Destroy

The telephone in my hotel suite wakes me up. It keeps ringing and ringing and ringing and will not stop. So I peel my eyelids apart, rip my tongue from the roof of my mouth, then reach over this naked bitch lying next to me and pick up the plastic piece of hell, wondering,
Why is it so fucking dark in this room?

“What is it?” I bark into the phone, popping my elbow into the wedge of the naked broad's neck.

A female with a husky voice and a generic southern accent that gets me vaguely excited replies, “Mr. Morgan. It's ten a.m.”

“So fucking what, lady? Who cares?”

“You do, Mr. Morgan. This is your wake-up call. The one you requested yesterday afternoon when you were leaving the hotel with Ms. Miller.”

I moan. “That's right.” Fucking come Dumpster.

Setting the phone down, I roll onto my back and think about this retarded Canadian guy wearing a purple fanny pack and a Labatt Blue T-shirt who was taunting me in this dream I had once, which then gets me thinking about this obese hooker I watched get fondled by a black midget at a truck stop during this completely different dream I had the night before I arrived in Los Angeles, and these two thoughts begin to get me down and make me sad.
What does any of it mean? Anything? Anything at all?

I look back at the girl in my bed, and my mind draws a huge blank.

Cindy?

Lois?

Becca?

Who the fuck are you? And how did it get so dark in here? The fucking curtains are wide open, for crissakes.

Then, “Pumpkin Patch!” I hear the girl shriek in her sleep, as if she's trying to respond to me, and in this weird kinda way, it freaks me out a little.

Like, Pumpkin Patch.

Like, does that mean anything?

The girl rolls over so that her back is facing me, and on it is this huge tattoo of Madonna, like pre–
Bedtime Stories
Madonna. And I will not look at this any longer. I just cannot deal with Madonna staring at me from some babe's back whose name isn't even close to the tip of my tongue yet.

Clarissa?

No fucking way that's it.

So I sit up again and I pull the sheets off my body and I notice a condom on my dick, a puddle of come still sitting in the tip of it, which means I must've crashed, like, immediately after we finished doing it. At least I got it up.

Right.

A small victory indeed.

Walking into the bathroom, I hit the lights, and the first thing I notice in the extremely large mirror above the sink is the pair of sunglasses I'm wearing.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

I set them on the counter and lean in closer to the mirror and look with disgust at my very short brown hair and my uneven eyelashes. I look at my arms, completely covered with tattoos,
most of which I could give a shit about anymore. I have bite marks all over my chest and my stomach and some gnarly cuts on the insides of my arms. But it's cool. It's pretty fucking rad. They're lovemaking wounds. No big deal. And after I turn on the shower and let it run for like a minute, I step very carefully into the stainless-steel box and immediately scrub my cock clean with the bar of soap I've just unwrapped.

Skullburn '77.

• • •

After I'm finished in the bathroom, I sit at a small table on the far side of the room dressed in a pair of tight black Levi's, a white V-neck tee, a pair of red cowboy boots, chain-smoking cigarettes in between the long and very dramatic sips from the warm Heineken I fished out of the twelve-box I saw underneath the table.

Five times over, I read the small piece of paper that had been rolled into a snooter on the table. A piece of paper that says:
Every day I wake up and wish that it was Scott Weiland who died instead of Layne Staley.

And just for the record real quick, none of this rings a bell at all.

The babe on the bed is still sleeping, and for a moment, after she rolled back over so that Madonna was taunting me yet again with that vacant stare of hers, I contemplated whipping my cock out and playing with it a little and dropping a line of dick drool right on her back. Giving ol' Evita over there a milk mustache, which would've partially fulfilled a childhood fantasy of mine. Pretty much in the same way as if I was in a band and we opened a show for Steven Adler's band, Adler's Appetite.

But this newfound urge of mine quietly dissolves into another cloud of cigarette smoke, and I turn my attention away from her and start checking out the damage that's been done to the super-expensive suite that I'm so, so not paying for.

The maroon-and-blue-colored carpet is wrecked with spilled ashtrays, broken glasses, and empty champagne bottles. An impressive pile of pink vomit sits a few feet away from my suitcase. I mean, I couldn't even tell you who was here last night or if it was just me and that blond bitch over there still napping who tore the place up.

On the wall above the bed, scribbled in pink lipstick, is the word
PieGrinder
, the title of my international bestselling novel that came out almost three years ago, and written underneath that is my name, and beside my name, the words
Chowder Breath
and the phrase
Ya down with O.P.P.

And:
Pussy Kills.

Whatever.

I should just leave. I need to leave. I need to get back to San Francisco and chill the fuck out for a minute, so after I twist my cigarette out, I retrieve a pad of paper and a pen from one of the dresser drawers and write:
Last night was, like, pretty darn awesome!

