The Iinglish Of Dynya: Part 1
Mr. Bunch woke up at exactly seven-thirty on Tuesday morning. He had woken up at seven-thirty on Tuesday morning ever since the hotel had introduced the buffet at eight. His alarm was playing “London Calling” on Spotify. He was very chuffed with the fact he could do that sort of thing, ever since his adult nephew, Malcolm, had shown him several years ago back in Iinglatera. Mr. Bunch wasn’t much for technology. He hated the years spent in the council offices after they brought in computers. Clacking things, he thought, chuckling to himself for no apparent reason, other than the habit. No. Good paper and pen will do fine. Why should he have to use computers? He was already good at his job. Just seemed lazy, and a potential risk; it’ll mean anyone can work for the council, and they won’t need to add or subtract or remember anything.
Mr. Bunch slipped on his shorts before pulling the shutters. The apartments across the road were thankfully too far to fully make out his tangle of white chest hair, adorning his slack pectorals, sitting just above his spherical stomach, but still he was considerate enough to not send the young ladies into spasms, as he so often joked, once again chuckling to himself.
With enough of the early morning coming through the window lace, Mr. Bunch made his way to the bathroom. He paid no attention to his familiar jowls, his hooded bright blue eyes, his wispy hair, nor the freckles sprinkled across his tanned skin, lighter in places where he would cover with shirts. His focus was the toilet, quietly filling with a steady stream of water from the cistern built into the wall, behind white tiles. No matter how often he complained, the hotel still hadn’t fixed the perpetual leak, which meant the toilet was never done refilling. On occasion, Mr. Bunch would pry open a loose tile and readjust a latch so it would close properly. This morning, however, Mr. Bunch didn’t care too much, and instead proceeded to fill the bowl with a dark stream; more caramel than yellow.
The previous night came to his mind as he noticed the discolouration. Spangle VS Hermannia was last night; the first semi-finals in the Europia Championship. Of course, Mr. Bunch was a proud Iinglatera supporter. No finer team in the world. They were Europia Champions in 1969, and they make sure to mention it every chance they get. But a nice game of football is always entertaining, so of course Mr. Bunch went down to the bar of the Hatella D’l Mari, Mr. Bunch’s residence. He ordered a proper drink, or as proper as he could get so far from civilisation, in his words, Bummer’s lager. It used to be next to impossible to get anywhere in Spangle, let alone the seaside town of Dynya, but the influx of tourists from Iinglatera and Hermannia meant management had to order in more homely amenities. Mr. Bunch, finishing the fourth pint with a distracting sigh of satisfaction, and a careless slam upon his lone table in the small hotel bar, cheered randomly, laughing as others turned to him, wondering why he insisted on ruining the game for them. A young staff member, Mygel, tapped Mr. Bunch on the shoulder, asking him, as politely as he could while restraining his own annoyance (himself a passionate Spangle supporter) to please lower his voice.
Mr. Bunch, with some drink in him, couldn’t help but grab hold and rub Mygel’s hand, winking, and saying he will try. Mygel forced a smile and thanked Mr. Bunch, but he still needed to pull himself away from Mr. Bunch’s desperate grip. Mygel wasn’t disgusted, he just wanted to not lead Mr. Bunch on, especially since he often found himself the victim of his advances. But despite Mr. Bunch’s compliance, he returned to his obnoxious cheering and calls for the referee, laughing all the while. Around the seventy-minute mark, Mr. Bunch, growing inebriated to the point he was falling silent, nodding off into a snoring stupor, his double chin uncomfortably positioned on his chest, rising and falling, announced to the disinterested bar that he was off to bed. The ladies behind the bar placatingly smiled and said good night (“Bónasio nació”). Mr. Bunch was just about to respond with his classic “Bono Nachos”, which never failed to summon a raucous bark of laughter from himself, and a disingenuous chuckle from others, but he stopped, realising Mygel was nowhere to be seen. Disappointed, he went up to his hotel room, one-one-one, undressed to fully enjoy the constantly flowing air conditioning, masturbated to pornography, and fell asleep.
The towel he had used for his nightly routine was in the designated corner. A creature of habit for the last nine years, he always put his used towel in the same corner of the bathroom for the cleaners, “the zenorasitas”, as he called them. If they were ever disgusted with the stains on the towels and bed sheets, they never complained. Not to him, at least. But even if they were, he was unlikely to change. Why should he? After all, he was their longest staying guest.
Mr. Bunch was a homosexual who had no interest in marriage nor children. The youngest person he’d willingly be in the company of was whatever the age of consent was. In Spangle it happened to be eighteen, which Mr. Bunch agreed was a suitable age. He had no interest in the young, but he did admit he enjoyed other aspects; looks, vitality, and their adventurous spirit. It also helped that Mr. Bunch had made some wise investments in his younger years with the help of his brother, Malcolm’s father, Nathan, an investment broker. Retiring early on a state pension and with investments doing well, Mr. Bunch had left the cold, draughty winters in the hills of Sur for the warm breezes and lapping waves of Dynya, a sunny paradise all year round, hot even for more mainland Spanglesians. Though not wealthy, Mr. Bunch had arranged a life for himself that was extremely comfortable; year long leases with the hotel assured food and board was covered ahead of time, he could come and go as he pleased, and he would treat himself to a younger man every so often, either through a bar or through an agency. But Mygel was always the one he really wanted, the one he had yet to have. Young, handsome, twenty-year-old Mygel.
Having finished relieving himself in the bathroom, Mr. Bunch inspected his stubbly face. He would need a shave, and, he supposed, a shower. He tried to sniff, but his nose remained as dumb as ever, being nose blind from birth. He took it for granted, that in this heat, it was best practice to shower daily. But he decided to wait until after breakfast. He wanted to see Mygel.
Mr. Bunch, having gotten dressed fully, with lapis blue slip-ons, a novelty short-sleeve shirt covered in cartoon bananas, and his whickered trilby hat, patted his pockets, assuring himself he had his phone-wallet, containing his cards and room key, exited, walking down the hallway, past kitsch paintings of Spanglesian farmlands, heading for the elevators.
#HI
