Wash 24

It was the kind of place you’d only find

if you weren’t looking for it—wedged between a deserted gas station

and what might’ve been a taxidermy-slash-tanning-salon,

Betsy and Letty found the seedy suspicious looking motel

that even their travel buddy app labeled as “fuck as hell”,

half-swallowed by overgrown bushes

that clawed at the sides of their car as they pulled in.

Letty gripped the wheel like it was a lifeline,

her knuckles pale. “Betsy, this is insane. What are we even doing here?”

Betsy, eyes wide and voice shaky, replied,

“Escaping our boyfriends before they figure out we’re onto them.

Or… onto each other? Or maybe they’re onto each other?”

She blinked. “God, I don’t even know anymore.”

It had all started with one too many suspicious glances,

too many Why are you two always together? questions tossed their way.

To which they had snapped back with matching glares

and one brilliant clapback: Why are YOU two always together, huh?

Playing basketball at midnight? That’s not cardio, baby, that’s chemistry.

They drove off in a panic-fueled haze, convinced they were either

solving a mystery or running from one.

When they reached the motel, the sign flickered ominously: “Mo el R ainbow.”

Half the letters had gone to neon heaven.

Inside the cracked lobby, with some kinda spilled bleached liquid that Letty almost

slipped on, a gum-chewing, side-eye-giving, purple-eyeshadowed motel clerk

slouched behind the desk like she’d been growing roots into it for years.

She didn’t speak at first—she then reached out from her pocket,

at that moment Letty feel like screaming thinking it was a gun that will be

pointed at them, robbing the shit out of them that night, but to her relief,

she just shoved a tarnished room key toward them with a long, chipped nail.

“Room 14,” she said flatly, smacking her gum.

She tap the amount slowly, one digit at a time at this weird looking

machine, Letty can’t figure out what it was. A typewriter.

“Lucky us,” Letty muttered, fishing out some cash. “Is this ok?”

The clerk continue to smack her gum as she stares at the cash then back to Letty,

and back to the cash. Letty added two more bills.

The clerk just took the cash, and starts tapping again at that silly looking machine.

She dismissed them. Betsy and Letty shrugged, “I guess we’re ok?” Betsy murmured.

As they turned to leave, the clerk cackled.

Not a polite chuckle.

A full-on, ancient witch in a thunderstorm cackle.

Betsy froze.

THAT WAS WEIRD.

REALLY REALLY WEIRD.

“Was she… laughing at us?” she whispered.

“Shut up and walk.”

They went back to their car, grab their bags

and walked around the parking spot until they found

their Room with barely legible number.

Room 14 looked like it hadn’t seen a guest since the moon landing, I guess.

The door wouldn’t budge.

Letty kicked it, twice.

It groaned open like it was reluctantly waking from a haunted nap.

Inside, the air was stale, dust floated like ghost dandruff in a beam of dim sunlight,

and everything smelled faintly of pickles and regret.

And just when they thought it couldn’t get worse—the clerk was suddenly there,

as if she had floated through the wall.

She’s sitting by the bed.

Like a hired whore who got to the room first.

WEIRD.

HOW.

THE.

FUCK.

DID.

SHE.

GOT.

IN.

IS.

THERE.

ANOTHER.

ENTRANCE?

“Forgot somethin’,” she muttered, and tossed a vacuum cleaner at them.

Except… it wasn’t a vacuum cleaner.

It was a hand-carved wooden monstrosity

with a leather bellows and a crank on the side.

“What the hell is this?” Betsy asked, horrified.

“Vacuum,” the clerk replied, deadpan. “It sucks. Like this place.”

She walked out before either of them could ask another question.

Letty turned to Betsy, who looked like she was deciding whether to laugh or cry.

She chose both.

“This is it,” Letty said, pacing.

“This is how we die. Covered in dust bunnies the size of cats,

in a room that probably watched someone get murdered during disco.”

