By Ryan Murt

One rainy day, the Braxton Hotel was short-staffed, and big Bob was forced to execute additional duties so the hotel could operate properly. Bob Jones was tasked to take out the trash, collect the laundry bags, help clean the swimming pool, and assist the chefs in the kitchen along with carrying the guests’ luggage to their rooms. By four o’clock, Bob was exhausted, but the hotel still had to welcome an influx of guests at five o’clock as well as prepare for its six o’clock dinner service.

Meanwhile, at a fashion firm in Los Angeles, Polly Fane squawked, “Let’s go, bitches, I don’t have time for your bullshit.”

“My plane leaves in one hour, so let’s finish the fucking color swatches,” hollered Polly.

Polly was heading to a fashion convention and had reservations at the Braxton. The taxi driver could not focus with loud-mouthed Polly all the way to the airport.

On the plane, Polly was repeatedly barking at the flight attendants because her seat was too hard, her coffee was too cold, or something else was not right.

Bob Jones caught a break at four-thirty to quench his thirst and to change his sweaty shirt. The sound of lightning spooked big Bob so he hustled to the lobby to greet the guests. At five-fifteen, Bob was wielding a cart that was stacked to the brim with luggage. As Bob stumbled with the cart around the grand lobby, he couldn’t help but to bump into a mini person.

“Excuse me, bitch,” exclaimed Polly Fane.

The whole lobby became silent and just before big Bob was about to give Polly a piece of his mind. Two security guards, Gus and Gary apprehended Bobby and took him into a separate room to diffuse the heated situation. Patrick Peters, who is the manager at the hotel, immediately rushed to Polly to relieve her emotions.

“Madame Fane, I am so sorry; may I offer you a continental suite as well as access to the private dining room?”

“That would be very accommodating for what just happened to me,” said Polly. “Just do me a favor and keep that fat fuck as far as away from me as possible.”

“Yes, Madame,” Patrick answered.

Bob Jones broke two chairs, a table, and gave Gary a black eye in the room where Gus and Gary took him to release his anger.

“Bob, you need to avoid Polly,” commanded Gus. “Go help the chefs and stay in the kitchen as much as possible.”

After Gus left the room, big Bob roared, “That bitch is dead meat.”

“Hey, take a deep breath and do your job,” said Gary.

After the dinner service, Bob went out to the dining room to help clean tables. As Polly was leaving the private dining room, Bobby glanced up and made eye contact with Polly, who flashed him her middle finger. The bus boy, Billy, happened to be walking by Bob and he grabbed him as he made a move towards Polly. Polly laughed in response to big Bob’s attempt at revenge.

“Dude, she’s not worth it”, said Billy.

It was almost ten o’clock and the rain fell harder when Bob gathered up all the trash to take to the incinerator, at the opposite end of the hotel. As Bob trudged through the hallway with the cart carrying the bags of trash, a person turned the corner at the opposite end of the hallway. Bobby blinked and saw a small person with a scary, towering shadow. It was Polly Fane.

Bob Jones stopped in his tracks and stared down the diminutive and devilish Polly Fane.

“I apologize for my actions in the lobby.”

“You are going to pay for how you humiliated me in the lobby in front of all those people, Bob Jones,” exclaimed Polly as she pulled a small .22 caliber handgun out from behind her back. She fired it twice into his chest, once into his head. Bobby’s lifeless body fell forward into the garbage cart. Polly Fane pushed the cart the rest of the way to the incinerator and loaded all of the contents into the incinerator and burned the body of Bobby Jones.