the trashcan and looked back.
“That’s the spirit, Marge!” I patted her gently on the shoulder. I guess you can teach a decomposing corpse new tricks.
Margaret Smith was a middle-aged woman on the wrong side of forty, originally hired as a Front Desk Agent when she graduated from high school. Over the course of her employment, she had stints in Housekeeping and Room Service before returning to the front of the house for good.
Marge was old school, raised by nuns and emphatic that everything had to be done in a precise manner. “Everything has a proper place if you look,” she’d remind me at least once a day. The hag was hardcore, and wouldn’t let anyone outwork her, not even me.
Though a shadow of her former self, she still patrolled the lobby and picked up debris off the floor, making a bigger mess in the process. Still, I didn’t mind. One percent of Marge was better than one hundred percent of the dimwit douche bags that used to run the joint.
“Do you know what day of the week it is?” I held up a thin bar of soap.
Marge looked at the bar, and then at me.
“That’s right, Tuesday. Time to get washed up and-” I caught a whiff of her. “Uh…you smell rank.” I coughed,
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