“And the worst part, we knew that after our tragedy happens,

she’s gonna sneak back here again and vacuum everything up,

not gonna have any dust here, oh no, not on this pretty fucked up place,

zero dust free done by a perfectly wooden vacuum.” Betsy chimed in.

Both of them laugh as they collapsed in bed.

Then something happened.

Beneath all the jokes and the panic, something else was settling in.

A kind of shared silence.

A soft ache neither of them wanted to name.

And that took them two hours later to the same scent,

they ignored earlier:

The room smelled like heartbreak and lime.

Betsy lounged across a creaky twin bed,

one leg swinging idly as she giggled into her phone,

fingers twirling around a faded pink scrunchie.

Her laugh bounced off the peeling floral wallpaper,

high and bright like it didn’t belong in a room this dusty.

The cheap motel air conditioner wheezed behind her,

half-fighting the summer heat and losing.

Beside her, Letty sat stiff-backed,

eyes locked on Betsy’s hand like it was a Fabergé egg.

Slowly—subconsciously—Letty reached out,

fingertips brushing Betsy’s skin,

then curling around her palm with a gentle squeeze.

Betsy didn’t notice.

Letty’s heart caught in her throat.

Her vision shimmered. Her fingers tingled like she'd touched a live wire.

Then—

"What the hell, Letty?! What are you doing?!"

Letty jolted, like someone slammed a cymbal beside her ear.

Her eyes widened in horror.

Somehow…somehow…her hand had traveled north.

It was now cupping Betsy’s chest like what was there was a precious mango.

Letty yelped and jerked back, face flaming.

“I—I don’t—how did that happen?”

she stammered, as if her hand had grown its own brain and a thirst for chaos.

Betsy blinked, dumbfounded.

Then slowly turned toward the foot of the bed.

“So… who are you again?”

Letty frowned. “Me? I’m Letty.”

“Not you, weirdo.” Betsy gestured toward the edge of the bed with a lazy flick of her lips.

There, perched with all the confidence of a cat in a church,

sat Sylvia’s Guatemalan girlfriend.

Legs crossed, chin high, sunglasses still on, even indoors, even at night.

She dunked a taco into a salsa bowl like it was a spa treatment,

then licked her thumb without making eye contact.

“I can’t stay long,” she said flatly.

Like she was invited.

Like she didn’t followed them to this seedy place.

Like she didn’t knocked that jolted Betsy and Letty.

“But you surely finished all our tacos,” Betsy snapped.

The woman shrugged. “They were there. I saw no off-limits sign.”

Letty leaned in.

“Wait. Who are you? What do you want? When did you even pop up here?”

Betsy was about to retort when she gagged—hard.

She clawed at her throat.

“Oh my God! SHE’S CHOKING ON A TACO!” Letty screamed

Before anyone could blink,

Letty and Sylvia’s girlfriend lunged.

In a tangle of arms, panic, and carnitas breath,

both women’s lips smashed against Betsy’s in a desperate Heimlich-by-kiss attempt.

A beat of stunned silence followed.

SLURP. GULP.

Betsy swallowed the taco whole.

She gasped, eyes wide in horror. “Did we just—?!”

Letty touched her lips in shock.

Sylvia’s girlfriend wiped her mouth with a vengeance.

“No one speaks of this again, not even to Sylvia, this officially counts as cheating” she muttered.

Business resumed immediately.

The Guatemalan girlfriend handed Betsy a soggy salsa-stained paper with a number scribbled in red ink.

Monica. Give her number to Teddy and tell him to call her.

“So again,” Letty asked, voice trembling.

“You want us to give this to Teddy? But why? Plus who the heck

is Monica and why Teddy needs to call her? Why not do it yourself?”

The woman stood, brushing taco crumbs off her jeans.

“I already explained. I can't tell Teddy. That would mean lying to Sylvia.

And if there's one thing I don’t do, it's lie to my homicidal jungle girlfriend.”

Betsy quipped, “So what you’re trying to say is that you’re doing all

these crazy stuff behind Sylvia? But why?”

