The Bottled-Nose Dolphin Hotel

“The Bottled-Nose Dolphin Hotel first opened its doors in 1908. Located just south of historic downtown Orida, Florida, nestled along the shores of the Atlantic coast, the hotel has served a variety of famous clientele, including-."

“I don’t care what Wikipedia has to say! How do we find this place?”

Michael, the young man who was just regurgitating the facts about the missing hotel, holds up his phone to Dylan, the other young man who interrupted him. Displayed clearly on Michael’s screen is a black and white article topped by a black and white picture of a quaint seaside inn.

“I honestly don’t know,” Michael said. “I can’t find the address on Wikipedia either.”

Parked behind the two men is a rented red minivan; sitting patiently inside the minivan are three more young men – Austin, Moe, and Jon. Just on the other side of the minivan is a beach, and just on the other side of that beach rests the crashing waves of the Atlantic Ocean.

Moe pushes the sliding side door open. “What’s the hold up?”

“Michael got us all lost.”

“We’re not lost,” Michael said, visibly frustrated. “We just can’t find where we’re going.”

Austin pokes his face out of the far side of the minivan and shouts to them over the roof. “Can you at least turn the car back on and give us some A/C? I’m dying in here, man!”

“You know what,” Michael takes the car keys and shoves them deep into his pocket. “I’ll turn the car back on as soon as I find out where we’re supposed to go.”

With that, Jon, Austin, and Moe hop out of the minivan and pop open the trunk. They retrieve three boogie-boards and an assortment of beach towels.

Moe tosses one of the beach towels to Dylan. “All right, well while you two sort out the directions, the three of us are gonna go shred some waves. Join us if you want to.”

Jon shoots Dylan and Michael a finger gun farewell as the three turn their backs on them and jog into the ocean to live out belly surfing greatness.

Michael angrily smashes his thumbs against the screen of his smartphone, swiping his way through numerous articles about the Bottled-Nose Dolphin Hotel, but none saying where it is located. Michael felt somewhat responsible for their lost vacation as he had been the main facilitator of this trip. He had been the one to plan out a holiday to Florida. He had been the one to look up the top ten Tiki Bars in Florida and found that Treylor Park Tiki (located on the back dock behind the Bottled-Nose Dolphin nonetheless) was consistently ranked as one of the best in the state. He had been the one to make the hotel reservations (over the phone because the hotel doesn’t have a website). He had been the one to drive them as far as Orida, Florida. And now he was the one who got them lost. The last thing he wanted was for the boys to blame him for dragging them on a lame trip. This trip has to be cool, Michael thought to himself. I have to make sure the boys have a good time. I have to make sure that they think I’m cool.

Dylan grabbed Michael by the shoulder and pointed towards a building at the other end of the parking lot. “Why don’t we go inside that gas station and ask for directions?”

Michael, never the one to ask for help, reluctantly nods. As he and Dylan shuffle their way to the station, he stares out towards the water. He spots Austin, Moe, and Jon riding a wave in unison. Austin and Moe crash hard as the wave breaks; Jon successfully rides the wave all the way to the shoreline.

Michael and Dylan push the glass door to the station open. Inside they spot a large man with a name-tag reading “Gus” pinned to a baby blue shirt standing behind the counter.

“What can I do fer you?”

Michael holds up his phone, which displays a picture of the Bottled-Nose Dolphin Hotel.

“Sorry to be repetitive with the prose, but we’re looking for the Bottled-Nose Dolphin Hotel.”

“Whatcha wanna go there fer?”

“We have reservations.”

“Oh.”

An awkward silence hangs in the air. After a moment of shifting stares, Dylan breaks it. “Can you give us some directions?”

Gus points out the window. “Keep followin’ this road till ya see a big ass palm tree. Hook a left onto the Cody Campbell Causeway, and follow the road till the end. You’ll find it there. All roads that-a way lead to the Bottled-Nose Dolphin.”

After hooking a left at that “big ass palm tree” Gus so eloquently described, the boys in their minivan cruise down the causeway. It was a narrow two-lane road surrounded by blue water on either side. Michael looked at the window and thought he saw the shadow of a pod of eight dolphins breaking the waves. Ah, a good omen, he thought to himself. A sign of good times ahead.

At the end of the causeway sat the little inn, settled almost uncomfortably at the road’s dead end. A hand painted sign welcomed them as they parked right outside the front door. The boys hopped out and examined their surroundings. The Bottled-Nose Dolphin definitely looked historic, but in the more dinosaur-insult sort of way. The two-story building (that couldn’t possibly house more than ten rooms) was in dire need of repair – dingy, dirty, overgrown with vegetation. The decrepit structure had the bones of a once opulent environment, but years of neglect had turned its appearance into that of a crumbling haunted mansion.

