Chris didn’t know the time, why he was being asked to consort with the same people that more often than not wanted him gone, and plus, something had happened to his coffee. He looked at the corner of the room, and he must have knocked it onto the floor when he ejected from the chair. There were also some narcotics sitting on the rickety table.

He wiped the dope away. Next, there was something he was looking for. His khakis! All three of his phones were inside of his pant pockets. He lifted them from the floor, ringed them out, put his legs on for pulling them up, tucked his shirt in, and buttoned up. 

He was already dressed and groomed, but remembered his priceless leather jacket. He zipped to the closet, yanked it off the small rack and threw it on. He did a shake, then a stretch. Besides that, he surveyed his hair and his shave, and his nails and finally, his teeth. He looked good.

He picked out the phone that the Colombians had the number to. That could be bad, or good. 

He put the other two beneath the left side of the bed, where he had twelve ounces of cocaine. He had received a call earlier in the morning, one of his pals’ son, who was coming up. He promised he had $5,000, but he didn’t call anymore since 6:00a.m., so Chris kept it in the room.

He exited his hotel room, not so much looking around suspiciously, just taking a gander around the court. He didn’t see anything, so he walked to the stairs of the old, cheap hotel, raced down the stairs to the managerial office, told her that he had left a Do Not Disturb notice hanging from, outside of the,  made a point for housekeeping to know that, and rented the room for one more day.

He went to his car, a Cadillac equipped with a thick, reinforced steel so he would not die if it ever exploded, and Bluetooth technology with a featured satellite radio, DVD players, advanced GPS, and etc. He stepped in, and slid down, and started the car. He backed up, and was on his way to the gangland conference.