The Motel Drag: Part 1

A Glass Of Bitter Gin

by Kerem Simsek

It was a mizzly day in September, a light fog accompanied the streets, making the naked eye hard to see what was around, people would click their gums, having the irresistible urge to go to some dinky pub and wet their whistle like a guzzled pig, as the town, was close to the brim of the drizzly seas, which were salty not only that way, but metaphorically, as the air was moist with apprehension.

The salty air invited bitterly from the cold waters made people want to quaff down some cocktail, liquor, and smack their lips.

A man named Eugene Lewandowski, walked down the hard gravelly roads, wafts of smoke poofing away from the bowl of his tobacco pipe.

The man, oddly, worked at a tobacco cigar factory, being one of the nobs of the place, and walked with an important pompous air.

The man wore an old gray teal suit, with the same color matching pants, with slate colored shoes.

He had thin bony fingers, with uneven sharp fingernails, and slightly rotten yellow teeth, with thin dank lips and a tongue that tasted the small beads of water in the brumes sweeping about the wispy streets.

He came to the entrance of a motel, which was shrimpier marginally than a mansion.

As he swept through the doors, the feeling of fuming on his ice pipe, left him, feeling strange, for whatever reason, and so he took out a cigar from his box, putting his pipe into his pack, and burned the wheat for some time, uneasily, his stomach feeling queasy for some reason.

He smudged on a couple of tobacco rolls and littering them on the ground, and putting on a stale chewy one in the corner of his mouth, he walked away with the feeling of coolness.

Then he walked a couple yards away when he heard a click clack sound coming, and turned around, a dreary feeling seemed to accompany his back damply, and suddenly he felt a morose sameness rattle down his spine.

He saw a woman bending over the cigars, holding them with her thin straw-like hands.

Then the woman inclined her head around and her gray sulking eyes met his wide questioning ones, uttered and stretched with shock, and his feelings wanted to grasp on some thin piece of wood, as he threw his hands fruitlessly, watching the woman look at him with those murky cold eyes staring chillingly.

She got up slightly, and he took a nabbing hasty glance at her. She wore a thin dress, which had a murky velvet color, with dark flowers and inky lines shading around the flowers and the raven colored birds.

She wore tight ripped black shoes that hung strictly on the front of her foot, and had a small little black heel under her shoe that let out an impatient click as she moved her weight from side to side, though not in a nervous motion.

Her eyes were bleak and gray, spitting a piercing look.

She had prim blonde hair that was short and hung plumply on the back of her neck.

She had a pasty face with what only seemed to be only a sheet of skin pressing against her skull.

Her lips moved wordlessly in such a deathly motion, like a glazing peace lily that was dipped into the raw poisonous honey dripping slowly from the corner of a black bear’s mouth.

Eugene could tell that the woman was asking if he dropped the cigars.

He gave a staggering look, a glum hopeless expression trudging up in his face.

Suddenly feeling lashed, he quipped up, “Tarnation! Slank back woman from the place ye’ trudged from, and ou’ sight! The nerve of you woman these days.” He mumbled, murmuring a string of words and he turned around on his heel and walked away with a simple snobby flick of his head, tipping up his hat in a shallow manner, his eyes wanting to graze and pierce into the distance, and rip the walls.

He grumbled and kicked himself for getting creeped out by some slinking spit, and muttering another string of words, he got his motel room key, paying for it, and he went to his room, thinking about other things, and his nose missed the cloying smell of tobacco, which burned from cigars, and cigarettes, and from vintage over the hill root-beer pipes, light mawkish tears stung his eyes, his lips trembled, as he remembered his good ol’ rugged workers at the cigar factory, which he closely considered as a rough comrade that pulled out tiddly jokes and made his cheeks as red as tomatoes.

He jabbed the crude key into the door lock and flipped it around but the doorknob didn't budge.

He tried again, a crinkle crept into his forehead, as he gave a couple more fruitless attempts to open the door, he knocked a couple of times, before the door was opened by an elderly man.

Eugene was taken aback, and giving a hasty glance into the room, his feet hesitantly moved away.

“Oh, sorry, this ain’t my room.” He said, his cheeks flushing slightly.

“No, no, it’s okay, please come in.”

Eugene stammered a hopeless staggering sentence that was sewed together loosely, and then at last, like a cringy broken wheel for a cab wagon, he stuttered to a stop.

The man gave a small oily smile, though it wasn't a smarmy kind, it was a kind lit grin that waltzed around in a bubbly fashion.

“I’ve got some flutes of champagne.” He remarked chewingly, his dew ash like eyes twinkling merrily, as the gnawing sound came from him chewing his long thick cigar, which let out puffs of warm smoke, which gave a minty tobacco smell that Eugene welcomed with polite gaily manners, like a chef in a restaurant, tasting his peppered soup, and letting a dreamy expression take form in his face.

