Bartley Jones, a man in his late forties, adjusted his thick glasses and slumped over the counter at the Regent Hotel in downtown Las Vegas. His appearance seemed more suited to a librarian in a small, secluded town. His gangly frame was adorned in grungy, loose-fitting, all-black attire that screamed "Thrift Store Clearance Special." Bartley's unruly, greasy hair added to his disheveled appearance, as if he had just rolled out of bed.
Despite his off-putting presence, Bartley seemed oblivious to the discomfort he caused others. His panicky brown eyes darted between a young blonde girl typing on a computer in front of him and a large flat-screen TV broadcasting the news behind her. Across from him, his elderly mother, dressed in an orange jogging suit, sat in a zombie-like daze.
Bartley cast a concerned glance at his mother before turning his attention back to the girl at the counter. He tapped his long, shaky fingers on the hard marble-top surface and let out a noisy sigh. "Did, d-did you find us?" he stammered.
The girl looked up with a polite smile. "Just one moment, Mr. Jones. It's Halloween, and we're a bit overbooked, so the computer is running a bit slow."
"Oh, no problem at all! Take your time! Take your time! I'm in no hurry. It's my first time in Vegas, you know," Bartley replied, flashing a slightly unsettling grin.
"How wonderful for you, sir! I'm certain you'll enjoy everything our hotel has to offer!" she responded.
At that moment, Bartley heard a collective gasp from the people behind him. He turned to see their wide-eyed, slack-jawed expressions fixated on the TV screen. Intrigued, he shifted his gaze to the television, where a disturbing image of a man's severely mangled face filled the screen. "What in the world is that on the news? Some kind of Halloween costume?" he inquired, glancing back at the counter girl. She turned to look, her expression contorting in horror.
"Oh, you don't know, Mr. Jones? It's about the guy who had his face chewed off by the naked... zombie-like man?" she replied, her voice laced with a mix of disbelief and revulsion.
Bartley's complexion drained of color, and he placed both hands on his cheeks, staring at the screen in silence.
"It happened just yesterday. Haven't you heard about it?" the girl asked, her surprise evident.
"I try to avoid the news," he admitted. "Mommy says TV is bad for me. But why would someone do such a thing, chewing another person's face?"
The girl shrugged, her expression mirroring the grim confusion of the news. "I'm not really sure. All they mentioned was that a naked man attacked a homeless person and started eating their face, in broad daylight. Probably drugs, they say."
Bartley shook his head, letting out a sigh of empathy. "It's truly awful... I just can't wrap my head around why people turn to those illegal drugs, knowing how easily they can lose control. Legal medications, on the other hand, provide stability. Like mine, Haldol. If I miss too many days, I can get a bit... coconut crazy, you know."
His mother's voice, tinged with cynicism, broke in, "When was the last time you took your pills, Bart?"
Bart turned toward his mother, a glint of resentment in his eyes. "Oh, come on, Mother! You don't honestly believe I'm so far gone that I need them daily now, do you?"
The old woman scoffed and looked away, her silence speaking volumes.
The counter girl, sensing the tension, stared blankly for a moment before hastening her typing. "I understand what you mean, Mr. Jones. And good news, I found your reservation. Here are your room keys." She pushed the card keys across the counter, retracting her hand quickly. Bartley snatched the keys and picked up his suitcase.
"Thank you so much! And be sure to watch out for ravenous naked men on drugs!" he quipped.
"I will, Mr. Jones, and you do your best to stay out of trouble. It is Sin City, after all," the counter girl replied with a forced chuckle. Bartley chuckled too and turned to his mother. "Ready, Mummy?" The elderly woman sighed, and they made their way to the elevators.
Minutes later, Bartley stood in front of his room, repeatedly swiping the card key into the lock until the little light flashed green. With a sense of anticipation, he pushed open the door and stepped inside. It was his first time in such a luxurious hotel, and his face lit up as he took in the opulence around him. The room was a sight to behold, every inch gleaming and lavishly adorned. Bartley couldn't help but smile at the plush carpet, the king-sized bed piled high with silk and cotton pillows, and the 60-inch flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. An array of snacks, fruits, and liquors adorned the cherry oak table.
