======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ==== ======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ====
Scene: The fraternity’s social chair, Grant Parkins, wakes up in a half-destroyed hotel room at the Nashville Holiday Inn. There is a note next to the bed, and he begins reading it: “YOU DICK!!! Me and Steph caught a flight back home this morning. Don’t ever fucking call me again. –Hannah.” Suddenly, there’s a loud knock at the door.
Hotel Manager: (through the door) Mr. Parkins? Mr. Parkins, this is the hotel manager. Please open up.
Grant: Hmmmph. Faaaaaaaaack. Yeah, hold on.
(*Throws on blazer despite still having no pants on. Opens door.*)
Hotel Manager: Thank you, sir. May we come in?
Grant: Yeah, sure.
(*Trips over empty bottle of champagne, scans the room for drugs that may be in plain sight.*)
Hotel Manager: Mr. Parkins, I’m the hotel manager Ned Poldberg and this is my head of security Nate Sweeney. We need to talk to you about your organization’s behavior this weekend in our hotel, and seeing as your name and credit card are what we have on file, we felt it best to speak with you about this weekend’s transgressions. If you’ll please get dressed and follow me to my office.
Grant: With all due respect, man, I just wanna get the hell out of here and go home. Any charges incurred can be billed to our treasurer directly.
Hotel Manager: It sounds like you’ve dealt with this kind of problem before, but I’m afraid in this instance we felt it best to go over what happened last night just in case we decide to press charges.
Grant: Charges? What the fuck are you talking about? Me and my brothers didn’t do shit. Now I’d kindly ask you to get out of my room before I call my goddamn lawyer.
Hotel Manager: Why don’t we sit down and talk this over, sir? We don’t want to get the police or lawyers involved. Not yet, anyway. (*Picks up half-empty 30 rack of Budweiser off desk chair and sets it on the floor*)
Grant: Okay, go ahead. Mind if I smoke?
Hotel Manager: Sir, smoking is not allowed in this hotel.
(*Throws cigarette away and puts a hefty wad of Grizzly in his mouth instead*)
Hotel Manager: (*Takes out notepad*) Well first, there’s the issue of a Mister…Ebberson, who kept referring to himself as “Booze Moses” when we apprehended him at the indoor swimming pool around 3am on Saturday morning, pouring a large bottle of whisky into the pool and using a billiards cue as a staff, which was broken as we tried to subdue him. We had to drain the pool and clean it. We’d like your house to cover the cost of the cleaning and the damaged billiards equipment.
Grant: Pfft. Goddammit Ebbs. Is that all you got? Like I said, just bill our treasurer and we’ll sort this all out.
Hotel Manager: I’m not done, sir. Next we have the case of one Terrance Smith…
Grant: (*under his breath*) Oh fuck…
Hotel Manager: Mr. Smith was caught in an act so deprave and lewd that our overnight security guard wasn’t able to approach him or the young lady he was with. By the time he stopped them from a distance, the couch they had been…performing on was soiled and ruined. In fact, the smell was so strong that it appears to still be lingering in the area despite our having disposed of the couch. We’ve received several horrified complaints from our guests, who’ve identified it as everything from a dead rat in the wall to a gas leak to, well, to one guest who inexplicably guessed exactly what the origin of the smell was, which of course caused the poor receptionist who received his complaint to take a personal day out of sheer disgust. The elevators that the couch was near have been marked “out of order” until we can find a way to do away with the smell. Anyway, after getting the young man’s information, the guard lost track of the nude duo and could not find them for the rest of the night. The cost of a new couch will be billed to your organization.
Grant: I apologize, sir. You can’t expect me to be responsible for the acts of a depraved individual. I can’t control these guys.
Hotel Manager: I’ll be done in a moment, Mr. Parkins. Now we have an instance involving a Mr. Pratt who repeatedly referred to himself as “Iceman.” Mr. Pratt was seen pouring everclear and six Fruitopias into the sixth floor ice machine, claiming he was trying to make the world’s largest batch of what he called “jungle juice.” You will be billed for the cost of a new ice machine.