Eugene giving a small little skippy nod, and plodded in with a small little giddy hop, like a wary horse which had been galloping for an hour, and finally came to a town, where his rider tied him next to the water bucket, and he could drink it faster than a parched man in the desert.

The room, Eugene examined, was a comfortable place, even for a motel.

Inches away from the corner was a small cozy fireplace that crackled with long flickering strands of fire, and the walls were a dark magenta color that muttered deeply with a purple potato that was overcooked.

The ground had a nice black bear rug, and the ground was soft, and slightly dusty, and portraits hung on the walls.

There were two couches, and the elderly man gesturing for him to sit on the other, Eugene sat on it comfortably.

The elderly man poured himself a small chalice of gin, then sipped it with a stretched crinkle on his forehead, his veins pursuing swelling, like the peaks of tall mountains, was as thin and sharp as a buttery shank.

Eugene had time to examine his host carefully for the first time, looking at him from head to toe.

The man had a dark red smoking jacket, which on the shoulders were slightly dusty, and its shawl had a deep raven color, and had a neat box of cigars sticking out of his bottom pocket. He wore stiff pants which hung down in a slackened manner on his legs, and wore murky green slippers, and had thin lengthy fingers which were gnarly, yet had a warm color flooded in them.

The man motioned to himself and said, “I’m Valentines, I used to be a former inspector. I shan’t be surprised if I take a long stay here.” He played with a couple of poker cards, giving them only a shard of idle attention, and put them back on the sofa, and took a sip of champagne, and smacked his gums joyfully.

“I’m Eugene, and I’m a former runaway who should be the last person to be anywhere near a darn inspector.” Said Eugene playfully, a tipsy grin dancing around the corners of his lips.

Valentines quirked up an eyebrow sardonically, in a cheeky manner, and gave a small pickled grin, as he simpered in a tanked tone, “Surprisingly, you don’t have the jibbered up instincts to dash for the door, and get the hell out of here like wild elk.”

“Then I’m mouthing with guilted foam, to have that kind of sawed of nerve, for crying out loud.”

“Probably the brandy.”

“Won’ i’ the champagne, or, peg.”

“Ah, sell myself unwittingly to em’ drinks, makes my legs feel stiff.”

“What I would’ve smoked for, like hell, to get me a stiff peg.”

“Don’t get hammered that fast boy!” Valentines cried out in a voice that was threaded with harshness.

Eugene dragged a clumsy hand through his fine hair, and his eyes glittered with a pie-eyed expression.

Blinking a couple of times, trying to wipe away that drunkenness, he retorted in a squeaky voice, “Aren't you right.”

Eugene then, giving a blank stare, apparently worn out and fed up with the drunk rubbish, stroked his chin, and then sighing, he got out of the skirts of his dark black collar jacket pulled out a long pizzo pipe, and smoked uneasily, a troubled frown twisting into his features.

He gave a realizing sigh as his shoes laid lightly on the black bear rug, and he aimed politely, “Nice rug.”

“Oh!” Valentines quipped up, his elderly Persian face which had a couple of slashing wrinkles in them, lit up, delighted at the start of a subject change, like a warm rum glass in a rowdy pub.

“I have a Japanese friend who led himself into some big forest which is hell-raised with dammin’ animals, he seemed to kill this growling hooch, as he says, saying it tasted like British mead.”

“He gave it to you?”

“He had the kind generosity to doing it, and he said he could've given a present with higher tastes, I could remember that pout formed in his lips and that scrunched frown in his face, he must've seen horrid creatures.” Valentines closed his eyes for a moment, giving a shuddering look, as though dripped with cold icy water, and then maintaining a cool impression, he continued about in a casual voice.

“I’ve had my thoughts about making it into a vigorous furry coat, but I don’t know if I’ve ever fancied such a shabby taste.”

“Shabby!” Eugene exclaimed.

“Yes, quite so.”

“Why, my dear Valentines, a coat made out of the fur of a black bear, why, it is such an 1880’s quilt trend! Folks would be rather impressed, more or so, droll with swift jealousy!”

Valentines raised an eyebrow scathingly, a tart glint shining in his eyes.

“Nay, my dear friend, I do not think it would suit my appetite to wear such splashy clothing.” He said in an ill disguised voice and poking out a cigar, he smoked with a cold look studding into Eugene.

Eugene puffed on his pizzo pipe apprehensively, and mentally he burned the weeds with his eyes giving a queasy flicker.


That night Valentines had insisted that he stay and spend the night up in his room.

When Eugene said that he had a place to be, his actual room, he said so dramatically, saying that he wouldn’t let the money he gave for his room go to waste.