As Bartley ventured further into the room, he opened another door, revealing a bathroom nearly as spacious as the bedroom itself. White marble sinks, black floors with streaks of gold, and a Jacuzzi tub big enough for four people caught his eye.
Excitement bubbling, Bartley skipped back into the main room, tossed his suitcase onto the floor, and kicked off his shoes. He leaped onto the bed, bouncing up and down like an ecstatic child. "I.... am ha-ving the time of my.... Liiiife," he sang joyfully as he jumped off the bed and clicked on the TV. Then, he dashed toward the balcony. "And I ne-ver felt this way be-fore!" he sang as he stepped onto the balcony, which offered a breathtaking view of the Las Vegas strip. With arms outstretched, Bartley beamed. "I'm the king of the world!" he shouted.
From various directions, voices shouted back at him, "Shut up!" from below, "Go home!" from above, and the distant declaration, "I fucking love this place!"
"Stop being such a moron, Bart," his mother scolded.
Bartley smiled at his mother and stepped back into the main room. His eyes scanned the array of amenities, and he opened the fridge briefly before closing it again. Next, he approached the closet, pulled out a bathrobe, and decided he needed a bath. "Oh, but first, I must order lunch to be delivered. Do you want something, Mother?"
"You know I don't eat," she replied, her bitterness evident.
Ignoring her, he glanced at the wall clock, which read 1:33 pm. Sitting on the bed, he picked up the phone from the nightstand and dialed room service. "Hello, is this room service?"
"Yes, Mr. Jones, how can we assist you today?" came a man's voice through the phone speaker.
"Well, I'd love a hamburger with pickles and some French fries, please. If it's not too much trouble," Bartley replied, giggling loudly and winking at his mother.
"Absolutely, Mr. Jones. Would you prefer your meat cooked medium or well?"
"Oh, um, I suppose you ought to cook it as best as you can. Spare no effort!"
"Of course, sir. We'll have that up for you in no time, and..."
"WAIT!" Bartley suddenly screamed.
"Yes, Mr. Jones?"
"Bring it up at 2:45. I'm going to take a bath right now and would like to soak for a while, if you catch my drift."
"Y-yes, Mr. Jones, I understand. 2:45 it is," the man replied before hanging up.
Bartley placed the phone back on the receiver and let out a satisfied sigh. "See, Mommy? I can manage just fine." He stood up, laid the bathrobe on top of the bed, and retrieved his suitcase. Opening it, he removed a leather hygiene travel bag and set it beside the bathrobe. However, his attention was suddenly drawn to the TV screen, where the image of the man with the eaten face reappeared. His stomach churned, and thoughts of lunch vanished. "There are some truly sick people out there, don't you agree, Mother?"
His mother shot him a brief, stern look. "Indeed, Bartley. Indeed..."
Ignoring her, Bartley continued to watch the news report. The screen displayed the disfigured face of the homeless man and then shifted to an image of a censored, partially nude corpse of a black man.
"What was initially thought to be an early Halloween prank has escalated into a gruesome scene. We have just confirmed that the attacker, who was shot and killed by the police, has been identified as Rudy Eugene."
Bartley, his hand covering his mouth, tossed the remote to the floor and grabbed his robe. He clutched his stomach and sighed in disbelief as he made his way into the bathroom. The pale man turned on the water for the oversized tub, glancing at the various gels and soaps. His eyes fell on a lavender bag labeled "Finest Bath Salts." Bartley dipped his pinky into the bag, tasted a few granules, and swallowed. Satisfied, he emptied the entire bag into the hot, steaming water as it continued to rise. Within moments, he shed his clothing and eased into the soothing bath.
An hour passed.
The wrinkled man emerged from the bathtub, dried off, and donned his glasses and bathrobe. He peered into the mirror, playfully sticking out his tongue. Bartley then turned towards the door and reentered the main room, where the TV blared loudly. His mother remained in the same chair as she had an hour ago, staring blankly at the wall. "Mommy! I'm all clean now!" the peculiar man chuckled.
