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Even after waiting for another ten minutes, there was still no sign of The Cunt so I sent a text message asking what the deal was. That’s when the real games began. We began a game of phone tag, with her sending me cryptic messages and me countering with increasingly annoyed ones. She was winning. “Which car are you in?” she would go. “There are a few things I have to take care of first,” “what color is your car?” “Something just came up, give me a few minutes.” “I have to make a call, so I won’t reply for a bit.” It was becoming quickly evident that there was some serious chain-yanking going on (and not in a good way), presumably for little hooker giggles. I felt like I was fishing for diamonds in a sewer, and not unlike a sewer, the whole thing reeked of shit. Then finally, “I’m sorry, I’m at a different hotel. Meet me there.” Before going ahead and blowing seventy bucks on single hour just for the room, I wanted assurances that she would not leave me hanging with Smurf-blue testes. Soon enough, assurances were made and I set off for the suggested hotel with my optimism renewed, but slightly. Unlike Cheap Hotel, the name for the Luxury Inn, 68

The Metric Issue 08 - Literary Magazine  
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