Ottis Gibson attempts to tell of an ordeal, but how far will he get before his lips are sealed?
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Ottis Gibson wakes up and knows something is wrong.
It all feels different now.
He checks his wallet; it’s lighter than he thinks it should be, but it’s still there.
His phone is switched off, but it hasn’t been taken.
His clothes have been pressed and are hanging up in his stylish and comfortable modern-looking hotel room that has a view of the ocean.
All of his belongings are neatly stacked in the corner.
His computer is charging on the desk next to a complimentary fruit basket and two bottles of water.
Still he senses something is wrong.
His mobile phone won’t turn on.
The hotel room phone has no ring tone.
No matter how much he tries he cannot get the mobile Wifi code to work.
His door is locked shut, more than locked, it’s like there is a dead bolt from the outside.
The balcony of his room is at least 12 stories high, and it is far from any other balconies for him to jump to.
Ottis is trapped.
He picks up the folder with the hotel’s amenities list in it as a last ditch effort to escape or contact the outside world.
There is none.
As he closes the folder in a defeated way his hand runs over the raised lettering on the front. His hotel is called the International Continental Club.
In a dramatic and slightly over the top way his eyes put together the first letters of each word.
He now knows why this has happened to him, he screams in a masculine but still fairly high pitched way as he looks straight up for inspiration.
Ottis is then back on his bed, sweating, panting, and clutching ferociously at the sheets. It was a nightmare. None of this really happened.
Just to be sure Ottis checks his mobile, which is still on and was locked mid-way through a rooftop level of plants v zombies. The hotel phone has a dialtone. And his front door is easily opened.
Sure his wallet is still a bit lighter. That makes sense though.
Ottis relaxes and prepares for another day as coach of the West Indies cricket team.
He runs some hot water and puts some toothpaste – the white stuff that helps people with sensitive mouths – on his toothbrush, and runs it under the warm tap to move it evenly over the brush.
Then he instinctively raises the toothbrush towards his mouth to brush his teeth, only for the brush to crash into his face, he tries it again for the same result.
The hotel bathroom is now fogging up, so he has to wipe at the mirror to see his reflection, he sees that his mouth cannot open, that his lips have literally been sewn together.
He slowly runs his hands over his lips and he knows who did it.
“I should’ve never doubted the efficacy of the obviously flawed, untested and inconsistently implemented DRS. I knew they’d make me pay, but I never knew they’d go this far. Damn you, ICC” is what Ottis Gibson would have screamed in that foggy hotel bathroom had his lips not been surgically sewn together.