While organizing his clothes on the bed, the TV once again grabbed his attention. "It is now confirmed that the culprit of this vicious assault was on a drug called bath salts. That’s right, bath salts. Please stay tuned for more information on the lethal chemicals-"
Bartley screamed. His face went from rosy red to stark white. His eyes widened, pupils dilating unnaturally, as he turned to face the TV. The news show ended and went to a commercial break. Bartley grabbed his wet, brown hair and moaned in agony. "Bath Salts! Bath Salts! I just ate some bath salts! Oh my god, oh no, what... what... what did I do, Momma? I’m... oh my... oh my god!"
His mother cackled loudly as she continued staring at the wall. "You always were a colossal fuck-up, Bartley. Ever since you were just a boy. Little Bart… the big fuck-up, we'd say!"
"Shut up!" he screamed. The panicked man turned the TV off and paced the room back and forth, back and forth. He opened his suitcase and frantically searched through it. Finally, he retrieved a prescription bottle labeled "Haldol: One to Two Pills Twice daily or as needed." He unscrewed the cap and dropped two pills into his sweaty palm, then two more, and two more until his hand was full of them. He opened the fridge underneath the TV, took out a single-serve-sized bottle of vodka, and washed down the pills. Bartley stumbled to the corner of the room, collapsing onto the carpet. He rocked back and forth, clutching his head where images of an eaten face flashed violently. His stomach growled, and the room seemed to tremble all around him.
And this is how it begins, he thought to himself.
A few minutes later, there came a firm knock on the door. Bartley clenched his fists and pounded his head until his eyes, bloodshot and wild, bore the unmistakable signs of frenzy. He sprang up, shedding his bathrobe, and strode toward the door in complete nudity.
"What are you planning, Bart?" his mother asked in a tone of apathy, remaining seated in her chair.
Bartley disregarded her inquiry and forcefully swung the door wide open. Standing on the threshold was the Room Service Attendant, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Juan Valdez. The Hispanic man was clad in white pants and a white polo shirt, cradling a metallic platter beneath a silver-domed cover. The once-smiling eyes of the attendant transformed into an expression of stark terror upon witnessing the naked and frenzied Bartley Jones looming before him. The unhinged Bartley clutched the man's shirt and forcibly dragged him into the room, where a struggle ensued as Bartley attempted to sink his teeth into the man's face.
In the hallway, an older gentleman who had been casually strolling by abruptly halted, peered inside, and promptly recoiled in horror, unleashing a terrified scream. Meanwhile, the attendant, who had dropped the platter to the floor, fought desperately and screamed for Bartley to cease the assault. Unfortunately for the man, the raving lunatic could only hear his mother shouting loudly at him in the background.
"Finish him, Bartley!" she wailed. "Do it, my boy!"
Both Bartley and the attendant tumbled to the floor, inadvertently crushing the burger and mashing the fries beneath them. "Please! Let me go! Please!" the man begged. Yet, Bartley was entrenched in a blind rage, his insatiable hunger driven by vivid, horrifying images of the mutilated face he had witnessed on the news. The crazed man finally managed to sink his teeth into the man's cheek. Blood flowed down the victim's face, staining the attendant's white shirt and pants, as well as the plush olive carpet. Bartley expelled a mouthful of blood against the wall and gripped the attendant's neck with his gnarled fingers, all the while laughing hysterically. "Your hotel should never have provided bath salts to the guests! I'm on bath salts right now! I intend to sink my teeth into your soft, supple flesh and consume you bit by bit!"
The attendant's screams were deafening, drowning in the cacophony of his mother's relentless nagging from the back of the room. "You need to silence this man, Bartley. You know how weary I get in the afternoon. End him now, Bartley. END HIM NOW..."
As Bartley lunged for the man's throat, two police officers burst into the room from the hallway, guns drawn and aimed squarely at Bartley. "STOP WHAT YOU'RE DOING AND PUT YOUR HANDS UP!" bellowed the first officer.
The lunatic jerked his head up, blood dripping from his mouth, and a fiery intensity in his eyes. He gazed blankly for a moment, then resumed his assault on the attendant. The officer squeezed the trigger, sending a shot into Bartley's shoulder that knocked the naked man onto his back. Confusion clouded Bartley's mind as he stared at the ceiling, his heart pounding at a frenetic pace.
