Reggie surveyed the plush hotel suite. It was bigger than his flat. The room had cost a fortune but he didn’t intend to be around when the credit card bill came.
The room had every luxury Reggie never knew at home. He tried the television but the controls defeated him. The ensuite had a jacuzzi bath: he hadn’t the least idea what that was. He opened the mini-bar: he understood that well enough and poured a scotch.
He put on the bathrobe.
He poured another scotch. Reggie had a plan and was going to see it though. He’d seen it on TV. It was simple, all he needed was the determination.
He’d thought about it for months, since the doctor diagnosed his cancer was inoperable. Reggie had no family but the folks at the hospice said they would help him manage. Reggie was no scholar but he knew enough that his future was going to be exceedingly painful.
He took two bottles from his bag and emptied both into a bone-china teacup. He topped them up with vodka. He was ready.
It was Fawlty Towers that gave him the idea. The one where a man dies in his hotel room and the comedy is they try to get the dead body out without anyone noticing. John Cleese said hotels often had to deal with dead bodies. He said, people went to them because they knew they would ‘deal with it beautifully’.
Reggie glugged his drink. He hoped Cleese was right.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 