The boys noticed a small beach hugging around the back of the building, but beyond that there was nothing but hundreds of miles of ocean that seemed to stretch on into eternity. In fact, if not for the thin road connecting them to the mainland behind them, it would appear as if they were stuck on a deserted island.

The other four shot Michael questioning looks, looks that screamed: Where the hell have you brought us?

But their confusion could not break Michael’s excitement. “Gentlemen, I promise you, we’re about to have the best weekend of our lives.”

Michael picks up his bags and sprints into the lobby. The other four follow slowly behind, and with way less enthusiasm.

If one saw the outside of the building, then the lobby is fully what one would expect to match – old moldy furniture that exudes clouds of dust every time anyone sits on them; creepy marble statues carved by artists whose names have long been forgotten; an unnerving employee silently staring at them from behind a large wooden desk as they entered, clutching a set of brass keys (promising them that they’re about to check in forever, no doubt). The one surprising element was the sound of a trumpet’s horn that filled the air. A lone trumpet player stood in the corner, blowing a sad tune that none of the boys knew.

Michael stood triumphantly before the front desk. The employee glances up at him and jingles the brass keys in hand. Michael rings the brass bell sitting on the edge of the table. “We’re checking in.”

The employee sighs as she flips open a musty old book. “Last name?”

“The reservation should be under Blooman, Michael Blooman. That’s me.”

The employee scans the page with her index finger, stopping movement somewhere towards the dead center. “Ah, yes Blooman. We spoke on the phone a few days ago. We’ve got you in a two-bed ocean view for three nights.”

She removes a single brass key from the knot-like key ring in her left hand. “You’re in room 202, just to the left at the top of the stairs. Bar and restaurant are located out back, open till midnight. We don’t have a pool, but who needs a pool when you’ve got the ocean.”

She hands Michael the key, who eagerly accepts it.

“Have a nice stay.”

Michael gives her a wink. “Oh, we will.”

The employee’s eyes give Michael one last glare, thoroughly unimpressed, then returns her attention to the keys in hand. Michael leads the boys up the stairs, passing the trumpet player as they go. Jon, the caboose of their line, pauses for a moment in front of the trumpeter, and stares deep into the mouth of the horn. Jon can hear the faint sound of crashing waves and imagines for an instance that he is being swallowed up in the jaws of the horn amidst a flood of water. He snaps back to and jogs upstairs.

The five men stand before two beds. Slightly bigger than twins, but not enough room for all.

“There’s not enough space for us,” Moe offers.

Michael nods towards the beds. “I figured four of us could take the beds, and one of us could take the couch.”

Before Michael is even done with this sentence, the other four spring onto the beds like wild animals and stake their claims.

“What the hell!” Michael crosses the room. “I’m the one who made the reservation!”

“Then you should’ve been quicker to get a bed,” Austin quips.

In a somewhat defeated state, Michael tosses his bags onto the couch, his new home for the next three nights. I’m going to get them to respect me. Once they get down to the Tiki bar and have a great night, they’ll know they have to respect me.

An unknown number of hours passed. The boys retreated into their own corners of the rented room and engaged in a few modern recreational activities – watching programs on their phones, reading books, napping, or, in Michael’s case, getting prepared for the night. Michael had taken over the bathroom, spraying and tugging at his hair to ensure it looks on point, tearing through his wardrobe till he found the perfect fit.

Nighttime had settled in. The ocean, which during the day looked like a rolling blue masterpiece, now looked like an empty black void. Jon sat in front of their ocean view window, staring off into the blackness. The water was almost perfectly still. Not even a ripple. But then something broke the surface. At first it looks small, but as it swims closer to the shore it grows larger and larger. Jon leans forward. He realizes the shape emerging from the water is that of a man. A man covered in blood.

Jon turns around quickly to Dylan, who is dozing on the bed. He shakes him awake. Dylan snaps to. “Whatizzit?”

Jon points furiously at the window. Dylan hops up and peers out. He pauses for a moment, then addresses the room. “Hey, guys, there’s a man smothered in blood standing out on the beach.”

“What?” Moe and Austin say in unison.

“It’s exactly what I said. Man, covered in blood, on the beach.”

Michael storms out of the bathroom. “You’re full of shit! Stop trying to ruin my trip.”

“Our trip.”

“Whatever.”

Michael stands next to Dylan and peers out. For sure, there’s a man covered in saltwater and blood, screaming on the shore. “Oh, you’re right.”

Austin and Moe join them. The five boys huddle together around the window and watch the man in a unified mixture of confusion and horror.

“What should we do?” Austin asks. “Should we go help him?”

“We should just go down to the bar,” Michael commands.

“I don’t know,” Dylan says. “I’m starting to get creeped out.”

Moe pulls the curtains shut. “Starting to? I say we get outta here while the getting is good.”

Michael runs to the door to block a potential exodus. “Get out of here? Why? We just got here!”

