“Damn you, Shlomi! May you wake up stark naked at the bottom of a festering hippo pool, gargling elephant dung like it’s mouthwash, sprouting a rat’s tail from your forehead, and cursed with a baboon’s ass so blindingly red that traffic stops out of sheer confusion! May every mosquito within a hundred-mile radius see you as an all-you-can-drink buffet, and may the local witch doctor take one look at you and immediately request an exorcism!”
I was livid.
Flickering artificial blue, green, and red light—courtesy of the migraine-inducing neon monstrosity outside my window—danced like a demented disco across my face. My head rested on an ancient pillow, a relic so old it might have cushioned Napoleon himself at Waterloo, now doubling as a petri dish teeming with enough bacteria, fungi, and viruses to either terraform Mars or single-handedly trigger the next extinction event.
And as I lay there, marinating in regret and possible biohazards, I cursed my new “best friend” Shlomi with the kind of vengeance usually reserved for Greek tragedies, biblical plagues, and people who steal parking spots at the last second.
Through the door—if you could even call that sagging excuse for a barrier a “door,” since I had no idea until now that people actually made them out of mouldy cardboard, pizza crusts, and what I could only assume was regret—oozed an ensemble of groans, mewls, whimpers, and even the occasional bleat. Sounds typically reserved for either a war-ravaged Cambodian brothel or the unholy aftermath of an exorcism gone horribly wrong.
Which, in hindsight, made perfect sense. Because that’s exactly where my dear “friend” Shlomi—executing a prank so diabolical it deserved its own museum exhibit—had booked me. A London suburban sex house where the carpets were filthier than a radioactive landfill, stickier than a tub of rotting pig intestines, and held together by nothing but the ghosts of bad decisions.
The blanket—alive in ways that defied both science and morality—was so infested with bed bugs and unidentified legumes that it had to be physically secured to the bed, lest it develop sentience and flee the premises in search of a better life. It appeared to be woven from pre-WWI cotton diapers, steeped in a century’s worth of unholy bodily fluids and historical trauma.
The duvet, on the other hand, had clearly spent its past life as a horse blanket—until even the horses revolted, rejecting it with the same disgusted finality as a man discovering his Tinder date is actually a TSA employee. And so, through some cruel twist of fate, it had been repurposed into an instrument of biological warfare, lying in wait to bestow upon unsuspecting travellers a collection of diseases so exotic they’d require a dedicated chapter in future medical textbooks.
Amidst the symphony of groans, moans, and what I could only assume were the final death rattles of dignity, a potent wave of déjà vu smacked me in the face like a wet fish hurled with Olympic precision.
I’d been here before. Well, not here specifically—this particular shrine to filth and moral decay was uniquely horrendous—but in a similarly catastrophic scenario, courtesy of my old friend Willy. Ah, Willy. A man of ambition, questionable intellect, and an affinity for high-stakes idiocy. His grand plan back then? To single-handedly relocate an entire pharmacy’s inventory by stitching it into the belly of an unsuspecting, thoroughly violated teddy bear and smuggling it from Mexico to Los Angeles.
Willy, of course, did not survive the voyage—at least, not in my life. One nosy customs officer with a tragic lack of humour later, and my pharmaceutical pioneer of a friend disappeared into the abyss, never to be seen again.
But before his ill-fated career in teddy bear drug trafficking, we had taken a road trip from Santa Monica to Cancún, crossing the border into a dust-choked hellhole called Matamoros. There, in a fit of optimism and sheer stupidity, we rented separate rooms in what barely qualified as a building. The price was enticing—a mere $5 a night, plus amenities that cost 25 cents per half-hour.
And by “amenities,” I mean one solitary television, bolted to the wall like a maximum-security prisoner, its sole function being the broadcast of ethically questionable content for the deeply depraved. On top of the TV sat a coin slot—because apparently, even sin had a meter. Drop in a quarter, and the screen would flicker to life, unleashing a barrage of visuals so profoundly unwholesome that even a seasoned pervert would consider seeking therapy.
Still, compared to my London flea-infested, depraved purgatory, the place in Matamoros might as well have been the Ritz-Carlton of human despair. Why? Because, despite its many crimes against hospitality, it had one undeniable advantage—the sheets were cleaner. Mostly because there hadn’t been any sheets at all.
