The following is a dossier retrieved in Mr. Gagnon’s room after his untimely death, which was ruled a suicide by local authorities. Said manuscript was found under lock and key in his desk drawer, meticulously compiled alongside the gun which he regretfully used to take his own life.
There is no evidence of it ever having been mailed; It seems that in his schizophrenic delusions, Mr. Gagnon believed he was hired by a third party to investigate a “gang” of undesirables supposedly operating on Hotel grounds.
The identity of said third party is still being investigated. The ashes of Mr. Gagnon were preserved inside the vault as per his wishes.
– Elizabeth Smith MD
Dear [NAME REDACTED] ,
It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, and many thanks for choosing me for this job. My name is Johnny Gagnon, otherwise known as Speedster. I get excited when I slit a guy’s throat. I know that may be sick, but I do the best work in town.
This is a report on the job, I’m sure you’ll like what I have to say.
The Dataly Mafia operates, hidden from sight, within the bowels of Paradise Hotel. They lord over local crime with eye and claw, like hawks among lesser birds.
I’m still investigating the reason why the takeover happened. It might be as simple as the Datalies needing a new base of operations, but I heard rumors that their ultimate objective was to build up enough influence to challenge the rule of God (“Hideous” Kojima). Unfortunately, they ended up inheriting the souls of the damned motherfuckers, and all they ever managed to do was waste their damn time talking about irrelevant bullshit.
What follows is a collection of my notes on their known affiliates.
Underboss / Site owner / Bada$$ motherfucker
Daniele D. Dataly is the underboss of the Dataly Clan. I have it on good authority that the owner, Mr. [NAME REDACTED], is nothing but a figurehead for the real bank behind this operation.
Paradise Hotel was about to close down shop due to the outstanding “gambling debts” (for that is what he calls them) the previous owner had accumulated over the years. Mr. Dataly came in one day, waving around wads of cash, ready to buy out the place. He was known in the business as a “Golden Person” (GP).
His higher ups, the powers that be, did not sanction the buyout. I suspect his intention was to splinter his family away from the main group. He mostly stays underground, out of sight, dreading HIS appearance…
Lieutenant / Chief writer / Mystery man
This mysterious individual is Dataly’s most trusted lieutenant.
He made his name on the street by associating with known political “activists” before warming his way into the graces of the Dataly Mafia, somehow gaining the position of lieutenant after a series of unfortunate yet strangely coincidental accidents involving banana peels and long flights of stairs.
Many within the Dataly clan see him as an opportunist, forgoing the usual affiliation rituals, yet for reasons mysterious only to those lacking the cognition to properly utilize what the Gods of old gracefully gifted them with, namely the ability to use their fucking eyes, the man Dataly himself insists on protecting him. His hobbies include solitaire and snowboarding.
TopDrunkee Thy ILLnifique
OYABUN / Remnant Psyche / Living legend…?
A shadow from the past… or maybe a warning from the future!?
The lingering will of the original owner still haunts the hallowed halls of the Paradise Hotel. What is he up to? Does he truly represent the will of an age long past, or is he just gearing up for a comeback?
Women want him, men want to be him, janitors fear him and he’s rumored to have played a part in every major terror attack since the late 90s. At least that’s how the legend goes.
Let me tell you, this one is one scary mofo. Everybody knows about his past affiliation with the TRUMP syndicate, which was enough to throw shade on his entire operation.
Ignoramuses, that is to say retards, might claim that he’s dead, but those of us who live their life on the edge can see him roaming around the halls, biding his time.
Vladimir Putin / Russian Hacker / Election thief / web designer
Russian hacker by day, Russian hacker by night.
Stealing the US presidency was but a pastime for him. Donald Trump and Joe Biden are mere pawns in his subversive eastern plot. Can he be stopped? Should he be stopped?
Nobody knows how he came under the employment of the Dataly Syndicate, and many wonder what function such an expert in the art of political subversion would serve in what is allegedly a simple drug smuggling operation. Is it possible that the wholesome mafia family might in fact be a cover, a trojan horse for a more sinister operation of political infetterence?
His cover story, that of being the webmaster for a videogame fansite, leaves me unconvinced. I shall investigate further.
Money launderer / Set designer / “A lover, not a fighter”
Max Triumph is what is commonly known as the “bank” in such an operation. All of the dirty cash coming in the lobby of Paradise Hotel is eaten by him, only for it to be shat out, squeaky clean, from his ass.
(I am of course speaking metaphorically. Mr. Triumph neither ingests the money, nor does he defecate it. The act would in fact be quite unsavory. What I am referring to, is what is commonly known as “Money laundering.”)
His childhood dream was to work as a set designer in Hollywood movies. Despite his scary appearance, Mr. Triumph is, in fact, as dangerous as a cuddly bear. (The implication being that we’re talking about a teddy bear, a plushie. Real bears, as cuddly as they might seem, are in fact quite dangerous.)