“There’s a potential murder victim outside, and you want us to stay here?” Dylan barks.

Austin starts to pack his bags. “I don’t want to be trapped here if there’s a murderer on the loose.”

Michael grabs Austin’s suitcase and dumps all of its contents onto the floor. “You guys are acting crazy! I’m sure he’s not a murder victim!”

Moe picks up his suitcase as well. “Then why’s he covered in blood?”

Michael slaps the suitcase out of his hand. “He was probably in a boating accident! I’m sure he’s fine!”

Michael throws open the curtains. The bloodied man is nowhere to be seen. He’s vanished. Gone. “He’s not even there anymore! We’re fine! Let’s head down to the Tiki bar!”

The other four line up together across the room. Michael turns to face them.

Dylan speaks for the group. “I say we take a vote. If we all agree to stay, we’ll stay. But if even one of us wants to leave, we have to go.”

No! Michael’s angry inner monologue screams. They can’t do this! They’re going to ruin our good time! They can’t do this to me!

“No votes!” Michael yells. “I’m the one calling the shots here!”

“Why’s that Michael?”

“Because,” Michael says, as he reaches into his pocket. He pulls out the one bit of leverage he has. “I have the car keys. And we’re not going anywhere unless I say so.”

Michael, now the iron-gripped leader of the gang (the other four kind of reduced to his hostages at this point) leads the boys in a line of matching morose Hawaiian print shirts. They pass the trumpeter, who doesn’t seem to have taken a break from his last set, and follow Michael out onto the back deck of the hotel. Outside, they are swept up by the night ocean air. At the end of a long wooden dock, lined with lit tiki torches, sits their final destination, and the target of Michael’s obsession: Treylor Park Tiki. A mobile home parked on the dock, adorned with glowing lights of lined tiki heads.

Michael turns to his followers. “This way, boys.”

Slow and steadily, they walk in single file towards the bar. A strong ocean breeze blows out the flames on the tiki torches, and they continue their march in darkness and silence. When they reach the glowing warmth of the tiki heads, they spot one open table, set up with a circle of folding chairs.

Michael gestures towards the table. “Have a seat. I’ll be back with our drinks.”

Jon, Dylan, Austin, and Moe take their seats. Michael opens the door to the trailer and disappears inside. The door slams shut behind him.

With their captor gone, the four quickly lean closer together and speak in hushed voices.

“He’s gone crazy,” Dylan says.

“We’ve gotta get the keys from him,” Moe whispers. “We can take him with us or leave him behind, I don’t care, but either way we gotta get outta here.”

Austin pulls a coconut out of his jacket pocket. “I’m going to smash this over his head as soon as he comes back.”

Jon stares at the floor of the dock and notices a trail of bloody footprints. He slowly rises and follows the trail, which leads directly to the trailer door…

Jon stops when a pair of feet suddenly enter his point of view. He looks up and sees Michael standing there holding a tray of drinks. Jon returns to his seat. Michael serves his friends, placing a glass of strange purple liquid in front of each of them. Michael grabs his glass triumphantly and looks out towards the black water. In the light of the moon, he can make out the form of that same pod of eight dolphins, this time swimming their way.

Michael raises his glass. The other boys do the same. Michael grins from ear-to-ear. “To good times!”

Michael slams the drink back. The other boys take sips, sending the numbing hot liquid down their throats. Michael slaps his hand on the table. “Who wants another round?”

Jon nods towards the trail of bloody footprints on the floor. Moe catches sight of this, and quickly rises to his feet.

“Hey Michael, I’m curious about something. Earlier, you couldn’t find the address online, right?”

Michael nods.

“Well, how did you find the phone number to make the reservation?”

Michael shrugs. “I didn’t have to find the number. The hotel called me.”

Moe shoots a horrified look to the others.

Michael stands up and walks towards the edge of the dock. “Yeah, I just figured they found my contact information from when I was googling all the tiki bars.” Michael squints, and spots the dark forms of the dolphins swimming up fast. He points and laughs. “Looks like we’re about to see some real bottlenose dolphins now!”

Michael smiles. Suddenly, a huge mass rises up from behind the dolphins. As it gets closer, and illuminated by the glowing tiki heads, Michael’s smile disappears. It’s not a pod of dolphins he’s been seeing. It’s eight tentacles rising out of the water.

Before anyone has time to react, the eight tentacles shoot out of the ocean and snatch up the boys as quick as they can, clutching them in a slimy suction cup grasp. No amount of screaming or fighting can set them free from this grip. Austin repeatedly punches his coconut into the tentacle to no avail.

Jon shoots a look into the dark black void of the ocean and spots a set of jaws chomping below the surface. Jon screams as he is lowered into his watery doom. Dylan, Austin, and Moe are consumed as the next course.

Michael, saved for the beast’s dessert, has one final thought before he meets his death aquatic: Well… this wasn’t a good time after all.