Instead, the mattress had been entombed in industrial-grade plastic, vacuum-sealed like a cadaver in a morgue drawer, or perhaps a biohazard specimen awaiting transport to a government lab. Every movement on that unholy slab unleashed a cacophony of crinkles and tortured squeaks, like a thousand balloon animals being slowly, methodically strangled. Lying on it felt less like resting and more like waiting for an autopsy.
And yet—yet!—in hindsight, that sterile dystopian nightmare was preferable. Because at least it didn’t ooze. At least it didn’t move independently, shifting with unseen forces, as if something inside it—something ancient, malevolent, and possibly sentient—was stirring.
That was luxury compared to where I was now.
But that was a lifetime ago—an ancient relic of misfortune, long buried in the catacombs of my subconscious, sealed away like a cursed artefact best left undisturbed. Fifteen years had passed since that nightmarish stopover into filth and depravity, and I had done my best to repress every sleazy detail. And yet, here I was. Again.
How, you ask?
Oh, but of course—through no fault of my own. As usual. Because much like a human-shaped magnet for disaster or a living, breathing invitation for catastrophe, I had once again been hurled into the jaws of absurdity with the velocity of a doomed meteor—except with significantly less grace and considerably more collateral damage.
Flashback to the Maasai Mara, where I had the distinct pleasure of meeting Shlomi—a wedding photographer with the ethics of a back-alley bookie and the kind of energy that makes you instinctively pat your pockets to ensure you still own your valuables. During our brief, chaotic co-existence at the bush camp, we bonded over our shared appreciation for dark humour and the kind of jokes that could get you permanently banned from polite society. It was fun. It was fleeting. And, in my mind, it was over.
Now, I’m not against making new friends—far from it. Meeting people is one of the few joys in life that doesn’t require a credit card or a blood sacrifice. But I’ve also been around long enough to know that most people have the follow-through of a lobotomised lemon. They make grand declarations of staying in touch, and then? Silence. So when it was time to part ways, and Shlomi predictably asked for my contact details, I responded with my usual brand of blunt diplomacy:
"Dude, don’t ruin a perfectly good memory. We both know you’re not going to send a letter, a postcard, or a heartfelt Christmas present. Hell, a bikini contest in Benghazi or a moon landing by pigeons is more likely to happen than you actually reaching out. So let’s call it what it is—two like-minded souls sharing some laughs in the wilderness. Now be a good lad and sod off.”
Judging by the stunned expression on his face, my words landed somewhere between harsh reality and personal attack. But subtlety has never been my strong suit, and my version of tact is about as delicate as a head-butt to the frontal lobe.
To his credit, Shlomi did not flinch. He simply nodded, grinned like a man who knew something I didn’t, and disappeared into the ether.
And that should have been the end of it.
It was not.
I had barely touched down in Germany, barely set foot in the beach house I begrudgingly called home, when an email slithered into my inbox. From Shlomi.
How, in the unholy name of all things sacred and profane, had he gotten my email? I hadn’t given it to him. I hadn’t even given him a hint. Only later did I learn that he had burrowed through the tour operator’s records with the persistence of a cockroach in a nuclear wasteland and pried out my contact details like a determined grave robber extracting gold teeth.
His message? A cheerful proclamation that he would be in London for a few days and, since it was only an hour’s flight from Hamburg, wouldn’t it be just splendid if I hopped over to see him?
"Shlomi," I told him, "I would rather bathe in battery acid while listening to an audiobook of bureaucratic tax laws than voluntarily set foot in England. The place is a drizzling, grey hellscape populated by people who think lukewarm tap water is a reasonable substitute for coffee. The only thing bleaker than their weather is their cuisine, and I haven't even started on their devotion to deep-fried despair masquerading as fish and chips. Even the French cook better, and they actively despise the concept of food hygiene."
“Ok then, so I’ll see you in three weeks in London? Looking forward to see your Sauerkraut face again,” and just like that he was done and I was doomed.
A few days later—it must have been September 2008, but time had long since lost all meaning—I stumbled out of that hideously claustrophobic transportation atrocity affectionately referred to as the “Tube.” A misnomer if there ever was one. The Rolling Ghetto or Deathbed on Wheels would’ve been far more honest branding, but apparently public relations had stepped in. After all, nothing says “modern civilisation” like being vacuum-sealed into a metal coffin with two hundred strangers and their shared body odour, hurtling through a dark hole like some cursed human sausage link.