The police officer quickly attended to the bloody attendant, radioing for emergency medical assistance.
Bartley's face turned a bright crimson, nearly matching the sticky gore that now coated his naked body. He looked down, confronting the gruesome reality of his actions, and an overwhelming shame etched itself across his face. Tears welled up in his eyes as he cried out, "Mommy, why didn't you stop me?"
Mrs. Jones remained silent, her devilish gaze fixed on the pitiful man.
The officer who had fired the shot approached cautiously, gun still at the ready. "Sir, are you under the influence of any drugs right now?"
Bartley continued to gaze at his mother. "Momma? Answer me!" he screamed.
"SIR! Who are you talking to?" the officer demanded.
Bartley slowly turned his head toward the policeman. "I'm talking to my Mommy, Officer. She's right there," he said, gesturing with a nod toward his mother.
The officer glanced over and saw an empty chair. "I'll ask you one more time, Sir. Are you on any drugs right now?"
Bartley stared at the officer and tilted his head. He remembered the news, the disfigured face, the man who was killed, and the drug he was on. "I'm on bath salts. I ingested and bathed in the finest bath salts, Officer. This... this wasn't my fault. It was the hotel—the hotel gave them to me."
Another officer approached with a blanket and a pair of handcuffs, swiftly restraining the deranged Bartley Jones and standing him up. "Just ask my Mommy! She's right there!" Bartley pointed once more at the empty chair.
The officer shook his head, while a third policeman produced an empty bottle of Haldol. "Why do you take these pills, Mr. Jones?"
Bartley stared at the empty pill bottle and raised his eyebrows. "I don't know... I just don't know. It's not my fault. The bath salts..."
"Alright then. Get his shoulder patched up and get him out of here," the officer commanded, his voice tinged with disdain. "Happy Halloween, gentlemen."
Minutes later, Bartley shuffled through the hotel lobby in police custody. His disheveled hair, blood-smeared face, and bony bare legs drew the attention of everyone present. He glanced toward the reception counter, where he locked eyes once more with the blonde receptionist who had checked him in just a few hours earlier. She stood there, wide-eyed and silently mouthing, "What-the-fuck..."
In the distance, Bartley could still hear the faint sound of his mother, cackling with glee.
"It wasn't my fault, Mommy. It's not my fault."
Despite his off-putting presence, Bartley seemed oblivious to the discomfort he caused others. His panicky brown eyes darted between a young blonde girl typing on a computer in front of him and a large flat-screen TV broadcasting the news behind her. Across from him, his elderly mother, dressed in an orange jogging suit, sat in a zombie-like daze.
Bartley cast a concerned glance at his mother before turning his attention back to the girl at the counter. He tapped his long, shaky fingers on the hard marble-top surface and let out a noisy sigh. "Did, d-did you find us?" he stammered.
The girl looked up with a polite smile. "Just one moment, Mr. Jones. It's Halloween, and we're a bit overbooked, so the computer is running a bit slow."
"Oh, no problem at all! Take your time! Take your time! I'm in no hurry. It's my first time in Vegas, you know," Bartley replied, flashing a slightly unsettling grin.
"How wonderful for you, sir! I'm certain you'll enjoy everything our hotel has to offer!" she responded.
At that moment, Bartley heard a collective gasp from the people behind him. He turned to see their wide-eyed, slack-jawed expressions fixated on the TV screen. Intrigued, he shifted his gaze to the television, where a disturbing image of a man's severely mangled face filled the screen. "What in the world is that on the news? Some kind of Halloween costume?" he inquired, glancing back at the counter girl. She turned to look, her expression contorting in horror.
"Oh, you don't know, Mr. Jones? It's about the guy who had his face chewed off by the naked... zombie-like man?" she replied, her voice laced with a mix of disbelief and revulsion.
Bartley's complexion drained of color, and he placed both hands on his cheeks, staring at the screen in silence.
"It happened just yesterday. Haven't you heard about it?" the girl asked, her surprise evident.
"I try to avoid the news," he admitted. "Mommy says TV is bad for me. But why would someone do such a thing, chewing another person's face?"
