The Island of Doctor Morose
I’d put on weight, obviously, but between the healthy tans of the other guests and the hideous yellow weave of the polo shirt I put on, I look like rancid pizza dough. My neck is red with what looks like sunburn, and the week I spent in the Seychelles acclimatising has made the rest of my skin a colour that closely approximates artificial clementine pith. My eyes are ringed with puffy, bruise-like marks, and my mouth is held open by a mixture of jowls and exhaustion. The fatty orange panda needs caffeine, and as I reach the dining room I realise how badly out of condition I am. In the room there was a coffee machine, a proper filter one with good beans, or at least a fair approximation thereof, and a minibar that would have had a cola or something, and a telephone with which to call room service. I am shown to a small table in the corner near the omelette station and am sitting down before I realise that I have left my own telephone in the room as well. It might be remote, but it’s got wi-fi. I’m starting to wonder what I’m doing here when I notice that I’m still not hungry.
It’s one of those buffet paradises, miles of fresh fruit, eager-looking chefs ready to make me omelettes, to customise my “oatmeal” with nuts and sugary toppings, and finally, bile still in the back of my throat, I spot the toaster. It’s a chrome monstrosity that looks like it ought to have wheels and a driver, parked in a Monaco motoring museum. I can’t bring myself to stand for a couple of minutes, and when I get over there I’m confronted with choice. Again, tucked shamefully in the corner, is what I’m looking for, and relatively soon I have two damp slices of white bread, barely toasted. Coffee washes it down, and I feel almost human.
They bring round glossy dossiers while I’m still nibbling, and I spend a while watching the others reading before I look at mine. I already know what it’s likely to say, and I’m more interested in their reaction. This is a standard bid or betray, and I’m expecting at least half of those here to be enforcers rather than evaluators. I’m one of the few lone operatives, it seems; most tables have two or three, all looking much better than I.
You can find the complete version of The Island of Doctor Morose in issue 70 of TBD.