I emerged into the grim daylight of Tottenham, London—where dreams meet their demise and take their last miserable breath in a puddle of unidentified liquid. The air was thick with despair and exhaust fumes, the traffic louder than an Iron Maiden concert held inside a collapsing grain silo. My eardrums considered filing for divorce.
Still half-blind from the experience and questioning every decision that led me here, I ran into him: Shlomi—my newfound associate in bad life choices, wielding his trademark mix of sick humour and camera equipment so tasteless it could’ve been a prop from a Soviet instructional video on what not to do. He grinned at me, wide and triumphant, like he’d just cured cancer or, more likely, like a chimpanzee who’d finally peeled his first banana without eating his own foot.
And despite every fibre of my being screaming for help, I smiled back. Because sometimes, when you’re trapped in the absurdity of life’s circus, you might as well laugh with the clown.
“Quickly now, you Kraut! Don’t stand there like the Queen’s about to knight you. These people might still remember the bombs you dropped not too long ago—so let’s move before someone realises a German has once again invaded the island, this time armed with sarcasm and bad fashion sense. And hurry the hell up—I still have to deal with those wedding pictures I took in the Maasai Mara. The couple’s getting impatient…”
I stood there, frozen—not by his verbal static, which droned on like a broken fax machine—but by the staggering revelation that some poor, unsuspecting couple had actually entrusted this walking photographic war crime with immortalising the most important day of their lives… and were still waiting.
“Shlomi,” I muttered, already experiencing secondhand regret, “you can’t be serious. You haven’t sent them a single shot? The wedding was three weeks ago! Three! Michelangelo could’ve chiseled them a commemorative statue by now—blindfolded, using a spoon. Hell, even a half-dead squirrel with an ink-dipped tail could’ve drawn their portrait on a napkin by this point.”
But there he was—unbothered, unfazed, the living embodiment of professional apathy, as if catastrophic incompetence was just a casual pastime, and obliterating cherished memories was something he squeezed in between lunch and a nap. But of course, this was merely the opening act of disgrace. What followed didn’t just confirm my already dismal view of wedding photographers—it excavated it with a backhoe, set it on fire, and mailed the ashes to hell.
Because not only was this so-called photo virtuoso catastrophically behind schedule—oh no, that would’ve been merciful—what truly set a new gold standard in visual war crimes were the actual pictures he’d managed to take. It was a grotesque potpourri of blurred disasters—portraits missing legs, heads, dignity, and in some cases, basic lighting. Half the images looked like evidence from a paranormal investigation. The rest? Too dark to decipher if they depicted an African tribal war council in the dead of night or a power outage in rural North Korea. Honestly, calling it photography was an insult to blindfolded toddlers with crayons.
I felt genuine pity for that poor couple—though perhaps, for the continued survival of my new “friend”, it was better they never lay eyes on him again, lest bride and groom join forces to hunt him down and use his camera as a blunt instrument of justice.
When I warned Shlomi—out of a basic sense of human decency—that the unlucky couple might already be drafting his obituary, he redeemed himself in the only way he knew how: by opening his mouth and doubling down on insanity.
“Listen, Marcel,” he began, dead serious, like this was a court deposition, “I warned them. I begged them not to hire me. I threatened them, even. But they kept insisting. I don’t know if you noticed… but I’m not really a wedding photographer.”
“Really?” I thought. How could I have possibly missed that subtle detail? Perhaps it was the way he handled a camera like it was an exotic disease, or the sheer horror of the resulting photos—hard to say, truly. But I stayed silent, staring at him like he was a rare species of moron, waiting to see just how far this rabbit hole went—and dreading it.
“You see,” he continued, with the confidence of a man caught red-handed selling counterfeit life jackets on the Titanic, “a buddy of mine does these gigs, but he couldn’t be bothered to come to the Mara. Hates the bush, hates animals, hates dust. Basically hates life. So he asked me to go instead. Naturally, I refused—because I’m not an idiot. But then he kept throwing money at me… paid for everything: transport, lodge, probably my future therapy. So I figured, ‘Gee, how hard can it be to take a few snaps of some imbeciles in the wild?’”
I stared at him, trying to calculate which of the parties was the greater idiot—him, for accepting a job he was criminally unqualified for, or the couple, for hiring a man with less knowledge of wedding photography than a Neanderthal has of intergalactic travel. In the end, his paper-thin explanation, though riddled with logical collapse, salvaged something: he was no longer a crook—just a garden-variety dunce. And honestly, I could live with that. My moral compass would have forced me to abandon a scam artist—but a halfwit? Well, they’re everywhere in my life. Hell, some of them are even friends.
