Shattered Dreams

Flock of women of indeterminately young ages comes rolling in around 1 oclock. Dressed very strangely. 1 with blue eyeshadow so pervasive it borders upon rouge, another with a poofy, white, lacey dress, reminiscent of Bjork w/out the swan. 2 others seemingly somewhat shabbily dressed. Can't really take in too much because I'm trying to help an older gentleman at the time.

"Wedding?" I call out, desperate to engage. "Ha, nope!" laughs the girl with azure cheeks, who seems to be the queen bee. "Prom!"

Hoo-boy. Eyebrows officially raised. Interest officially piqued. I cannot think of anything I would rather have happen at this hotel, in terms of pure hilarity and opportunity for mischief-making, than a prom after-party.

But something's off. Where are all the guys? Don't these girls seem a little old for prom? And who would come back to a glorified bathhouse like the Idiotica for post-prom?

"It was an 80s prom!" one girl enthuses. "1989," said another in the background.
"1989?" mused the old man, whose face would have been more aesthetically appealing if all the features weren't scrunched together in the middle. "Wasn't that the year all those girls got into all kinds of trouble?" This old man is not as sweet as he seems from that quote, but he is a little sweet. The girls indulge the ol' perv and then swoop up to their rooms.

Update: The ringleader comes down with most of her whorish make-up off, and I learn from her that this 80s prom was some sort of interactive theater performance, which is pretty cool, but for our purposes is notable for being far and away the most interesting thing a guest has ever done at this hotel.