The girl shrugged, her expression mirroring the grim confusion of the news. "I'm not really sure. All they mentioned was that a naked man attacked a homeless person and started eating their face, in broad daylight. Probably drugs, they say."
Bartley shook his head, letting out a sigh of empathy. "It's truly awful... I just can't wrap my head around why people turn to those illegal drugs, knowing how easily they can lose control. Legal medications, on the other hand, provide stability. Like mine, Haldol. If I miss too many days, I can get a bit... coconut crazy, you know."
His mother's voice, tinged with cynicism, broke in, "When was the last time you took your pills, Bart?"
Bart turned toward his mother, a glint of resentment in his eyes. "Oh, come on, Mother! You don't honestly believe I'm so far gone that I need them daily now, do you?"
The old woman scoffed and looked away, her silence speaking volumes.
The counter girl, sensing the tension, stared blankly for a moment before hastening her typing. "I understand what you mean, Mr. Jones. And good news, I found your reservation. Here are your room keys." She pushed the card keys across the counter, retracting her hand quickly. Bartley snatched the keys and picked up his suitcase.
"Thank you so much! And be sure to watch out for ravenous naked men on drugs!" he quipped.
"I will, Mr. Jones, and you do your best to stay out of trouble. It is Sin City, after all," the counter girl replied with a forced chuckle. Bartley chuckled too and turned to his mother. "Ready, Mummy?" The elderly woman sighed, and they made their way to the elevators.
Minutes later, Bartley stood in front of his room, repeatedly swiping the card key into the lock until the little light flashed green. With a sense of anticipation, he pushed open the door and stepped inside. It was his first time in such a luxurious hotel, and his face lit up as he took in the opulence around him. The room was a sight to behold, every inch gleaming and lavishly adorned. Bartley couldn't help but smile at the plush carpet, the king-sized bed piled high with silk and cotton pillows, and the 60-inch flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. An array of snacks, fruits, and liquors adorned the cherry oak table.
As Bartley ventured further into the room, he opened another door, revealing a bathroom nearly as spacious as the bedroom itself. White marble sinks, black floors with streaks of gold, and a Jacuzzi tub big enough for four people caught his eye.
Excitement bubbling, Bartley skipped back into the main room, tossed his suitcase onto the floor, and kicked off his shoes. He leaped onto the bed, bouncing up and down like an ecstatic child. "I.... am ha-ving the time of my.... Liiiife," he sang joyfully as he jumped off the bed and clicked on the TV. Then, he dashed toward the balcony. "And I ne-ver felt this way be-fore!" he sang as he stepped onto the balcony, which offered a breathtaking view of the Las Vegas strip. With arms outstretched, Bartley beamed. "I'm the king of the world!" he shouted.
From various directions, voices shouted back at him, "Shut up!" from below, "Go home!" from above, and the distant declaration, "I fucking love this place!"
"Stop being such a moron, Bart," his mother scolded.
Bartley smiled at his mother and stepped back into the main room. His eyes scanned the array of amenities, and he opened the fridge briefly before closing it again. Next, he approached the closet, pulled out a bathrobe, and decided he needed a bath. "Oh, but first, I must order lunch to be delivered. Do you want something, Mother?"
"You know I don't eat," she replied, her bitterness evident.
Ignoring her, he glanced at the wall clock, which read 1:33 pm. Sitting on the bed, he picked up the phone from the nightstand and dialed room service. "Hello, is this room service?"
"Yes, Mr. Jones, how can we assist you today?" came a man's voice through the phone speaker.
"Well, I'd love a hamburger with pickles and some French fries, please. If it's not too much trouble," Bartley replied, giggling loudly and winking at his mother.
"Absolutely, Mr. Jones. Would you prefer your meat cooked medium or well?"
"Oh, um, I suppose you ought to cook it as best as you can. Spare no effort!"
"Of course, sir. We'll have that up for you in no time, and..."
"WAIT!" Bartley suddenly screamed.
"Yes, Mr. Jones?"
"Bring it up at 2:45. I'm going to take a bath right now and would like to soak for a while, if you catch my drift."
"Y-yes, Mr. Jones, I understand. 2:45 it is," the man replied before hanging up.