The rest of the day we trudged through London on a noble quest for a post office, trying to mail the disc of doom to the poor, unsuspecting wedding couple. All the while, I prayed it wouldn’t inspire them to hunt down the even more unfortunate photographer, with me as the unlucky collateral damage—the bonus level victim in their righteous campaign for revenge.
Between interrogations of coffee shop baristas and conversations, dead funny, but as empty as Shlomi’s calendar of deadlines, I casually mentioned I was still homeless for the night. I was hoping for something simple yet elegant—downtown, classy, perhaps with sheets that didn’t smell like regret. The Four Seasons, maybe.
Shlomi’s eyes lit up like he’d just solved world hunger using only paperclips and duct tape.
“No, no, no,” he insisted, waving me off like I was an ignorant peasant. “I have something far better for you. Trust me.”
And there it was. The fatal blow. The phrase that has preceded every major disaster in human history: Trust me.
Shlomi, as it turned out, was merely on a stopover in London, en route to Israel with his family in tow. In a stroke of tactical brilliance, and in what I can only assume was a last-ditch effort to preserve his wallet from spontaneous combustion, he saw me not as a friend, but as a get-out-of-shopping-free card. Because, as we all know, a shopping spree in London with your wife and kids can quickly spiral into a financial event rivalling an interstellar war—minus the lasers, but with all the collateral damage.
So, in a move of shameless self-preservation, he offered me up as the excuse to dodge department stores and toy aisles, deciding that spending the day playing tour guide to a mildly confused German was the lesser evil compared to bankruptcy by retail assault. The next morning, he and his family would continue their journey to Israel, while I would be left alone in London, armed with nothing but blind trust, vague directions, and a lodging situation that was about to make solitary confinement look appealing.
But before that delightful nightmare unfolded, Shlomi had one more stroke of genius to share, and it came in the form of mysterious phone calls, whispered like he was negotiating ransom terms or ordering a hit. After a few exchanges that sounded more like coordinates than directions, he hung up and grinned like he’d just brokered peace between North and South Korea using nothing but chewing gum and cotton ear swaps.
“Done! I got you something great! You’ll love it. It’s a bit **outside of downtown—not quite Piccadilly Circus—but you’ll be fine. And the entertainment is nice, too. I’ll take you there.”
But, of course, it was not fine, at all. And the entertainment? Yeah... we’ll get to that. Let’s just say it was about to be redefined in horrifying ways.
We entered, again, the abomination of public transportation—the previously mentioned clattery, underground medieval torture device the locals affectionately call the “Tube.” As before, it was less of a transit system and more of a steel coffin powered by the tears of the damned, rattling its way through dank tunnels that smelled like despair and reheated fish grease. The ride itself was uneventful in the same way a lobotomy is uneventful—just unpleasant body odours, an invisible wall of stink equal parts fish and chips, stale Guinness, and what I can only assume was the rotting soul of the British Empire, quietly fermenting in the damp corners of the carriage.
Eventually, we disgorged ourselves at some forgotten corner of London that screamed “bad decisions made here.” In front of us stood a structure that might have once aspired to be a motel, but had long since given up and settled into its true identity as a haunted halfway house for bad luck and worse hygiene.
I should have turned on my heels right then and there.
I should have punched Shlomi squarely in the throat, set his camera equipment on fire, and deleted his contact faster than a politician erasing incriminating emails.
I should have blocked him, ghosted him, and had his name scrubbed from every database in existence.
I should have done a lot of things. But I didn’t.
Instead, I followed this smiling agent of chaos inside, oblivious to the catastrophe I was courting, and checked in like a lamb volunteering for slaughter. With a quick, cheerful goodbye, Shlomi flagged down a cab, vanished into the London traffic like a conman fleeing the scene of the crime, and left me standing there with a key to doom in one hand and existential dread in the other. Courtesy of Shlomi, I didn’t have to pay for the room. Lucky me. Whether he and the owner were co-conspirators in a scam targeting gullible tourists, or they had bonded while committing war crimes in the middle east, I couldn’t tell—and at this point, I didn’t want to know. All I knew was that I was tired, my soul was fraying, and all I wanted was to collapse into a bed that didn’t scream “biohazard” and get a few hours of regret-laced rest before my early flight back to Germany—the land of order, efficiency, and absolutely zero humour. Little did I know, the true horror hadn’t even started.
