Gare peered at the wreckage of his hotel room. That puerto rican kid had kvelled all over everything, even the minibar. Might as well, he thought as he unwrapped a sodden toblerone, I'm going to get charged for it anyway. A fragment of memory flickered through Gare's appletini-addled brain and he waddled into the bathroom, where his pants were balled up in the sink. His wallet was nowhere to be found. Gare swore and belched. It tasted of stomach acid and rancid kvell. He thought about calling American Express, but decided to take his toblerone back to bed and order a couple denver omelettes and a porterhouse from room service to soothe his broken heart.
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