The Wolf: A tale of professionalism.

The Wolf is the central character in a long running joke. A little too long, some might say.

The joke ran extensively, yet lacked growth or embellishment. A common trait in the structure of running jokes. It ran long enough for actual events to influence the telling of what became a myth/legend.

Before long,  we began to see truth in our tall tale. Much like the children in “Lord Of The Flies”.

The wolf is a Tarantino character made famous by Harvey Keitel. Similar to the film and in the context of the joke, he is a professional.

The initial joke: We had been in the hostel for so long… We had settled in with such ease and comfort that the powers that be had called in “The Wolf”. The Wolf is dialled on such occasions to procure a speedy exit of lingering guests, to return hostel order.

His job description is simple, but leaves so much room for artistic flare.

…

Two hostel volunteers have fallen victim to the charms of my beloved pals, slayers that they are. Somehow, the fallen have managed to grasp the cliffs edge before plummeting. It is this awkward, clingy gesture that has created uneasiness in the hostel environment. The catalyst of imbalance.

The morning after- I was the guiltless spectator. Personally, I enjoy a little unrest. My acquaintance with sadism is a coupling awarded easier to me than others, for I was the slayer of nothing. I had shown my belly to no one.

What became a morning routine- running for four consecutive mornings- must’ve been torment for the premarital activists.

The concubines- playing waitress (one of many roles played as a volunteer hostel worker) were demanded of, frequently. “More coffee”, “Where’s the milk?”, “sugar?”… All from the boys they’d just diddles not hours before.

A moment of sympathy… A brief moment. Keep reading.

The harsh working environment, jarring hangovers and sever lack of sleep… The onslaught of increasing shame (or not)… You could smell the defeat. It was intoxicating.

The expectancy of witty banter was dismal. They were wearing the hits like pad-less Pommies, defending the stumps (pride) against a relentless Brett Lee.

The constant battering managed to manifest itself into a limbo of horrid semantics. Frequent misunderstanding led to dramatic, unregulated outbursts of rage… Breaking point was reached. Appalling sportsmanship.

The boys, who’d dabbled, suffered harsh judgement and a barrage of comical sledging, all born from the folly of spilling explicit detail- A common mistake among friends.

Though, credit where due- silent praise was given for certain explicit details told in hushed confines.

After three days of revelling over the debauchery- involving three soiled rooms, two mentally scared Peruvian house maids and a cane couch, it was needless to say the credibility of the hostel staff was properly compromised… Another way of putting it would be that the integrity of the hostel employ were akin to that of a morsel of lint… in a blizzard.

The Wolf.

They must have felt threatened. There are no other possibilities. For the call was made. And The Wolf is a professional.

The hostel had an ace up the sleeve. They knew the number to call. They knew there was no cause for concern, for the final drawcard lay waiting… They had dealt with such swinging dicks before. This was not their first rodeo.

…We weren’t ready.

How could we have been? After a pleasant mango curry and a not so pleasant chocolate milkshake (over abundance of cinnamon), we returned to our relatively small 4-bedroom dorm. We unsuspecting three. The wolf was waiting.

The door took effort to open for there was a heavy plastic storage container-wrapped in heavy silver chain blocking the entrance…

It is hard to omit the emotion from the telling.

A man was revealed-eyes glazed over. He wore heavy black slacks, boots and mountain jacket-buttoned to the brim. The midday heat exceeds 25 degrees, Celcius. And it was midday. The sweat pouring off him can only be categorised as cascading, if not torrential.

The storage box mentioned above came equipped with a removalists’ dolly. You know? The one you use to move office desks and bed mattresses… Accompanying the box and dolly:

a) 2x 40L backpack(s)

b) 1x school sized backpack

c) 3x full-black trash bags,

d) 2x10L plastic water bottles,

e) 2x lap top(s)

I’ve previously mentioned the confined space- I reiterate. Professional.

Later that night, The Wolf would come to confirm reputation. We were warned of the full rotisserie chicken entering the room. Yet, we heard nothing of the carcass coming back out…. Not one bone. There must have been grease on his face, if we dared look. Even if we did, it’d be difficult to spot through the relentless sweating.

The smell was profound. Penetrating conventional boundaries like cement walls and wooden doors, the waft seeped to the common room, tens of meters away. At the time of impact our beloved nostrils were exceedingly content monitoring the intake and expulsion of oxygen and carbon dioxide, respectively.

Since that moment, days ago- later dubbed “First Contact”, the smell has only transgressed into something specifically undefinable yet regrettably, still as potent. Our only clues toward the characteristics of the mentioned toxicity are attributed to The Wolf’s freakish habits. Of which are extensive.

It’d be indiscrete to mention the cereal and milk being slurped up at ridiculous o’clock. I’d be wrong to disclose the nerve grinding, late night/ early morning gaming. Click. Click. Click, click, click. Repeat… I would be distinct in the devil’s eye on judgement day if I was to spread the tale of the chilling masturbation in the dark of night… But I have a purpose.

When in top bunk and The Wolf below, there is no escape. This is his plan.

There may have been flickers of conversation with The Wolf. But it was non eventful. After all, his reputation was, by this stage, known. We knew better than to delve deep into the mind of the beast with risky enquiries.

The whereabouts of the chicken carcass is still unknown.

I shiver into consciousness in the middle of the night, covered in cold sweat. The nightmarish vision of a masturbating professional, defined by a chicken bone necklace, frolicking in gay abandon of social norms is still apparent at the time of waking. The horror is that the seed, of which my unconscious mind has embellished and taken feverish liberties with, lays in the waking world, beneath me still. The true horror… He was there the whole time.

The tickets have been booked out of here. No price too high.

The hostel and it’s mistresses revel in triumph. Once we leave-balance will be restored. The Wolf, after all, is a professional. And the number he laid on us was professional. He was the undisputed king of taboo’s and master of faux pas’.

Below are some snaps of a tour we took to educate us on barbaric cultures dating back far before Baby Jesus. We thought it’d be cool… We didn’t expect to learn of sacrificial ceremonies concerning castration… All to appease a make believe half spider, half crab creature. There were already enough dramatic creatures haunting our dreams and realities.

All this on a particularly filthy hangover. Our minds had been violated. We screamed “Rape”.

But no one came.

Enough!

Goodbye Huanchaco.