Grant: You guys still have Fruitopia in the vending machines? Is this like, fucking 1997?
Hotel Manager: Well that just doesn’t seem relevant, does it? On to our next incident involving a Mr. Brett Young. He was caught in our breakfast area around 4am this morning eating Frosted Flakes and raw bacon. He was also using our linens as a makeshift picnic blanket, on which he had spilled an entire bottle of scotch. The cost of the linens and food will also be billed to your organization.
Grant: Well, it isn’t my fault you guys don’t have 24-hour room service. A guy’s gotta eat.
Hotel Manager: Sir, we have a Denny’s in the lobby and it’s open all night. He could have eaten there… (*flips over next page*) I’m sorry, no, no he couldn’t have. Mr. Young was banned from that Denny’s the night before. Do you know how hard it is to get yourself banned from a Denny’s?
Grant: I’m not really surprised. I’ve seen that kid get banned from a Waffle House.
Hotel Manager:: Dear God, I can only imagine how. Regardless, on to a case involving, ah yes, you.
Hotel Manager: Yes, Mr. Parkins. You were seen in our lobby at 5am this morning, fraternizing with our front desk clerk, Martha, who has since been terminated. I thought I’d show you the security footage of the incident.
(*Hotel manager puts in a DVD showing the incident.*)
(*The time stamp says 4:49am. Grant stumbles up towards the front desk and begins speaking with the 175+ pound front desk agent. After fast forwarding for a few minutes, Grant is shown going behind the desk and begins making out with the front desk agent. Soon after, the two are sloppily making love. Grant hops up on the desk, on top of a computer as Martha begins performing oral sex on Grant. Grant gestures triumphantly to a group of people off camera. Grant violently shakes and vomits on the computer next to him, while the front desk agent continues performing fellatio. Grant flips his tie over his shoulder and finally finishes. Martha wipes her chin and smacks him on the ass as he shamefully trods back to the elevator, pants still around his ankles. A young woman enters the lobby and angrily approaches Grant. The two engage in a short, yet heated exchange, ending with the young woman slapping Grant. The tape ends.*)
(*The color drains from Grant’s face as he realizes he just porked a 175-pounder*)
Hotel Manager: Now, sir, the charges of the destroyed computer will be incurred onto this impressive bill that your group has racked up. We will also need an entirely new front desk as your vomit had dried into crevices that we cannot reach, and we will need to replace the desk to rid our lobby of the odor permeating from it.
Grant: Look, just give me the damage. I really need to get the fuck out of here.
Hotel Manager: Yes, of course. Totaling the damage to the pool, linens, couch, ice machine, computer and our front desk, your organization will be billed $6,576 dollars. I’m hoping that we will be able to settle this matter in a quick manner and avoid any legal mediation.
Grant: Six grand? How about we give you three grand and call it even?
Hotel Manager: Sir, I’m not done yet. If you would like this matter to stay private and out of the ears of your campus’s Interfraternal Council, we would ask you for $10,000 total.
Grant: (*While he pulls out a checkbook and begins writing a check*) You drive a hard bargain, Polebanger.
Hotel Manager: It’s Poldberg.
Grant: But my hands are tied here. I’ll be sure to talk it over with our treasurer. I can only speak for myself in this instance, but I do not regret my actions.
Hotel Manager: (*Picks up check*) Well I hope you enjoyed your stay here, sir, and I implore you to please never come back again.
(*Hotel Manager and Head of Security leave the room*)
Grant: Motherfucker. I don’t think this could get any…
(*From out of the closet appears Martha, in all 175 pounds of her glory. In one hand she has fuzzy handcuffs and KY jelly, and in the other she is holding a bag with enough Hostess products to give a small elephant diabetes.)
Martha: How about you and I lose the security deposit on this room while we’re at it?
(*Grant takes a big, regretful gulp, then shrugs.*)
Grant: Fuck it. But for the last time keep those twinkies away from my ass you sick, unemployed whale.
Martha: Holy FUCK you know how to get me good ‘n swampy.
Grant: (*gags*) Oh God, that’s a terrible adjective.