Bartley placed the phone back on the receiver and let out a satisfied sigh. "See, Mommy? I can manage just fine." He stood up, laid the bathrobe on top of the bed, and retrieved his suitcase. Opening it, he removed a leather hygiene travel bag and set it beside the bathrobe. However, his attention was suddenly drawn to the TV screen, where the image of the man with the eaten face reappeared. His stomach churned, and thoughts of lunch vanished. "There are some truly sick people out there, don't you agree, Mother?"
His mother shot him a brief, stern look. "Indeed, Bartley. Indeed..."
Ignoring her, Bartley continued to watch the news report. The screen displayed the disfigured face of the homeless man and then shifted to an image of a censored, partially nude corpse of a black man.
"What was initially thought to be an early Halloween prank has escalated into a gruesome scene. We have just confirmed that the attacker, who was shot and killed by the police, has been identified as Rudy Eugene."
Bartley, his hand covering his mouth, tossed the remote to the floor and grabbed his robe. He clutched his stomach and sighed in disbelief as he made his way into the bathroom. The pale man turned on the water for the oversized tub, glancing at the various gels and soaps. His eyes fell on a lavender bag labeled "Finest Bath Salts." Bartley dipped his pinky into the bag, tasted a few granules, and swallowed. Satisfied, he emptied the entire bag into the hot, steaming water as it continued to rise. Within moments, he shed his clothing and eased into the soothing bath.
An hour passed.
The wrinkled man emerged from the bathtub, dried off, and donned his glasses and bathrobe. He peered into the mirror, playfully sticking out his tongue. Bartley then turned towards the door and reentered the main room, where the TV blared loudly. His mother remained in the same chair as she had an hour ago, staring blankly at the wall. "Mommy! I'm all clean now!" the peculiar man chuckled.
While organizing his clothes on the bed, the TV once again grabbed his attention. "It is now confirmed that the culprit of this vicious assault was on a drug called bath salts. That’s right, bath salts. Please stay tuned for more information on the lethal chemicals-"
Bartley screamed. His face went from rosy red to stark white. His eyes widened, pupils dilating unnaturally, as he turned to face the TV. The news show ended and went to a commercial break. Bartley grabbed his wet, brown hair and moaned in agony. "Bath Salts! Bath Salts! I just ate some bath salts! Oh my god, oh no, what... what... what did I do, Momma? I’m... oh my... oh my god!"
His mother cackled loudly as she continued staring at the wall. "You always were a colossal fuck-up, Bartley. Ever since you were just a boy. Little Bart… the big fuck-up, we'd say!"
"Shut up!" he screamed. The panicked man turned the TV off and paced the room back and forth, back and forth. He opened his suitcase and frantically searched through it. Finally, he retrieved a prescription bottle labeled "Haldol: One to Two Pills Twice daily or as needed." He unscrewed the cap and dropped two pills into his sweaty palm, then two more, and two more until his hand was full of them. He opened the fridge underneath the TV, took out a single-serve-sized bottle of vodka, and washed down the pills. Bartley stumbled to the corner of the room, collapsing onto the carpet. He rocked back and forth, clutching his head where images of an eaten face flashed violently. His stomach growled, and the room seemed to tremble all around him.
And this is how it begins, he thought to himself.
A few minutes later, there came a firm knock on the door. Bartley clenched his fists and pounded his head until his eyes, bloodshot and wild, bore the unmistakable signs of frenzy. He sprang up, shedding his bathrobe, and strode toward the door in complete nudity.
"What are you planning, Bart?" his mother asked in a tone of apathy, remaining seated in her chair.
Bartley disregarded her inquiry and forcefully swung the door wide open. Standing on the threshold was the Room Service Attendant, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Juan Valdez. The Hispanic man was clad in white pants and a white polo shirt, cradling a metallic platter beneath a silver-domed cover. The once-smiling eyes of the attendant transformed into an expression of stark terror upon witnessing the naked and frenzied Bartley Jones looming before him. The unhinged Bartley clutched the man's shirt and forcibly dragged him into the room, where a struggle ensued as Bartley attempted to sink his teeth into the man's face.