“Cheap money.” The elderly man corrected, and his eyes had slightly turned wistful, as he said, that it was better that he didn't tell Eugene why he shouldn't go to his room, because he would be under the par very alarmed, and said that when he found out about it he was outta sorts lately, and even now the feeling whistled inside him.

Eugene felt damp with ominousness, and forlorn.

So with a couple of pleading looks, coming from Valentines, a glinting tinkle in his eyes he gave a small sigh and gave in, getting on one of the other beds, sleeping comfortably.


Eugene woke up to an early morning, woken up by the loud sound of some instrument.

He saw the lamps hung to the walls were lit, and gave slight cooing chuckling whispers that barely went through the glass.

He turned around his head wearily, his eyebrows scrunched down in irritated annoyance, his forehead crinkled, and his eyes blurry.

Valentines was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking tense, playing the tin whistle, his eyes slightly misty.

He treaded his head around and he gave his crooked oily smile which already started to feel like his trademark look, and Eugene was already getting tired of it, and he flashed his eyes curiously with a tint of irritation.

“Top O’ the morning to you.” He said, a kindling smile treading around his lips.

“Valentines, what the blisterin' ell’ are ye’ doin’, wrecking my beauty sleep?”

“Beauty sleep?” A voice shot back, and Eugene whipped around, to find a man in the doorway, whose eyes were narrowed slightly, yet oblivious to Eugene, the corners of his lips curled a bit.

He had fair brown hair, which at the roots of it were wavy, and slick with oil, and at the tips curled up with a dirty blondish color to it. He wore a thick dark red sweater patched out at the top, and wore black pants, with nice dutch shoes which were tied on the front with grimed fabric.

He had the quirky features of an underestimated three toed sloth, yet his face was young and looked alive, and had a chin that dipped down, and puckered out deep red lips which looked like real blood, like the makeup of a vampire who had gotten the unnatural supplies from sucking it out of someone’s skin, like wine, which made from grapes, and a long time is waited before it turns into the liqueur.

His eyes were a deep gray, with some teal in them, and he had a charming smile with a lopsided nose.

He had a long thin weed needling out of the corner of his mouth like some damn rugged cowboy, who was very confident that he could kill his nemesis in less than the twinkle of a bright pale star which hung with a chilling glow, sending a shudder down people’s spines.

“Ahh, hello Watson.” Valentines greeted, lowering his tin whistle.

“Hello Valentines, and who is this exaggerating fellow?” He gestured to Eugene.

“Merely a passing by comrade, we met yesterday.” Valentines said casually.

Eugene glanced indignantly at the elder for a moment, and Valentines with his eyes whipping at him for a wink of time, and the man who had opened his mouth, clamped it shut, feeling at a bitter shallow loss of words.

“Eugene this is Watson, Watson, this is Eugene.” Valentines introduced them to each other.

“Nice to meet you Eugene.” Watson said, then his eyes stroked around and found the daily newspaper on the sofa and his eyes flamed, and a peculiar expression came to his face.

He gritted his teeth and his hands clenched hard.

Then a coolness passed in his face, as though there was a green lingering in his angry mind which made him calm, yet still was a little shirty.

He grabbed the newspapers, and frowned, and tuckered his gums.

“Them damn lot, making them protesters like madmen.” He shook his head, as though disappointed and threw it on the sofa.

“What’s wrong Watson?” Eugene asked.

Watson sighed. “Me and a small horde of people are protesting at markets for people selling wine, and already a couple of my comrades have been hanged.” A tear trickled down his eye to his cheek and fell through the air, dabbing onto the soft floor.

Eugene stared at the grieving man in disbelief.

He mouthed quietly, “Hanged?” And gave a rattled shudder, tracing two fingers which were lapped together and treaded down his neck in a morbid gesture.

Valentines looked down, bags cramping under his ash colored eyes, and confirmed it for him.

Eugene looked into the distance, for a couple of moments, then gave a blank stare at Watson, one of his eyebrows raised sadly.

Watson flicked away a tear angrily, his skin turning pale, and his lips trembling. “In fact, wine is the reason my boys were killed. When they protested they were thrown out of the market, and gangs who savor alcohol, and heard the news became angry, and since they were drunk, they hanged them!”

Watson’s face crumpled, and he dragged a hand through his hair, as though to sweep away his destroyed emotions which he felt were drilling into a raw nerve which now was being salted to add to his pain.

“I am deeply sorry for you, Watson.” Valentines said in a snuffed voice and it seemed as though there was a river of grieving mournfulness, and it almost seemed as though small little rambling blue devils were swimming in that pouring river, cackling and mumbling, cheering for the mopes that had come, like a small group of torpedo fish, delighted that they had numbed some prey.