Welcome to hell. Population: Me.
As I stood in the doorway of what was technically a “room” but more accurately a psychological test wrapped in asbestos, I realised something truly harrowing: I had just crossed into a dimension where health codes came to die. Shlomi’s parting gift—a deluxe reservation straight from the pit of capitalism’s failures—was now mine to survive.
The floor groaned beneath my feet, like it was begging me to turn back before I became part of the foundation. The air—thicker than a conspiracy theorist’s manifesto—smelled like a toxic cocktail of mould, regret, and expired dreams, with a top note of wet carpet and someone else’s foot fungus.
And oh, the bathroom—if you could call it that—looked like a crime against plumbing. The dripping faucet wasn’t just dripping, it was weeping, as if it knew the horrors it had witnessed and just wanted it all to end. The toilet? Let’s just say it had seen things, and the shower head dangled like a noose, which felt fitting given my plummeting will to live.
Through the neon-stained gloom, I spotted the bed—a lumpy altar to tetanus—and beside it, a chair that looked like it came from a war zone and lost. Every creak and moan from the next room echoed like a death knell, a symphony of bad choices and cheap thrills, played on a loop by two souls locked in mortal combat with their mattress.
As I stood there, soaked in the glow of the broken sign outside flashing “Vac ncy” like a desperate plea, I realised that hell wasn’t fire and brimstone—it was this room, this night, this living nightmare courtesy of a man I once called friend.
Sleep? Not likely. Survival? Uncertain. Sanity? Already gone. And as I sat on the edge of the bed, watching the stains on the wall pulse in rhythm with my regret, I knew one thing for certain:
Shlomi would pay. In blood or in bleach, he would pay.
There were good news about this chamber of despair. The shower, for instance, was mercifully silent—no dripping, no leaking, no ominous gurgling noises suggesting some kind of Love-craftian sewer deity. Why? Because it wasn’t connected to anything resembling plumbing. In place of what may have been a shower at some forgotten point in history, there was simply a hole—a gaping wound in the building’s integrity—offering a generous, unsolicited view into the room below, where unsuspecting neighbours went about their lives, unaware they were now unwilling participants in my personal horror film.
Entertainment-wise, the TV was missing, probably pawned off during the Thatcher era, but who needs TV when you’ve got a voyeuristic plumbing shaft and the distant cries of the damned leaking through paper-thin walls?
Then there was the toilet seat—if you can imagine a raccoon’s fever dream of luxury, you’re getting close. It was lined with plush velvet, or more accurately, a biohazard masquerading as comfort, the colour somewhere between dying liver and radiation burn. It looked like the aftermath of a failed government experiment, and I had the sinking suspicion that contact would lead to instant organ failure. I mentally reviewed my vaccination history. Tetanus, Hepatitis, Rabies—nope, not enough coverage. I gave it a wide berth, lest I contract something so exotic it would require my organs to be studied posthumously in hazmat suits.
Then, from the corner of my eye, I caught movement. Not the kind of movement that made sense in a room devoid of life or dignity—no, this was organic, sinister. The chair, or rather the worm-infested husk pretending to be a chair, was shifting. Not twitching—crawling. Slowly, pathetically, as if even it was trying to escape the existential torment of being trapped in this post-apocalyptic hotel room. I couldn’t blame it. If I had been a piece of furniture, I’d have fled too—hurled myself out the nearest window, splintered into a thousand pieces, and prayed someone would burn me for mercy.
At this point, it wasn’t just a place to stay—it was an active threat to my health, sanity, and probably my immortal soul. And still, somewhere out there, Shlomi was probably sipping a latte, laughing, unaware that he had sentenced me to die in the haunted digestive tract of London’s motel underworld.
Then came the final insult—a roach, bold and unrepentant, crawling across the wall with the confidence of a landlord collecting rent. We locked eyes. In that moment, we both knew only one of us was leaving alive. But then I remembered: I had a flight to catch and a will to survive.
With the reflexes of a man escaping both literal and metaphorical death, I grabbed my bag, sprinted past the groaning chair, vaulted over the haunted bed, and slammed the door shut behind me like I was sealing off an ancient curse.