“Because, I’m Guatemalan, and I feel that’s the right thing to do.

Teddy has to know the truth. Sylvia is not his mother, but

Monica is.” Another taco up her mouth.

Letty blinked like her brain had blue-screened.

“So are you saying Sylvia kidnapped Teddy, is that why she’s at

Guatemala, hiding from Teddy and all the laundry that

comes with him?”

“No!” Betsy shouted.

“Girl, listen! She just said Monica is Teddy’s real mom.

Sylvia took him in. No kidnapping. Probably.”

Sylvia’s girlfriend cut in.

“Monica and Sylvia were besties. Monica got knocked up, moved in,

had the baby—bam—and then bailed.

Sylvia stepped in. Instant motherhood. No paperwork. Just vibes.”

Letty covered her ears. “Nope. Nope. Too much. TOO MUCH.

Guys this is wayyyyyy toooo much for me to consume”

She flips across the room, grabbed two plastic salsa containers,

and began chugging salsa like it was holy water, cheeks bulging with chips.

Betsy stared.

“Is she okay?”

the Guatemalan girlfriend said.

“Definitely, that’s her everyday normal, she’s kinda….slow in

digesting stuffs” Betsy nodded.

“So...again,” Letty said mid-crunch. “Who are you?”

“Sylvia’s girlfriend.”

“Sylvia? Who’s Sylvia?”

Betsy slapped her forehead.

“Girl—SHE’S TEDDY’S MOM. The one who owes us hotel money,

made out with your boyfriend, dated Miguel,

stole Teddy’s water bill cash and ‘repaid’ it with

your money which she never returned?”

Letty lit up. “Ohhh! That Sylvia!”

Betsy side-eyed her.

Something was...off. Letty had been spacey before, but this was new.

She looked soft.

Dreamy-eyed.

Cute even.

Was she wearing mascara? Were her cheeks flushed?

Did she intentionally cupped her or is she just

testing the water before the big dive?

Focus, Betsy. Focus. Not the time to explore your bisexual awakening.

Letty asked, “But why won’t Sylvia just tell Teddy she’s a fraud?”

Sylvia’s girlfriend rolled her eyes.

“I told her to! But she was like, ‘I’m too busy running a jungle cartel

and starting my own country,

can you kidnap Betsy and Letty for me instead?’

Like it was brunch plans.”

Betsy and Letty screamed, instinctively grabbing each other’s hands.

“Relax!” Sylvia’s girlfriend groaned. “I’m not kidnapping you or you or both of you”

“You’re not?” Letty whispered, glad that she’s wearing a cherry lip tint, it hides her panic.

“Then why the hell should we help you?” Betsy snapped.

“You’re a total stranger. You just popped up here, not even

gonna ask how you knew us or how you followed us.

Sylvia ghosted us like yesterday’s receipts.

Why clean up her mess?

We don’t even care if Teddy has a mom or got dropped off by a bored stork!”

Sylvia’s girlfriend clenched her jaw.

Then, without a word, she dragged a burlap sack from under the bed.

Out rolled—the boutique lady.

Betsy screamed.

“YOU KIDNAPPED THE BOUTIQUE LADY THAT SOLD US THE JACKETS?!”

The woman whimpered.

“Please don’t post this on social media. I have a reputation to maintain.”

She reached for her make up kit on her designer purse and quickly

applied a light foundation and a quick touch up of her mascara.

Then to Betsy and Letty’s horror:

She dramatically popped her blouse open,

revealing a suspiciously pristine lacy black bra.

Letty shrieked. “What is happening, why is she doingggg thatttttt?!”

“As a reward,” Sylvia’s girlfriend said

“HER? That’s WTF, I won’t even bang her even if you gave me a buck.” Letty cackled.

The boutique lady did not flinched, she continue to adjust her bra.

“You’ll get first access to next season’s designer jackets.

Sales tax not included. Terms and conditions apply.”

Sylvia’s girlfriend dropped the bribe in exchange for telling Teddy the truth.

