The Hunters Inn: Business As Usual

 

The next morning, an almost smug air of satisfaction hung about everyone aware of the situation. It was short-lived.

Chris, it turned out, didn't have the heart for confrontation. The anticipated morning confrontation fizzled into an embarrassing anti-climax: Malcolm was not sacked. It was simply business as usual.

Once again, I felt like I'd been tossed up in the air just as my feet had found solid ground. The Sunday dinner was still on, but the stability I craved was nowhere in sight. Still, I adopted the "take it as it comes" approach. I found myself serving behind the bar and ended up spending four whole hours writing a letter to Celiné in French, attempting to capture all the things I couldn’t say on the phone. My concentration was tested not just by the complex grammar, but by the sub-zero temperatures in my moth-ridden room where I later finished the letter.

The hunger I felt the night before is now a constant, raging issue. I think my stomach is officially putting in for overtime—I’m continually hungry since I’ve been here, and it’s going to be scoff, scoff all the way from now on. This may pose a slight difficulty considering what I’ve already managed to consume today: a full cooked breakfast, a Sunday roast, two bowls of cereal, and a chili with rice! But space will be made.

More tomorrow...

Hunters Inn: The Tally and the Threat

 

The trouble, as always, started over money—a pitifully small sum, yet enough to tear the seams of the Hunters Inn wide open. Malcolm Penis, fueled by some inexplicable petty fury, cornered Mel and Marni, flatly accusing them of pilfering £2.60 from the till. The sheer insult of the accusation, the sting of being branded thieves for such a negligible amount, left them speechless only for a moment. They didn't argue. They simply picked up their things, glared at Malcolm, and walked out, leaving a gaping hole in the evening rota and a fresh surge of venom in Malcolm’s system.

His foul mood found its next target moments later. Desperate, Malcolm sought out Jason but was flatly refused any cannabis. The rejection was like a match to a dry wick. Malcolm’s face darkened, contorting into a mask of pure rage, and he threw a terrifying wobbler, his words laced with threats to punch Jason into the middle of next week.

The clamor reached the ear of Chris. It was the last straw. “That’s it,” he declared, nodding decisively to Martin. “It’s time the chef left. You and I, Martin, we’ll be doing the deed in the morning.” The die was cast. Malcolm was out, whether he knew it or not.

Meanwhile, in a quieter corner of the Inn, Neil was trying to repair his own small fractures. He had just hung up the phone after a brief, slightly cheerless call with Celiné in France. The muffled sounds of her parents in the background had kept the conversation disappointingly clipped. Still, the day wasn't a total bust—Chris had given him the crucial go-ahead to cook tomorrow's prized Sunday dinner.

Sunday dinner. That was solid. That was dependable.

Neil needed that win after his day of haphazard generosity. Only hours earlier, he had lent Jason a surprisingly hefty £40, a sum he could ill afford to spare. And just before that, he had been embroiled in the frantic retrieval of Jason’s new hi-fi—a favour he owed to John and Christine. The trip hadn’t ended well; the moment they dropped the stereo off, Christine's old car lost its brakes completely, forcing them to call out the RAC, leaving Neil feeling indirectly responsible for the mechanical calamity.

Now, as the Inn’s staff buzzed with the news, speculation mounted. How would Malcolm react when he discovered his tenure was ending? Most expected him to lash out, a volcanic explosion of aggression. It had been silently agreed that only Neil could intervene should the situation get out of hand.

But the thought of controlling Malcolm didn't bother Neil too much, and he let the prospect pass like smoke. 

More tomorrow...