I didn’t bother checking out. I didn’t ask for a refund. Some losses are too great, some battles not worth fighting. As I emerged into the polluted London night, I ran, not walked, away from that hellhole, clutching my sanity like a war trophy and vowing never to trust a man with a Canon camera and a smile again.
My grand escape plan from London’s answer to war crimes disguised as hospitality involved fleeing into the nearest gateway to hell—also known as the Underground—and hurling myself toward the glistening consumerist utopia of Heathrow’s shiny terminals. There, I’d fight tooth and nail for a lounge chair like a war orphan clutching his last ration, and spend the remaining hours half-comatose until my flight mercifully opened for boarding.
I could already taste redemption: fresh coffee, a cholesterol-drenched breakfast, and the smug satisfaction of reclining in my business class fauteuil like an exiled king returning from battle. Once again, I’d bask in the velvet cocoon of the privileged, flashing my Amex card like a Vatican-issued relic, parting crowds and opening lounge doors like Moses splitting the Red Sea—if Moses had a $20,000 credit limit and a burning hatred of economy class.
But like a suicide bomber realising too late he forgot the detonator, my grand plan evaporated into the night air as I stood—staring, slack-jawed—at the locked, rusted gate of the Underground entrance. Apparently, the Tube’s karmic retribution had kicked into full gear, punishing me for my earlier character assassination of its olfactory crimes, and leaving me stranded in what could only be described as a suburban Chernobyl—a holocaust wasteland of mediocrity—somewhere on the frayed edges of London’s overgrown armpit.
And there I was—a lone, sleep-deprived idiot, armed only with a dead phone, crushed dignity, and the creeping realisation that this night was far from over.
Now, I could dive into the grim visual detail of trying to flag down a non-existent cab—a scenario that, unlike in the movies, didn’t involve a swarm of black taxis threatening to mow me down like wildebeests during a migration stampede. No, London’s famed cabs were apparently on strike that night—or had been abducted by aliens—leaving me to loiter in the shadows like a ghost in search of a graveyard, waving hopelessly at passing headlights which all turned out to be delivery vans or, at one point, a hearse.
Eventually, I gave up and climbed aboard a medieval incarnation of public transport: the bus, a lurching metal coffin piloted by a man who seemed to have taken a blood oath never to acknowledge the existence of brakes. Hours passed. Possibly decades. I blacked out at some point but awoke miraculously in what resembled civilisation, though that term feels generous when applied to Heathrow at dawn.
But there I was. Miraculously intact. Not mugged. Not robbed. Not infected by whatever plague was festering in that motel's walls. I boarded my plane like a war-weary soldier returning from the frontlines, collapsing into the sweet embrace of my business class seat—a reclined throne for the weary and disillusioned. Several coma-inducing drinks and a pack of cigarettes later, I found myself back at the Beachhouse, staring into the fire like a man who had seen too much and understood too little.
And that’s when it hit me. This is what makes good travel stories. Not your kale smoothie yoga retreat. Not the “all-inclusive” Club Med escapade where the biggest challenge is towel origami. And certainly not your soul-searching pilgrimage to Bali where the only thing you found was food poisoning and a questionable tattoo.
No—it’s the tales of chaos and calamity that stick. The moments where life throws a brick through your window and yells, “Surprise!” These are the stories worth telling, because they’re not about existing—they’re about living. Gloriously, absurdly, messily living. And frankly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Marcel Romdane,
escaped the hell of British hospitality—and lived to warn the others.
Picture Below:
Four years later, it was finally payback time. Sweet, high-octane revenge—served at 10,000 feet. Shlomi, the unwitting architect of my descent into the seventh circle of British hospitality hell, climbed confidently into the front seat of my plane in Kenya. He grinned like a man who thought he was about to enjoy a pleasant aerial tour... not realizing he’d just volunteered for an airborne exorcism. My instructor, a man with the same mercy levels as a caffeinated warthog, took the back seat and gave him the full treatment. Barrel rolls, steep climbs, dives that flirted with gravity-induced cardiac arrest—Shlomi’s smug smile evaporated faster than his stomach contents. He went up bold and brave, he came back green and broken, clutching the ground like it was the only thing that had never betrayed him.
Vindication? Achieved. Balance of the universe? Restored.
Me? Thoroughly satisfied, watching him stagger off the airfield like a man who’d just had tea with death.
London stunt avenged.
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