In the hallway, an older gentleman who had been casually strolling by abruptly halted, peered inside, and promptly recoiled in horror, unleashing a terrified scream. Meanwhile, the attendant, who had dropped the platter to the floor, fought desperately and screamed for Bartley to cease the assault. Unfortunately for the man, the raving lunatic could only hear his mother shouting loudly at him in the background.
"Finish him, Bartley!" she wailed. "Do it, my boy!"
Both Bartley and the attendant tumbled to the floor, inadvertently crushing the burger and mashing the fries beneath them. "Please! Let me go! Please!" the man begged. Yet, Bartley was entrenched in a blind rage, his insatiable hunger driven by vivid, horrifying images of the mutilated face he had witnessed on the news. The crazed man finally managed to sink his teeth into the man's cheek. Blood flowed down the victim's face, staining the attendant's white shirt and pants, as well as the plush olive carpet. Bartley expelled a mouthful of blood against the wall and gripped the attendant's neck with his gnarled fingers, all the while laughing hysterically. "Your hotel should never have provided bath salts to the guests! I'm on bath salts right now! I intend to sink my teeth into your soft, supple flesh and consume you bit by bit!"
The attendant's screams were deafening, drowning in the cacophony of his mother's relentless nagging from the back of the room. "You need to silence this man, Bartley. You know how weary I get in the afternoon. End him now, Bartley. END HIM NOW..."
As Bartley lunged for the man's throat, two police officers burst into the room from the hallway, guns drawn and aimed squarely at Bartley. "STOP WHAT YOU'RE DOING AND PUT YOUR HANDS UP!" bellowed the first officer.
The lunatic jerked his head up, blood dripping from his mouth, and a fiery intensity in his eyes. He gazed blankly for a moment, then resumed his assault on the attendant. The officer squeezed the trigger, sending a shot into Bartley's shoulder that knocked the naked man onto his back. Confusion clouded Bartley's mind as he stared at the ceiling, his heart pounding at a frenetic pace.
The police officer quickly attended to the bloody attendant, radioing for emergency medical assistance.
Bartley's face turned a bright crimson, nearly matching the sticky gore that now coated his naked body. He looked down, confronting the gruesome reality of his actions, and an overwhelming shame etched itself across his face. Tears welled up in his eyes as he cried out, "Mommy, why didn't you stop me?"
Mrs. Jones remained silent, her devilish gaze fixed on the pitiful man.
The officer who had fired the shot approached cautiously, gun still at the ready. "Sir, are you under the influence of any drugs right now?"
Bartley continued to gaze at his mother. "Momma? Answer me!" he screamed.
"SIR! Who are you talking to?" the officer demanded.
Bartley slowly turned his head toward the policeman. "I'm talking to my Mommy, Officer. She's right there," he said, gesturing with a nod toward his mother.
The officer glanced over and saw an empty chair. "I'll ask you one more time, Sir. Are you on any drugs right now?"
Bartley stared at the officer and tilted his head. He remembered the news, the disfigured face, the man who was killed, and the drug he was on. "I'm on bath salts. I ingested and bathed in the finest bath salts, Officer. This... this wasn't my fault. It was the hotel—the hotel gave them to me."
Another officer approached with a blanket and a pair of handcuffs, swiftly restraining the deranged Bartley Jones and standing him up. "Just ask my Mommy! She's right there!" Bartley pointed once more at the empty chair.
The officer shook his head, while a third policeman produced an empty bottle of Haldol. "Why do you take these pills, Mr. Jones?"
Bartley stared at the empty pill bottle and raised his eyebrows. "I don't know... I just don't know. It's not my fault. The bath salts..."
"Alright then. Get his shoulder patched up and get him out of here," the officer commanded, his voice tinged with disdain. "Happy Halloween, gentlemen."
Minutes later, Bartley shuffled through the hotel lobby in police custody. His disheveled hair, blood-smeared face, and bony bare legs drew the attention of everyone present. He glanced toward the reception counter, where he locked eyes once more with the blonde receptionist who had checked him in just a few hours earlier. She stood there, wide-eyed and silently mouthing, "What-the-fuck..."
In the distance, Bartley could still hear the faint sound of his mother, cackling with glee.
"It wasn't my fault, Mommy. It's not my fault."
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