He channels his positive energy into being the set designer for the Paradise Hotel website.
Cleaner / Make-up artist / All around good guy
Johnny Casket is a cleaner, only not in the proper sense of the word.
He feels no remorse when seeing a dead body, and specializes in cleaning up crime scenes, leaving the police holding their proverbial dick (penis, member) in hand.
Unfortunately, the task of running a videogame fansite, other than being heinous and unbecoming in and of itself, doesn’t require much of his actual talents. What I’m trying to say is that Mr. Casket is employed as an actual cleaner, a janitor.
One gifted in brains such as myself would immediately assume his role to be a cover-up, but I’ll say. You can eat a bowl of soup on these floors, they’re so clean. I almost feel bad taking a shit in their toilets.
Despite his remarkable work ethic, he insists on wearing ghoulish masks while working, straight out of a horror movie. A monster for our age!
Bookmaker / Weeb / Virgin
I could not identify this guy’s face. Seriously, he only communes with others through a PC screen, some cartoon chick looking at me with dead eyes. It freaks me the fuck out.
He’s the syndicate’s bookmaker, but all transactions occur online. The world of cryptocurrency and NFTs bows down to Hopespeak. Financial ruin is a keystroke away!
I have it on good authority that he is, in fact, a virgin; though others mockingly refer to him as a “CHAD”, who “FUCKS AN ASIAN BEE-YATCH EVERY NIGHT.” Seriously, WTF is that shit? Is this how kids talk nowadays? I don’t understand any of it, but thankfully, you pay me to report, not to understand.
Gravekeeper, Archivist / Cheats at poker / Also Vladimir Putin
Some people are just too vile even for the URSS. After the regime fell, this guy defected to the USA, the one country who never has enough bloodthirsty crazies on the payroll.
He’s the gravekeeper; Money, drugs, even dead bodies, he’ll make them disappear for the state, and for a price. Unlike with Casket though, that shit is not gone forever. Once it’s time for a good old-time scandal, or even just to send a message, whatever item he “kept” will mysteriously reappear, as fresh as the day it disappeared. It’s like a magic trick, I tell you.
When he’s not busy pulling hats out of rabbits, the guy runs a web archive of old iterations of the same damn videogame fansite. Seriously, what the hell is wrong with these people? This cat’s supposed to be a glowie. What’s he doing with the Datalies? What’s his connection with TopDrunkee?
Enforcer / Typesetter / Concierge
When you first enter the doors of the Paradise Hotel, just walking up to the concierge takes balls. Dude’s a straight up giant, 6’9” or some shit. No wonder they call him The Leviathan. Motherfucker is a monster, shoulders as wide as a wardrobe. Could have played in the NBA, if he didn’t have such a criminal face.
Obviously, he’s what we in the business call “the muscle”. That is to say that he’s the guy you call when you need someone’s legs broken, or, in my case, when you need a change of sheets.
Word on the street is that he’s a remnant of the Seattle Self Defense Force from back in the late 90s. I’ve ran into his kind before and I don’t need to tell you, they’re best avoided.
I only saw him once, when he handed me my key. I didn’t have to say anything, as if he already knew me. Room 51.
Butcher / Baker / Candlestickmaker
This guy’s the Hotel’s cook. After hearing the term “cook”, my imagination was filled with images of underground drug labs, like that tv show with the bald cancer man and the scrawny kid. I decided to look into him.
After many, many wonderful meals which your Majesty so gracefully paid for with the card that was provided to me, I could only conclude that he’s actually a cook.
A little known fact about him, is that he runs a Youtube channel where he “reviews” his own cooking. Rumor has it that if you look hard enough, you’re going to find him in the background of every photo.
Musician / Possibly Vladimir Putin?
Dude’s not a mobster. He’s just a musician hanging around mobsters.
Nothing weird about that. You know Frank Sinatra? Apicella? Well he’s nothing like them, because he sucks, but you understand my meaning.
Point is, I assumed this guy wouldn’t be dangerous, hence why I actually approached him.
I told him I worked for the paper. Dude has no idea which kind of “paper” this information is going into though. I told him I saw him at a concert, made up some shit, and I asked him what he wanted me to write about him.
“write smth about I make crazy music that make heads explode or smth”
I almost threw up. Seriously, what the fuck? Is anyone sane in this fucking place? Every night I spend here, I feel my sanity slipping more and more. How long has it been?
Jack & Jill Ichikawa
Crazy twins / Possibly pimps? / Might require further investigation
Jack & Jill went up a hill, for they have discovered the latest thrill. To desecrate, slaughter, maim, and KILL!
I know I say this a lot, but these guys look fucking crazy. Crazier than the rest of the gang, and that’s saying something. I don’t know much about them, I’m not even sure their last name really is Ichikawa. In fact, I just made that up. They do look oriental, so there’s a chance I’m right. If I’m not, you can take that upstairs with you. I’m a freelancer, I don’t give a shit.
