Chapter Fifty-Six
The number of guests who frequented the dining room these evenings could be counted on one hand, or perhaps on two hands, if both of the hands had lost several fingers in an industrial accident. But it was the closest that could be called “a public scene”, and so, during supper, Mifkin, flanked by Bartoff and Aloysius, and supported by the rest of his small band of plotters positioned strategically about the room, strode up to Voot, who was just pulling out a chair in which to sit and enjoy his meal, and punched him in the face. Curtis/Thaddeus and several nameless employees immediately ran up and threw themselves onto the rebels. A vicious brawl ensued. The diners, who were well past the stage of caring about such things, continued to dine, looking up now and then to see who was gaining the upper hand, with not one pea seen to tremble on one fork. The rebels boasted the two strongest men in the hotel, namely, Bartoff and Mifkin, and so had soon dispatched most of the royalists with bloody noses and ringing ears, while several foot soldiers from each side had fled. Mifkin, bright blood dripping from three claw marks on his cheek, then turned to the diners to announce: “I hereby appoint myself the new general manager. Anyone who disagrees will receive the same punch to the nose. Now, does anybody disagree?”
The few diners, who were mildly aware that something had been said, moved on to their next course. Voot, hobbling away whilst leaning on the crumpled Curtis/Thaddeus, coughed out, through a latterly strangled throat, “Thou art an antimanager!”
“Herr Voot is the antimanager!” Bartoff counter-denounced.
Voot’s battered crew exited the dining room. Redoubts were now to be fashioned, and plots to be laid.
Murder was in the air.