“Who the fuck has been through my bag?” He floundered around the hotel room ripping towels from chairs and up-turning bed sheets in a greedy drunken rage. “Who the fuck has been through my bag? Cumon you cunts, one of you has.” Although he was addressing all those present – in the physical sense at least – who were laying siege to Room 691 of the Paradise Hotel, no one responded or even reacted to the question being posed rather forcefully by one of their party.
Two from the brass section were slumped at the foot of the king-size bed with a bottle of vodka cradled between them, their tuxedos in disordered array, sodden with many a jostled drink. Every now and then they would take turns to suck the fiery liquid with the avidity of if it were an oxygen mask. On the bed cavorted one of the dirty young flautists - a randy lead violinist licked her out as she in turn sucked on the cock of a sweaty pianist who kept his precious ivory-tickling fingers nestled out of harm’s reach behind his head of thinning hair. She sucked on it with all the animalistic lust of conjuring the high notes of birdsong during an applause-drenched solo.
“Who the fuck has been through my bag? I had some fucking amazing blow in there I’d been saving”. The salivating man cried as he berated each of the various ensembles of wasted creatures on the verge of euphoric inertia on the floor, their high heels wedged into the angel-soft carpet.
“Look in my cello case man. I’ve got some there” mumbled one comatose scoundrel as he propped himself up on the arm of a chair. His tongue was burning from the dousing of tequila indulged in abundance and head reeling from the rough speed ingested in the toilets.
“Well what the fuck is it doing there you fucking cunt?!” screamed the victim as the thief collapsed away from all accusations down beside another from the strings who was lost in a miasma haze of hallucinogens. He would be gone for most of the following day, he’d be lucky to be functioning and conscious for tomorrow night’s concert in the Savoy. A stampede through Siberius ; never pleasant nor remotely achievable when faced with an acid meltdown.
A plastic bag of powder was retrieved from the bulky case and fat lines of numbing freedom stacked up along the rim of the varnished-maple cello. The punch, the recoil, the impact like a boltgun to the brain. More crazy revellers burst in through the door, rabid from the remnants of the hotel club, to flail in perverse symphony on the beds and one percussionist thrust open the balcony window to holler into the cold night sky with a maniacal thirst in his eye.
Whilst on the bed in unspeakable ways a viola-blonde was pleasured with a piccolo. Another naked voyeur, fuelled by a champagne-ketomine cocktail did straddle a nimble and buxom clarinet harlot, her hide whipped by a searing horsehair bow to extract every last ounce of pleasure possible. More corks popped, more loads blown; the diminutive conductor was helpless as he was carried on shoulders to be thrown into an overflowing bathtub, where he promptly pissed himself on impact with the ice-cold body shock. One of the group who had peaked far earlier, turned and regurgitated blood and booze into the porcelain sink and all down the mirror.
Back in the main room the soporific stench of semen-drenched narcotics and sweaty flesh was copious in the air; the cello’s feminine curvature traced with powder again and again and the demented beast who beats the kettle drums was trying with all his might and alcoholic force to prop open the blustery window to the world below with the room’s widescreen plasma TV.
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