Jack and Jill go in and out the hotel all day and night, always carrying some expensive looking chick hand in hand. I thought they might be pimping them out, they certainly dress the part, but check this out:
When I tried to follow either of them, they just disappear through the revolving door. After a few hours, the brother or the sister will come out of their room, but never at the same time. I never see the girls again.
If it were anywhere else I’d be shocked, check my pocket for a crack pipe, but I’m beyond that now. It seems to be a fact that there’s no room 51 in Paradise Hotel. Yet it is also true that I’ve been living here for some undefinable amount of time. I can only conclude that the truth and facts are different.
Politician / Pezzo da novanta / Big guy
The big guy is the political contact for the Dataly mafia, or rather, it seems that the gang is hiding him.
My hunch was right. Something big is going down in this hotel. Of course, you wouldn’t have hired me to look into some two bit mafia gang.
[NAME REDACTED] is the kind of guy who can erase you with a phone call, and my paycheck is gonna need a few more zeroes. You know where to send the money. If you want to argue it, you also know where to find me. I’m not leaving any time soon.
It seems the big guy has moved his place of operation from Hotel Raphael, all the way to Paradise Hotel, wherever the fuck we are. I have not seen him directly. I certainly could hear him though.
He’s staying in the room above mine, and let me tell you. His footsteps are not light, and he spent all night walking back and forth. I rushed up the stairs with half a mind to slit his throat, but when I heard him shout through the door, I nearly shat my pants. That’s when I knew who the mystery guest was. I knew that if I opened that door, my life would have been forfeit in a second.
He was arguing with someone over “the true worth of the Country.” Which country was that? Whose country was that?
Senior contractor / Model / Sexy Beast
This Brad Pitt looking prettyboy spends all day at the lounge hitting on girls. He’s pretty handy with the ladies; that shit wouldn’t fly in San Francisco! Thankfully we’re not there, or anywhere, really.
The man’s a trendsetter too. To those blinded by propaganda, he might initially appear as a bald man, before you notice three wild spikes of hair coming out of his head, sort of a visual kei Homer Simpson. I’ve never seen that shit before, so I can only conclude, he must have invented his own hair cut.
Seriously, I would have shaken his hand, if I wasn’t so attached to mine.
Obviously, that’s not all there is to him. While he might appear an unassuming playboy during the day, at night he becomes the fedora wearing hitman of the Dataly clan. Like a real-life super-hero, he’s TOO ILLnificent for this world!
He’s been connected to several V.I.P. “accidents”: [NAME REDACTED], [NAME REDACTED] and even [NAME REDACTED] seem to be victims of his “good looks”. If he ever got jailed we’d need to rewrite the country’s history; not that the authorities actually care.
The info is on his laptop, which can be “seen”, but not “observed”.
Mr. Killer Melody
Mothafucka! Mothafucka, mothafucka the clan’s mascot, Mr. Killer Melody (The angry bunny.) shall lead us towards the valleys of BEDLAM! Or maybe not, because all that fucking Bunny ever does is exclaim “Mothafucka!”
My investigation leads me to believe that the so called “mascot bunny” might not have a decent enough grasp of the English language to concoct actual sentences, thus leading to his adoption of the most commonly used words of the American dialect. Which are Mothafucka and bitch.
The bunny doesn’t actually know what the expletives mean but they simply follow along coz it’s a bunny who keeps saying mothafucka. The bunny says that word so much that I forgot what it even means anymore.
I feel like Alice in Wonderland, except the white rabbit keeps shouting “MOTHAFUCKA!!” like it’s nobody’s business! Is it a human-animal hybrid? Chimera mutation? You probably have a file as thick as an encyclopedia on this character, but I can’t be bothered to rationalize this shit anymore. I am one step away from the truth.
THE TRUTH / THIRD EYE / ALPHA AND OMEGA
The truth about the Dataly Clan is within reach. Except it might as well be bullshit, for how unbelievable it is. If you believed me about the fucking bunny, jumping up and down and shouting “MOTHAFUCKA”, you might as well read on. Keep in mind, however, that I might have made the bunny up, MOTHAFUCKA!!
The Datalies collectively exist within the mind of one black man. Kaxantrom Laguardia, the Real Evil One.
It seems that within the grounds of the hotel, one can become many, and that’s how the personae get to interact with one another. Once they leave hotel grounds though, they’re all back to being one person. The legendary killer.
What does this say about [NAME REDACTED]? What does this say about me? Are my words reaching you?
Don’t say I didn’t warn you. If you’re smart you’ll pack your bags, because we both know who the Evil One works for. Here’s a hint: we all share an employer. I have abandoned all delusions of escape.
I followed the man into his room, which was also my room. I looked beyond the door and then beyond and then beyond, into the eye that observes, and within that eye a small earth. An earth that is observed and one that cannot be seen. I am taking my first step towards Paradise.
I hope you die like a dog. I will not be contacting you again.