When I returned here for a third business-related week, I learned that the seedy Nigerian at the front desk had cancelled my reservation because I had complained to the manager about the drug pusher in the room next to me (who lives in one room with his wife and three kids), had a screaming fit with his wife outside my motel room on my last night the previous week. I was exhausted after my long drive from North Carolina, but I was forced to get on my iPhone and rebook my stay. The Nigerian blood-diamond drug lord at the front desk claimed he had no rooms available although the parking lot was only half full. He begrudgingly gave me room in back of the motel where they put their criminals and drug addicts. When I entered that room, I found the conditions filthy with cockroaches climbing the walls, the furniture damaged. By that point, I was beyond exhaustion. I didn't care if Mr. Blood Diamond was the head of the African mafia. I called him at the front desk and told him that if he didn't move me to a better room, I would file a formal complaint with the Motel 6 corporate office and the State Attorney General. Blood Diamond was mad, but he gave me a better room. When I went back to the front office to turn in the old keys, Mr. Blood was conferring with one of his cronies, a tall skinny, tattooed heroin addict type. An obese old man sitting across from the front desk motioned with his hand for them to stop when he saw me enter the room. This place is a drug-related crime ring.
