Security 2 2022

The management and security left me to myself on the mezzanine.

The source for what the GM claimed was the curse became easy to find. The trail went backward, from the rooms to the elevator and down to the basement floor, where all the offices were located. Pass those offices, and you are on your way to the locker rooms, and it's there that the tampering becomes evident. Missing hair brushes and combs. The source was a front desk employee who was effervescent on the outside but severely insecure on the inside. Especially to those whom he perceived were trying to best him. So he collected their hair, employees and guests alike, and put curses on them. I reported my findings to the GM and asked him what steps he needed me to take? 

"You're the expert," he scoffed. "I leave that up to you."

"You asked me to get rid of it," I reminded him. "Getting rid of the curse means sending it back, which means your employee will get hurt or worse. So, how do you want it done?"

"Couldn't I just fire him?" The GM asked.

"You could," I agreed. "But the curse will still be in place."

"I don't want him to die," the GM responded meekly. 

"Alright, I'll take care of it," I assured him.

The curse was sent back, and the employee fell ill. His illness went on too long until he exhausted his sick days. Still not able to return to work, he was finally let go. Anytime after that, when he attempted to send more curses to the hotel, it backfired and revisited itself upon him. Pretty simple. The general manager and I met again at the property, where we sat in the swank restaurant enjoying pūpū and drinks. The stares, comments, and general vocalizations about my presence were amusing, at least, I thought so. He slid an envelope across the table toward me, to which I humbly received it, and then I excused myself to leave. I might say a patron, or a tourist, stopped me and asked me to get him a drink. I informed him that I did not work at the resort, to which he replied, "Then what the hell are you here for?"

I looked at him straight and asked, "If you had a minute to live, what would you do?"

"What?" He screeched in the way that obnoxious tourists who think that Hawaii is a third-world country are oft meant to do. 

"If you had a minute to live, what would you do?" I asked again.

"I'm sorry," he overly dramatically affected. "I didn't understand your English the first time."

"It's the queen's English; not everyone gets it the first time," I replied. "You've got a minute to live; what do you do?"

"I'd fuck everything that wasn't nailed down," he boasted with his inflated chest and ego.

"In a minute?" I reconfirmed. 

Suddenly a woman walked up behind him and slapped him across the face. It was his wife. "A minute is all you're good for, you asshole!"