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Guest fosta

PROMO: An Australian hotel in Sydney

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Guest fosta

I push the door open and the dry, thick stench of the hotel finds my nostrils, and creeps slowly into them. The bar, with the regulars finding their stools at the counter, and several young men and their girlfriends at the pool table, is lit with a green hue. I shuffle my feet across the dark brown carpet, and temporarily turn my head towards the television showcasing a boxing match. It holds most of the men’s attention, and it seems that all conversation bases itself around the match at hand.


A man named Fosta, that’s who I’m here to see. The SJL’s latest addition to the roster, supposed to be a good heel technician. I wonder what such a character would be doing in a place like this as I find myself a seat next to a burley, bald man.


“G’Day mate…” he grumbles through his mustache.


Australian hospitality.




He sits hunched over the bar with a schooner in his hand. The drink is dwarfed in his dirty, callous-ridden hand. Taking a moment to drink his beer, he turns from the television and concentrates on his drink, leaving a thin white froth on his handlebar mustache.


“I’m here for a guy named Fosta… do you know who he is?”


He scratches his bald head for a moment, then strokes his goatee, “Don’t think so mate.”


“Okay, thanks.”


His attention quickly turns back to the boxing match as I stand up. The guys at the pool table shake their head before I get a chance to ask them anything. The other two men at the bar are partaking in a heated discussion. I decide not to interrupt. A couple comes down a flight of stairs, the woman bouncing off the wall in a drunken haze, both laughing at nothing in particular. Actually, this isn’t a couple at all. The man; messed hair, un-tucked t-shirt tie loosened, holds a bottle of bourbon in one hand. His other arm is wrapped around the woman... a hooker. The two of them come passed me, and my shoulder meets his. I failed to get out of his way.


“Watch it you bloody bastard!”


Australian humour.


“Yeh, you bloody bastard.” Shrieks the forty-year-old woman under his arm.


I decide to go upstairs to the hotel rooms. Maybe somebody there will know where he is. The staircase is badly lit. I can barely see the step in front of me, but there is light at the end of the hallway, and I make my way curiously, step by step. I can’t imagine fitting two drunken people next to each other in this tiny hallway, and can’t imagine making it to the bottom without falling when drunk. I turn to my right, and see down the hallway. One door is left open; another has several items of clothes strewn randomly on the floor underneath it. An old aboriginal man sits playing an acoustic guitar; an empty hat at his feet. The chords he plays echo through the corridor, as does his cigarette burnt voice. I drop all my change into his hat.


“Thank you, bruddu.”


He nods and smiles to me, clears his throat, and continues the sad blues song that he sings.


A door opens slowly, and a young blonde woman walks out. She looks no older than twenty. She pushes a wad of money deep into her pocket with a shaking hand, he lipstick smeared slightly, and he hair in a mess at the back. She gives me a sexy smile, and brushes her fingers down my stomach as she walks past.


“Hey darlin', looking for some fun.”


Her voice is nervous, as are her eyes. She swallows hard, but doesn’t take her eyes off my, ahh... pants.




With that she is out of character, and her interest in me disappears as she steps cautiously down the stairs and out of my view. A man walks out of the room after a moment. His hair meets his shoulders, and falls from them in random spots. He has several braids in his hair in any old place, and whether intended or not, several dreadlocks spread through his dark hair. His beard is nearly as unkempt; only cut on the cheeks and shaved on his neck. Between all the hair on his head pokes to eyes, that meet mine and pierce straight through them Light blue, with experienced wrinkles at their sides, and small bags underneath. He has an unbuttoned red flannelette over a tank top, with the sleeves rolled up exposing two large forearms. His jeans cover most of his dusty old boots, and are so worn the stitching is about to break on the knees. In his stance is years of a life like the one he lives now, but there is no remorse. He begins to shuffle towards me, with a nod and smile.


“Ahh, hello sir. I’m looking for a man named Fosta. Do you know him?”


“Yes, I do.”


I notice that he’s American as well.


“I’m Fosta.”

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