Razor-Thin Margins

Barley, a dog, has a queen-sized bed all to herself in a three-star hotel room. On my third night in the terrible motel room, I was awoken around 2am by a shouting match taking place about 40 feet from my hotel room door. The particular of the argument were not well-defined, beyond some mismatch between the amount of money Person A had offered and the number of pills Person B was willing to give them, because both parties had pre-existing beef and figured they could add more items to the agenda as they went. Needless to say, I checked out of the motel on what was to have been my final night with no intention of returning. I called to inform apartment management that I had done so (because, after all, I had been promised they I could return that day by End Of Business), and they apologized and explained that I was actually going to need to say at the motel for three additional nights because the contractors had neglected to explain that the concrete poured to fill the hole in the foundation needed to cure so the laminate flooring didn’t trap all the moisture. I stood my ground: I was not going back to the motel, and insisted that I would be making my own arrangements instead and that I expected management to compensate me at least for the amount they had been paying for the awful motel. Working this up the chain had an unexpected side effect:…
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