Lester and Lester continue their holiday

Who: Lester and Lester and SNIDE
When: About the same time that Seymour is being shocked by Brittany
Where: The Hilton Hotel, New Tenerife
 
The hotel suite was beautiful and plush. Before setting off on his own schemes, Dysart had rooted around in his buried memories and helped Lester put together enough bits and pieces to pass properly as Ambassador Seymour Niples.
 
“It’s not that I don’t like the guy,” Dysart had explained as he produced a credit card in Seymour’s name, “but he’s just got that attitude that, you know, makes it ok to stick it to him once in a while.”
 
Lester handed the bellboy another $£50 note and closed the door, “cor, look at the bathroom, the TV! There’s a TV IN the bathroom!” Lester smiled as he threw his suitcase down and opened it, then he padded over to the bathroom and began running hot water into the tub.
 
“All right,” he conceded, “you can have the remote,” he picked it up, then crossed to the mini-bar and poured himself a light cocktail and another Diet Coke. Then with the remote in his teeth, he carried both glasses to the bathroom, stripped off and slipped into the warm suds.
 
“This is the life,” Lester cooed as he idly flipped through the thousands of channels, “ooh, Doctor Who! It’s a classic! One of the Romeo Beckham series! Have you ever seen it? Lester? Lester?” The geeky Lester was suddenly aware of a kind of lop-sided heaviness, “he’s asleep,” he marvelled, “and I’m not. Weird.” He settled back to watch the rest of the show. SNIDE skirted around the edge of the bath and found a large bar of hotel soap to play with.
 
* * *
 
Lester awoke with a snort and a start, “hello, good… evening,” he said to himself, “oh, I can't move now you've woken up. Could you just click that glowing icon there?” Lester peered at the screen in front of him, “what’s this?” He was still tired, but felt as if he’d had some rest, “what time is it?” The other Lester glanced at the clock beside the computer, “uh, nearly eleven o’clock,” he said. “Lunchtime? Uh, no, evening, you’ve slept all day.” Lester looked around him and then, obligingly clicked the icon on the multi-coloured game. A squadron of spacecraft roared across the screen and obliterated a tiny cluster of space-stations. “What have you been doing all this time?” Lester asked, dreading the answer. “Well, after our bath, I found that we had an internet account, it’s been ages since I’ve played and they very nearly closed the account, so I thought what harm can it do, so I ordered some food,” Lester looked around at the pizza box, empty crisp packets and the family size bottle of Jolt Cola, “the settled down for a couple of hours of Interplanetary Warcraft.” Lester stretched very stiff limbs, “I’ve been here since then.” Lester tutted, sighed and stood up, heading for the shower. He ran it cold, causing his other self to shriek like a girl, then dried, dressed in his only other suit and then visited the front desk. There he requested a taxi and made a beeline for the casino, SNIDE riding high on his shoulder.
 
* * *
 
It was a garish, overly-done place, with brilliant neon-lights and flashing signs promising plenty of DollarPounds to the lucky winner. Lester entered, straightening his suit and handed the cloned credit card over to the cashier.
 
“Five thousand please,” he asked, “to start.”
 
“Of course Mr.” she paused, read the card, read it again, “uh Nipples.”
 
“Nee-play,” Lester corrected with a smile, “Miss?”
 
“Helen,” she said, blushing slightly.
 
“Have you ever visited the Hilton, Miss Helen?”
 
“Once or twice,” she said, giggling.
 
“Then maybe you can find your way there later? Nee-play, remember?”
 
“I will sir, enjoy your stay.”
 
“Thank you,” Lester said, taking his stack of $£5000 casino chips. “Wow,” she heard Lester whisper to himself as he walked away, “did you see the way she looked at us! That was soooo cool! Shut up, please. Sorry.”
 
Lester perused the tables and decided on a game of blackjack going on nearby at which two elderly ladies, sisters by the looks of things, a fat Texan and a Mollopod sat under the lights saying things like “hit me”, “twist” and “stick”. Lester sat down and asked for his chips to be changed. It was then that a large man in a dinner jacket came over and asked to speak to Lester. Leaving his pile of chips, he joined the well dressed man over by the wall.
 
“I’m afraid sir, I’ll have to ask you to leave,” he said. “Your money will be returned, but we do have a policy.”
 
“A policy?”
 
“We do not allow augments, sir, I am sorry: house rules. You will find it the same across New Tenerife.”
 
Lester regarded him coolly, but also consciously rubbed at the device on his temple, “we understand,” he said and gathered his chips, then proceeded back to the cashier.
 
“Leaving so soon Mr. Niples?” Helen the cashier seemed disappointed.
 
“It’s the atmosphere, it’s not quite right. Not… personal enough.”
 
“I’m sure I could arrange a more personal experience, perhaps after my shift is over,” Helen couldn’t believe what she was suggesting to this tall, geeky looking guy with prosthetics, but it was the way he sometimes looked at her, so… hungry.
 
Lester took back his credit card, having restored the $£5000 and stormed angrily from the casino.
 
“That was going to be how we paid for the hotel,” he told himself in a low growl, “not now they’re bloody terrified we’ll be counting cards.” He mooched along the street trying to think when his other self spoke up: “I-I’ve got an idea,” he said. Lester sighed, “yes? W-we need to f-find a tanning place…” Lester looked around, “have you seen the weather in this place? During the day it’s scorching, there’s not going to be much business for a tanning salon.” Lester thought some more: “then i-it’ll have to be gravy,” he decided, “a-and a towel.”
 
* * *
 
“What did he look like?” Customs Officer Birkhaus demanded of the hotel manager. He was standing in Lester’s plush suite, the contents of the man’s suitcase had been scattered over the bed and floor, but nothing particularly incriminating had been found. The documents were in Lester’s suit pocket.
 
“Uh, a slender gentleman,” the hotel manager said, bringing up the ID register on a little palm-top computer, “dark brown hair, nice suit, very good cut.”
 
“Did he look anything like this?” Birkhaus thrust an image in front of the manager who frowned: “no. Who is that?”
 
“The real Seymour Nipples who came in today. OK, here’s what we’re going to do, I want the adjoining suite, Carlston and I will make ourselves comfortable over there and you ring us, the instant he turns up. Get me?”
 
“Of course,” the manager quivered and made a hasty retreat to begin the arrangements.
 
“We’re gonna crush this Nipples person, or whoever he is,” Brikhaus growled.
 
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