Dear Constable:

I write this to you as a man under siege. If any of the crowd of rabid Nick Lightbearer fans should discover these scribblings, I fear that they shall tear me apart. But I can stand this no longer. No man should have to.

The hopelessly shredded upholstery. The sinks, stuffed with brassiers. The quarts of vomit our cleaners have to painstakingly remove from the carpeting. The endless empty pill bottles.

And that's just the Wonderland suite.

Each year myself and my poor beleaguered staff are compelled to deal with the reckless and destructive cyclone of hedonic anarchy that is Nick Lightbearer. And each year, right on time, that manager pays his bill in full, damages included, so I have nought else to do than grit my teeth.

But Lightbearer will slip up. I know it. And when he does, you will hear my call, and, it is my dearest hope, bring the full weight of the law down upon him.

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