MAN DOWN

Five days undiscovered in the Damage Motel and despite hourly showers I still feel unclean. Undrawn drapes imprison me, and I dread the unpredictable clicks of the air conditioning that recall all too keenly the recent cocking of a Magnum hammer. I lie hypnotised by the hissing whispers of chambermaids conspiring beyond the keyhole, limply fingering the Do Not Disturb sign, whilst out on the plains the cacti edge closer. Sirens come and sirens go and every one of them sings my name, taunting me as they dwindle into the distance. Notorious at last I now crave invisibility and the irony sticks in my gullet. The mini-bar is empty, but I have five chambers filled: it’s time to check out.