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You decide that maybe you can hang out in the hotel lobby until the deputy leaves. You walk over to the door and try to open it, but *thump*! There’s something blocking the door from outside.
It’s always something around here. What a crappy hotel. You think of waiting around until someone comes by to let you out, but then you hear someone talking to the receptionist downstairs.
In a deep, rich, decidedly Italianissimo voice, a heavyset man asks the woman at the counter about the room of a cowboy-like fellow approximating your appearance, accompanied by a horse, possibly wearing a poncho? He’s a friend of this gunslinger, and he intends to come up to the room to bring his buddy a nice, big sandwich. You suspect, based on your recent act of corporate sabotage, that this henchman’s sandwich is of the knuckle-based variety.
The receptionist gives the man your room number, and he starts to clomp up the stairs.