Eugene in his desperation, brushed the area with his sharp watery eyes, and his insides gave a little flutter when they laid on a box of cigars.

He lunged a hand for it and pulled one out and handed it to Watson eagerly.

His stomach gave a little devastated flip when he found out the one he handed was a bit stale and stiff.

He couldn’t sweep together a sentence, and felt his voice staggering, like a yak stumbling down in surprise on the slopes of mountains.

“Oh no, I don’t smoke.” The man said.

“Oh.” The result slipping out of Eugene’s lips was simple and dripping with glumness, like bucketfuls of salty water splashing into the ship and lower deck, making the pirates on board cheesed off.

Yet in that one moment where the man refused the box of cigar, how in that mere moment disappointment dripped in icily, and a whole void of chaos reigned.

Every vibe, raw and regular nerve was as tingled harshly, and it felt like a lengthy bony finger stretched his emotions which were the strings of a violin, and then let go severely, and the rope rips off, giving a downcast salute, and retiring for the day, before he was to be repaired physically, and also emotionally, which would take some time, even for the best therapist in town.

He felt like he was some cab driver and he had lost control of the horses which jumped off a cliff and next thing falling through the air, and then falling down onto something hard, like a marble floor cleaned with the poison of a snake.

Like his teeth as he falls of that cliff and plunged to the ground, and a painful blackout, they are shattered and cracked off, so fast, and his eyes seemed to be sliced with a pointed jagged knife, and his hair is ripped off slowly, and as though his mental attackers did it specifically to fill him with such undeniable pain, and then crack his nose side to side, and drain the blood from his cheeks, and bruise and wound his entire limbs brutally, so that he couldn’t move them an inch, and so, this depressingly happened in metaphor to his emotions, which at last, then he woke up to be in a hospital, getting over the bitter attack of words, but yet the sting of the poisonous words which assaulted him still lay in his raw nerves vividly.

Eugene inclined his head, his chest drooped back, feeling crestfallen, like a warrior who had come back blinded by rusty hard muskets.

Suddenly, Valentine's face lit up, and he chimed up, “Well, Watson, how about we investigate and look for the gang that iced off your friends.” he said, slightly cringing when he said, “Iced off”.

Watson beamed happily at Valentines, and nodded his head vigorously, his skin turned a little red from mischievous delight, a wide pip-full smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“You would do that?” But then his face turned into a cold frown as he motioned to the glass of gin on the sofa next to Valentine's bed.

“But I see you mates like alcohol, why are you helping me?” He said, curiosity leaping like a herd of goats who were uncertain which direction to go, and avoid being a predator's dinner.

“Yes, we might be oenophiles, but we ain’t attracted to the noose, especially when it strings around protesters.”

A smug smile hung gingerly on Watson’s lips, as he said in a cool poisonous voice, “That drunk gang shall pay.” He said in a shallow voice, his eyes glaring with the dark mischievousness of a naughty child who secretly stole a slice of pie.

“Now now, Watson.” Valentines said airily, his eyebrows bugging out. “As it hasn't happened, we don’t know if it will happen.” He said ominously, a queer simper crawling in his thin lips.

Watson, looking giddy, walked out of the room, tipping his bowl hat to them, and with a wistful glance at them, he slithered out of the room like a snake which had eaten its meal, and was licking its fangs, but to Eugene's pessimistic drama, to him it seemed like a cat slinking out of a room, and had eaten a fresh mouse which had just newly come from its poor mum.

Eugene knitted his brows, and he sighed as he thought of a cat, and that grinning cat turned ridiculously into men doing quaint acts which were flipping mad, and then the thoughts turned into a dear lady, and he sighed as he thought of sitting next to one of them skirts, on a bench next to a big lake, talking as he puffed on the cigars.

The fog of romance was broken by the muttering words of Valentines who had apparently been scribbling on his notebook, which he had pulled out of his smoke jacket.

Eugene muttered a string of words, grumbling that his mushy thoughts had been interrupted.

Valentines regarded him with a quirked eyebrow, smoke blowing into the air from his long cigar.

Eugene glared at him slightly, and before Valentines could frown or grow dim with confusion, he inclined his head, mumbling.

“Oh sorry.” Valentines apologized in a stiff voice, and took a swig of peg. “I was just writing in this notebook about the specific looks you get when something emotional strikes in.”

“And why would you do that?”

“To know when you give a startled expression, I’lll know which look it is.”

“What are you, a telepath?”

“None to the least.” The old man flashed a wry smile.

“Well I‘ve got some reservations about you, hell, I should write this on a notebook, the guy smiles way too much.” Eugene stated as he got a fresh pack of cigars and lighted the end of one, putting it in the corner of his mouth.