Guests of Hotel Siberia regularly leave items behind and rarely leave any kind of contact information that would help reunite them with their stuff. Most of the email addresses they book their rooms with are one-timers, burned after use. Passwords forgotten. Nevertheless, we keep a large cardboard box with their stuff. On one side is written LOST AND FOUND and on the other side Lalo had written EMPLOYEE OF THE WEEK SWAG.

I was going through it this morning looking for my own keys and I started reading a guest’s notebook. Diedre had claimed to be a novelist from Boston and she spent a lot of her stay with us lying on the hammock writing feverish notes. At times, she’d read back what she had written and laugh. She left a nearly perfect circle of pizza crust in a Domino’s box under her bed. I was curious to see how her novel was going, and as a writer myself, I am always interested in seeing other writers’ processes. After a few pages which appeared to be mean, actually rather crude caricatures of myself and the other staff, her writing began. It wasn’t a novel … it was fan fiction.

“Harry Potter belched and held at his distended stomach. Not only did he have a severe tummy ache from the baba ghanoush, but somebody had nicked his magical wank flannel.

He peered over a fork full of leftovers.Closer in, he squinted. Now that he had sobered up a bit, it was plain to see that there were plenty of short, curly red hairs mixed into the dish. Focusing his bad eyes by pulling at the skin by his eyes,  the tiny creatures appeared to him. Tiny, what? Crabs? There were tiny crabs moving up and down the curly red hairs! Fuck, he thought. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“The fuck with hurling blood,” he said, getting up out of his magical chair with a huge fart. “I’m going to vomit until my stomach is so empty that nothing but strands of spliced DNA come up.”

He ran toward the washroom, opened the door and saw the redhead rutting his girlfriend like a wild hog.

Always a sucker looking to sell more books, Harry dropped his pants around his ankles and began to lick the point where his two friends’ genitals were pasted together with the glue of intercourse.”


I’d write some more but I think it would get my wordpress account suspended or possibly deleted. Suffice it to say, Harry Potter and the Baba Ghanoush takes a hard right turn into hardcore necrophilia when Dumbledore gets hit by a speeding van driven by a character from Twilight. Strangely, there is allusion to the accident that almost killed writer Stephen King years ago. Unfortunately, Dumbledore doesn’t have the same type of luck that Stevie did. That is all I will say, but rest securely in knowing that for the next 30 handwritten pages of her fancy Moleskin writer’s notebook, every nook and cranny of the old bastard is summarily violated by Harry, the red-haired kid and a pack of what she refers to as “strap-on unicorns,” which she felt little need to expound upon, leading me to believe that HP and the Baba Ghanousch wasn’t the first time these demented creatures had made an appearance in her fiction.

Out of curiosity, I googled some of the terms from the story and found an entry for sale as an e-book on Amazon that features a “wank flannnel, red pubic hairs, strap-on unicorns and bab ghanousch.” I’m not saying that it’s definitely the work of my guest (the online incarnation is credited to a Holly Derrotta) but it seems to have found quite a niche and the sales figures were actually pretty good. She was making more money than I ever did.

It’s possible that it was actually second-degree fan fiction, meaning she had read this horrible Harry Potter treatment and been so inspired as to pick up where Holly Derrotta had left off but who knows?

We’re all of us, mostly, anonymous on the internet. Or not.