A couple of weeks ago I went to San Diego on business. When I arrived, I waited for the usual eternity for my bag, before realising it must have gone missing. After that I had to queue up to speak to an airline official for ages, only to be told it was still in Denver. Great. I had left Denver three hours ago and my bag was still there.
This is where the fun begins. I arrived in my hotel room to be greeted by a large “P” scrawled on the mirror in some kind of grease.
Feeling brave, I decided to check what was on the menu for room service. I looked on the desk and there was nothing, so I opened the drawer, and instead of the usual hotel information booklet and Latter Day Saints bible, I found an odd proclamation:
This actually scared me a little and I looked behind me expecting to have my head lopped off. This is when I noticed the smoke alarm hanging off the ceiling, probably from the last bloody massacre that occurred in the room.
The only thing I couldn’t photograph was the smell of paint in the room, obviously still strong because they had just painted over all the blood.
I asked for a new room.