Then I set this fairly honest note down on the nightstand next to the bed and gather my things, but on the way out of the room, I spot a silver tray with a nice-size pile of coke on it, and fuck it, ya know. I pull my ATM card out, roll a tight twenty bill up, then cut the pile into two big croc lines and snort 'em up quicker than Bobby Brown on a bender in Vegas.

Shit!

Nothing like some grade-A drugs to start the fucking day with.

Destroy.

• • •

Down at the front desk, while I'm waiting for this lame dude with a fucking soul patch and black earplugs to finish checking me out of the hotel, this chubby dickpig with dyed blond-and-black
hair and a labret piercing emerges from the back office and smiles at me before setting a copy of my novel,
PieGrinder
, on the counter and asking me if I'll sign it for her.

“Yeah. Sure. Why the hell not,” I grunt, sliding the book over toward myself. “How come you weren't at the reading?” I ask. Side note:
There was no reading.

“I didn't know you were giving one.” She blushes.

“That's too bad for you. It was only, like, the best one I've ever done.
Ever
,” I stress.

“Awwww. Really? Shit. I can't believe I didn't hear about it. That's such a bummer.”

“Yep. Total fucking bummer for you,” I say with a grin. Then I sign the hotel bill, which will end up going straight to the studio that flew me to LA for meetings about the movie that's being made out of my novel.

Handing over a black felt-tip marker, the girl says, “I just want you to know how much I adored your book, James. It was the absolute truth to me. Your writing was so refreshing and honest. I mean, it really helped to change my life.”

“How so?” I ask, thinking, hoping, that this isn't some backdoor way to lay blame on me for her awesome new drug habit or some terrible gang bang she accidentally got herself into that was taped.

But to my great surprise, and much to my relief, it isn't.

This girl's like, “I used to be really fat, like, sixty pounds heavier than what I am right now, and I would wake up in the morning and make a whole box of chocolate Malt-O-Meal with pieces of ground beef mixed in with it and eat the whole thing. Then for lunch I'd sit at KFC by myself and take down a whole bucket of chicken.”

“Damn, girl,” I snort. Another side note:
This is the most awesome thing I've heard in days.

And the girl goes, “And when I read your book, I really started to identify with how vulnerable and weak your female characters were, and how they had horrible problems and didn't feel good about themselves, but by the end, they were all so empowered and strong and it really gave me the inspiration to start losing weight and take pride in the way I look, and I just thought I should say thank-you for that.”

“Why, you are certainly welcome.” I remove the cap from the marker. “And who am I making this out to?”

“Me,” she says.

“But what's your name?”

“India.”

I sign it.

Like this:
Thanks for the weight-loss story and keeping this goddamn book in print.

“Okay, India. Here you are.” I hand the book back to her and turn around.

“James,” India says.

“What's up?” I groan, spinning back around.

“Was your book autobiographical at all?”

“Not really. Why?”

“I was just wondering about some parts.”

“Which ones?”

“Did you really have an aunt who went crazy and got tossed into a mental hospital, where she killed herself because she couldn't get that Adam Ant song ‘Wonderful' out of her head?”

“Nope.”

“Did your mother really get arrested for sending nude photos of herself to Rick Moranis?”

“Mom? No. Not that I know of, anyway.”

“Oh.”

Darting my eyes at that asshole with the soul patch, then swinging them back to India, I say, “Just because the book was written in first person does not mean that the main character was really me. Okay? The narrator of my bestselling novel is not really me in real life. Jesus.” I turn back around and start for the doors, where the bellman is standing with my bag.

“James,” India says again.

“Oh, Jesus Christ. What is it?”

“I'm really trying hard not to be a pest, but can I ask you one more thing?”

“Shoot.”

“What's up with the second book?”

My body just lunges toward her. “Excuse me?”

“It's just that I've heard rumors about it, and I've heard you mention it in interviews, but it's been a couple of years and—”

“I know how long it's been, lady! And I do not need anyone saying shit to me about it.” I am so upset right now. If I were a cartoon character, fucking steam would be shooting from the top of my head.

Blushing even more, she says, “I'm sorry, James. I was just curious.”

“Listen, lady, I signed your book. I've been more than pleasant with you. So please don't start bringing this whack shit up, because you have no idea about any of it. There will be a second book as soon as I want there to be a second book.”

“Okay,” she sighs, then quickly shrinks back into the office.

And I go, “My god! What is wrong with some people?” before walking out front into the brutal glare of the LA sun and waiting for the valet to pull my rental car around.

And when he does, he asks me, “Where are you off to, man?”

“San Francisco.”

“Oh, shit. The city that exploded last night.”

And I really have no idea what the hell that means and absolutely no patience to ask him, so I'm like, “Yeah, it does that sometimes.” Then I tip him with Canadian money and climb into the car and crank the air conditioner up and drive away, thinking,
Jesus Christ. I should've totally stayed at the Standard instead.

Destroy.