FEAR & LOATHING AT CANNES PART 5: THE NSFW CONCLUSION!

CHAPTER 12:  THE SCARIEST SEX ORGY I'VE EVER BEEN TO
or
IT'S JUST LIKE A 4CHAN THREAD BROUGHT TO LIFE, CAN I GO HOME NOW?

Mike's moved up fast in the world.  I'm standing in front of the Hotel Plage Brougham and this place looks like the type of super sleek South Beach pad where a drug lord from Miami Vice would live in the Penthouse of.

I kind of feel like Keanu Reeves at the end of the Devil's Advocate. The street is eerily quiet. There's no one else around and I can practically hear a director off set on video village trying to explain the foreboding sense of dread around me to his DP. 

I know that Mike Dugal is waiting for me somewhere in the massive hotel in front of me.  I know that he has a drug that turns people into his willing slaves; into soldiers who will do his bidding.

If I were directing a film of my own life right now, I'd have some massive crane shot following me as I approach the hotel's entrance; as the camera continues to rise up revealing more of the area around me, we see just how deserted the entire area is.

Although, if I were directing a film of my own life right now, I'd hope the script would be better than this.

I also hope Mike Dugal doesn't expect to spend twenty minutes babbling with some super villain monologue explaining his master plans.

I'm going in, I'm going to kick his ass, and I'm going to get Alexia out of there. She'll hopefully forget all of this insanity, and then we can finish our date, and I can disappear to Greece and give up on this film writing nonsense. 

Yeah, that's the plan.

The dead silence engulfing the hotel's swanky lobby is more than just a tad bit surreal. Even worse, there are numerous hotel attendants and guests standing around frozen in position like mannequins, or robotic security turrets in a video game.

I'm nervous as I pass these human statues. They've been strategically positioned around the lobby in a manner that makes avoiding them impossible.

I'm practically walking on tip toes as I weave in and through the small gaps of space between them.

All of their eyes follow me as I walk by them but they don't move.

In unison, everyone in the room is whispering, "Five three seven."

I'm assuming this is Mike's room number.

If he's trying to intimidate me, he's successful. I'm terrified.  I should be running back for the cops, but I'm being propelled forward by a compulsion I can't articulate.

"Five three seven. Five three seven. Five three seven."

It takes me no less than a half hour to cross through the lobby. I keep stopping to check my surroundings, trying to memorize everyone's position in the room. I worry they might be like the Weeping Angels in Dr. Who. I'm paranoid that some of them have been creeping closer to me.

But I make it through without incident.

I spend a minute debating whether I should take the elevator up to the fifth floor or opt for the staircase.

I turn around and glance back at the 50 odd people standing motionless still chanting five three seven while staring at me.

 I decide to take the elevator rather than risk a confrontation in a narrow stairwell.

But then again, the moment those elevator doors open, I don't know what to expect to be awaiting me on the other side.

Fuck it.

I enter the lift and hit the five button on the control panel. It would be too predictable if I was stuck listening a mosaic rendition of The Girl from Ipanema, instead it's Tony Bennett's Blvd of Broken Dreams. 

I have to give fate some due credit, it's pretty fitting.

I take a hit from my magical flask and suck down a Newport 100 as fast as I can while I worry about my lack of having any type of weapon.

I'm sheep going in for the slaughter.

I hear the ding alerting me that I've reached the 5th floor and I brace myself for some type of attack. I only find dark stillness.

I step out of the elevator into an almost pitch black hallway. Mike's had the lights killed and lined my pathway with another small army of Burundanga drugged guards.

There has to be another forty people lined up on both sides of the corridor ahead of me.

Like the people downstairs, they stand upright motionless like the British royal guard. And unlike my previous time in London, I don't feel the temptation to make funny faces or strike silly poses next to them.

This time, the drug zombie soldiers are chanting, "end of the hallway, end of the hallway."

Mike's really laid it on thick here. This is probably the creepiest thing he's ever directed. The Evil Dead 2 remake is going to have a hard time topping it.

I make my way down the hallway to room 537.