The “Frozen Falls” And… Well, Read On…

For the 80th time…

FAMILY OF SEVEN:  (In a collective screaming voice.)  WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE FALLS AREN’T FROZEN OVER?  THAT’S WHY WE’RE HERE!

ME:  (Sighing heavily.)  Even if the surface water freezes, the water below it never stops flowing. It would take a catastrophic, cold snap to stop the Falls. Please, folks, direct your anger at Anderson Cooper and CNN.

We now return you to “You’ve Been Hooked!“

Without going into too much detail, I’ve been overwhelmed with family obligations and crises of late and so the blog has fallen behind, but I have a small, but tasty offering for you. Enjoy.

It all started with this Friday night tweet:

A guest who arrives with a hooker refuses to pay for bell service. So he doesn't want to pay to have his BAGS handled, but…#bellmantales

— The Terrible Hook (@TheTerribleHook) February 28, 2015

But that was the tip of the creepy/disturbing/fun iceberg, kiddies.

The steroid-filled guest in question (we’ll call him “John”, for obvious reasons), was very concerned with saving his pennies. One can only assume he was more concerned with the cost of his “weekend-investment”:

This is a hypothetical hooker, but the fact remains, this is how the young lady arrived in the middle of winter! No hat. No coat. No clue.

The preceding pic should give you an idea of his price point. He was obviously a gentleman of discerning tastes, no doubt?

At any rate, once he was assured the service was gratuity-based and the tipping ball was in his court, he allowed us to load up his hard liquor, beer, chips, pop, fruit tray, bag of sex toys (the buzzing is a dead giveaway), and one small suitcase. (He actually laughed at my use of the words, “ball”, “load”, and “hard”. Charming.)

Twenty minutes later, he was checked in and his “luggage” arrived, courtesy of yours truly.

That’s when the real fun began.

Picture this:

• The room was dimly lit.
• Instead of one muscle-headed cheap yutz in a wife-beater T-shirt, there were two.
• They spent the entire time giggling like school girls. On performing-enhancing hormones.
• The room was already filled with enough alcohol to slow down the entire population of a Boston neighborhood.
• The classical tones of some unidentified rapper with the word “Ice” in his name resonated off the walls.
• The young lady was nowhere to be seen but since the bathroom door was closed, I assumed she was preparing herself for an experience she’d never forget. No matter how much she tried.
• A low, animalistic wheezing emanated from the bathroom.

Ignoring strange sounds is part of the job, so I carried on. Just for fun, I employed a query that was sure to break the room up.

“Where shall I unload your cart, sir?”

Sure enough, Hanz and Franz cracked up.

“You’re hilarious, Boss! Throw your load anywhere, man… we’re going to!”

 Classy. But it gets better.

I finished unloading. (Go ahead and giggle, I won’t judge. Much.) Bucking tough, muscle-headed convention, John (the first one), tipped me well. I turned to leave…

And the other shoe dropped.

Or, to be clear, the other hooves dropped.

The bathroom door opened and there they stood: The hooker who came in from the cold… and a small pony. 

Take a moment to process that statement.

You good? Then we’ll continue.

As longtime readers will attest, I’ve seen everything. Just about. To be fair, this incident perfectly illustrates just why I never say:

“After 17 years in the hospitality business, I’ve seen everything!”

Have to admit, when I arrived at the room and saw two idiots instead of one, I felt bad for the girl. Now I felt bad for the horse.

And yes, I realize there are a million questions racing through your head right now. Such as:

• How on Earth did they get that pony up to that room, even at night?
• What the hell happened next?
• Who was going to clean the room up the next day? (Housekeeping certainly wasn’t going to. Not without a helluva fight.)
• Was the SPCA notified? Or Betty White?

And most importantly…

• WTF?

Well, I can’t help you, kids. I held it together and got the hell out of Dodge. I don’t get paid to be security. Or Niagara Five–O. Or animal control.

I’m The Hook. I deliver your luggage. I entertain you with my snarky wit and general dumbassery. I get paid. (Usually.) I get lost. Period.

See you in the lobby, kids…