"It's the best suite in the hotel, Sir," the receptionist said. He shifted from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable dealing with someone he believed did not belong in his hotel.
"That's as maybe," Scruff said, sticking his finger in the yoghurt pot he had swiped from the breakfast table and swirling it around before popping it in his mouth and sucking the white gunk. "But it sucks. It stinks," he said, finger poised to dive back into the yoghurt. "It smells of shit."
I watched the receptionist flinch at Scruff's words and his shenanigans with the yoghurt pot, and tried not to smirk.
"What Mr Scruff is saying," I interrupted. Scruff nodded, anticipating that whatever I was going to say would back up his position. It was what I was paid to do, after all. "What he is trying to say is that whenever he has stayed here before the penthouse suite was made available to him."
...
