Located a few miles from the race tracks, The Renaissance Hotel houses national and international superstars to the racing circuit.
Room #1123 – Bobby “Ace” Williams
~Knock…knock…knock~ “Bobby?…Bobby, open the door, its Cynthia.”
Inside on the massive king sized bed was Bobby….and three race track groupies, all naked of course. Under the pile, was a disheveled looking Bobby, who groggily held his head up out of the melee, and had one eye open. ~Shit..its Cynthia~ he thought, then slammed his right hand to his temple. Oh….the pain of a hangover. It had been one hell of a party…least what he remembers. He remembers kissing a girl, not..having sex with all three. Some must have crawled in a bit later. Yeah, that’s a good story. Gently drawing back the arms of the trackside lovelies, who each moaned softly as he crawled out of bed, he looked back and sighed. Going to be fun when they wake up.
~SLAM SLAM SLAM~ “BOBBY..you have a press conference in….30 minutes. Answer the door, or I call security.”Cynthia sung out, now getting really annoyed. Starkers, he wandered through the broken glass, streamers, cake, and other bodies, till he got to the door and opened it partially.
“Shit…you woke me up. What press conference?”“Bobby said irritably, giving his nuts a scratch in plain sight of her. Cynthia pushed the door open and then gaped wide eyed at the state of his penthouse.
“The….press conference about you giving up the BOOZE AND DRUG LIFESTYLE…oh fuck me life.” Cynthia said, bringing up her hands to her face, as Bobby looked sheepish.
“Want some cornflakes first?”
The lightbulbs were flashing madly, as Cynthia led a sunglass wearing Bobby into the conference room, and up to the front table, where other sponsers were already seated, in anticipation of Bobby Williams first press conference since being in the US and part of the national racing touring car championships. Bobby did the V for victory signal with his right hand, while Cynthia smiled brightly, though she squinted through it all. This was going to be torture, and not just for her.
Once seated, Bobby picked up the mic and pointed to the first reporter.
“You have a question, Miss?”
“Joanne Anderson, Burnout Weekly…is it true that since arriving on American soil, that you have already been arrested for possession of narcotics, after your trip to Vegas?”
Bobby was about to answer, with a dumb expression, when Cynthia grabbed the mic and growled at Bobby to sit, through gritted teeth. “Ahaha…that was a look a like, yes Bobby has some crazed fans that look..just like him and the whole thing was a stunt by a certain television network, who we are currently suing so we can’t comment. Next question, please? Yes, man in black at the back.”
“Bobby…how does it feel to now be downgraded from formula one to nascar…you must be pretty dissapointed.”
Bobby’s face fell, as the mention of him being thrown off the Formula 1 circuit, hit him hard.
“Well….Mother always said, when life throws lemons at you…to suck harder. So…here I am, ready to suck it up, and show all you yanks how it’s done. If only you could drive on the right side of the road. Man…I have written off five hire cars in a week.”
Cynthia face palmed, as Bobby grinned at a small female reporter, who was struggling to be seen, her hand in the air.
“Go ahead short stuff, what’s buttering your muffin?”
“Errr…Sally Winters, Muscle Cars Monthly. Is it true you knocked up the Mayor’s sixteen year old daughter?”
At this, the conference went into meltdown, as Bobby asked.
“She said she was 18…ENTRAPMENT…EN-BLOODY-TRAPMENT!”
Cynthia was madly trying to get the mic back, as security had to be called to deal with the out of control crowd of reporters.