THE REST

I woke up in a bad way.

Watching Kevin’s foot mount the ladder from the above-bunk. The creak of the bedframe and the crash of his decent as he tipped the lockers, nearly crushing Hamster’s head, before regaining his balance.

Hamster shifted in his bed, disturbed, but unawaken.

We collected our clothes and proceeded to leave the room.

He lifted his head, said, “Hey guys.”

We paused at the door, looked at each other, and ran.

So began what was intended to be an epic telling of our further adventures, of Hamster, his downfall, and of the other characters that we’ve encountered along the way. As it is, I find myself at a terrible loss, defeated by time and distraction and procrastination (not to mention an all time low for views on my past several posts). I will hence be forced to SUMMARIZE, yet again.

Therefore I apologize in advance to you, loyal readers, and to the adventures themselves for such a breezy excerpt; and also to those outstanding and singular characters we’ve met along the way.

Here we go:

Our last day in Inverness was spent:

#1. Evading Hamster, livid in the silent terror of his omnipotence.

#2. A day trip to Loch Ness.

#3. Max’s 2

The bus wheeled us into the hills and dumped us at the foot of the lake. We stood on the sidewalk and were joined by a Canadian in boots. Her name is Megan. The surroundings are smooth, rolling, and vivid green; highlands and stone cottages and fenced-in mules. Our exploration of the mythical place began with a horrible Loch Ness Monster exhibit that ruined the magic for me and made me depressed.

Anyways.

We climbed the hills to the castle—an impressive pile of rubble overlooking the Loch, it’s stonewalls and turrets sinking into the damp earth, ancient and sinister.

I still believe—if for no other reason than to kindle the cogs of my imagination—that some terrible, malignant creature lurks beneath the waters of Loch Ness, it’s prehistoric eyes scanning the surface from the depths.

We returned in the evening and ate together at the hole-in-the-wall Kevin and I had discovered the previous night: Max’s 2.

It’s called Max’s 2 because Max’s, down by the tracks, was the first and original, though no longer in business. It’s your typical Arab joint except that it’s located in a four-way intersection of an alleyway and lit-up by a giant red and blue sign.

That night Hamster didn’t return.

We found several unopened beers beneath the sheets on his bunk.

The next morning as we were checking out, the receptionist informed us of a screaming Polish man who’d phoned in the middle of the night claiming to have lost his key. She said she thought he was a pervert and hung up.

Kevin and I exchanged a glance, acknowledging the downfall of our nemesis.

We arrived in Edinburgh at something like 5:00 pm, beneath a sun-streaked sky, gone grey and shot with twilight. Our hostel was 300 miles away from the train depot and we stopped halfway to admire a street performer who’d assembled a massive crowd in the center of the road.

Over the course of our stay in Edinburgh—at Kick Ass Hostel, room 201, specifically—we met many friends and shared many adventures, and I fell in love with the winding streets and pubs and alleyways. It’s superlative architecture, narrow sidewalks, hat-shops, cafes and culture. Where there is always some perpetual asshole playing the bagpipes, and where the fog rolls in after dark and cloaks the city in grey, where history haunts each stone and cobble, and where the castles grit their teeth against sunlight.

We met two gorgeous Aussies—slender-necked and supple, with smiles so symmetrical it hurt to look for too long. That was Angelica and Michela.

There was Igor, the longhaired Brazilian who’d come all the way to Europe just to buy a suit; and Tracy Lee, mega-enthusiast, always smiling, fresh from London via Beijing.

We met Joe and Mack and Joe’s nameless, wordless brother.

There was Jean-Luigi, who made Pizzas for a living, and we even re-encountered Maggie, who we’d first met in Inverness.

We took a train to Sterling and visited Sterling Castle, and on the way back evaded the conductor, as I was strangely ticketless.

We explored the vaults and underground cities and graveyards—all supposedly haunted—on multiple counts, being both morbid in our interests.

Around midnight I broke in and removed a stone from The Black Mausoleum, one of the first religious concentration camps in Great Britain and supposedly one of the single most haunted places on Earth, and kept it in my shirt pocket.

The Mackenzie Poltergeist is the malevolent specter of the grave: look it up, there is a reason the gates are locked and that portion of the cemetery closed-off to the public.

People complained of unease when passing, many blacked-out, a man supposedly skull-fucked a skeleton and woke up in prison, claiming he didn’t remember anything.

Most reported marking on their body’s after having entered that portion of the graveyard.

That night I broke my Amazon Kindle.

Several nights later I noticed bruises and red-marks on my body.

Kevin encouraged me to get rid of the stone.

I didn’t though.

I refused to support the superstation by disposing of it.

The morning we left Scotland I discovered that I had miraculously miss-booked my ticket, and had missed my flight.

I was forced to buy a replacement ticket.

I landed in Geneva five hours before Kevin, who was routed through London.

So ended or trip through Scotland.