The boutique lady flung off her skirt,

struck a pose, spritzed herself with perfume, and gave them a wink.

Letty and Betsy screamed in perfect harmony.

She’s definitely older than their grand mothers.

Sylvia’s girlfriend cackled. “So? Deal?”

The room went still as Sylvia’s Guatemalan girlfriend leaned in,

her voice like silk wrapped around a dagger.

“If you want the boutique lady discount… and Teddy’s emotional healing…”

she purred, pulling a miniature golden dagger from her snakeskin boot, “…you must take… the oath.”

Letty blinked.

Her mouth opened.

Then her eyes caught something—a monkey, perfectly poised on Sylvia’s girlfriend’s shoulder,

like it was her emotional support warlock.

How long had she had that—-monkey on her—shoulder?

Betsy pointed, trembling.

She noticed the monkey as well.

“What oath? And—wait—is that a monkey?”

The monkey turned slowly.

And meowed.

Letty screamed.

Betsy screamed.

Sylvia’s girlfriend didn’t flinch.

She raised the golden dagger high with one hand,

her other arm cradling the monkey like a baby that had seen too much.

“The salsa blood oath of truth,” she declared solemnly.

Before anyone could object, she sliced her palm with the dagger.

A single crimson drop glistened in the motel’s flickering light as it slid

off her hand—right onto the boutique lady’s perfectly powdered cheek.

“Give it to me….you all….give me your blood” The boutique lady said with her eyes closed

treating the drops like some kinda miracle dropped by the heavens.

“You're insane!” Betsy shrieked.

But the boutique lady didn’t blink.

In slow motion, she raised her hands like a goddess in a fancy cosmetic ad

and gently patted the blood drop into her skin, blending it with the

grace of a runway veteran applying thousand-dollar foundation.

“Bring it to me, baby, you’re next.”

She winked at Betsy, extending her face like a vampire craving a luxury sacrifice.

Betsy staggered back, clutching her pearls—or a tortilla chip, it was hard to tell—about to faint.

And then—Letty snapped.

With a wild yell, she lunged forward,

snatched the dagger, and cut her own palm with full dramatic flair.

Blood GUSHED.

Like, New York prohibition time mafia levels.

The boutique lady tilted her chin, eyes closed,

awaiting a gentle pat—but Letty instead threw her entire bleeding hand onto her face

like she was trying to slap sense into a possessed mannequin.

The boutique lady’s face was instantly drenched.

Blood streamed down her couture jacket,

staining it crimson.

Sylvia’s girlfriend shrieked.

Betsy screamed.

The monkey fainted.

Letty stood tall, panting.

She grabbed the boutique lady’s now-ruined scarf, twirling it like a victory sash.

And then somebody snaps a finger—the lights shut off.

Total darkness.

Then… click.

A flashlight switched on, pointing at the boutique lady’s face.

She SHRIEKED.

A high-pitched, inhuman noise that echoed through the walls.

Betsy screamed again, how many times does a normal person has to scream

to totally faint?

Sylvia’s girlfriend backed into the wall,

clutching the monkey like a haunted porcelain doll.

The lights BURST BACK ON—and the motel room was gone.

In its place: a runway.

Gleaming white, endless, and inexplicably covered in fog.

It was giving a fancy Fashion Week vibes

Betsy’s jaw dropped. “What THE FUCK IS HAPPENING HERE????”

And then—center stage—the boutique lady appeared.

She was dressed head-to-toe in radiant, show-stopping red.

Her face was still streaked with blood,

now set like the world’s most avant-garde contour.

She turned. Swirled. Posed.

“And we’re walking, and walking, and walking,”

she said, gliding down the runway like a ghost channeling a top supermodel

At the end of the runway, she struck a final pose.

“See you guys next season,” she whispered.

“Don’t forget to pick up your free jackets… chop chop.”

Sylvia’s girlfriend screamed. Letty screamed.

The monkey woke up just to scream again.

Betsy was about to pass out when she realized she again choked on a taco chip.