What the hell happened to my hotel?

The hotel where I was staying at the time of this article had been a source of controversy for a long time.

In late August of 2000, I was driving down Highway 101 on my way to my sister’s house in Orange County, California, when I heard an emergency transmission from my cell phone.

It was the Los Angeles Times: “Emergency!

The Hotel is being evacuated.

All guests and employees must evacuate.”

This was the first of several such transmissions from hotel staff.

Some had been told to evacuate before the hotel’s doors even opened.

Others were told to stay put.

I got out of my car and walked toward the hotel lobby, where I could see a police line at the door.

I walked in and was greeted by a dozen police officers, with their guns drawn.

They asked me where I had been.

I told them I was in the lobby, which was filled with about 200 guests and staff.

The officers pointed guns at me.

I gave them my phone number.

I was then detained and taken to a police station for questioning.

At the time, I thought it was just a routine check.

But it turned out to be a serious investigation.

The police were looking for a man named George Gennaro, who had allegedly threatened to kill himself after the fire.

I had never seen or heard of George Gipparo.

But he was a celebrity, and he had an internet persona.

I asked him about the threat.

He told me he had been writing to a woman named Julie Buell, who was also in the hotel room.

She had threatened him.

I started to wonder: How did this happen?

Why were police coming to my house?

What did I do?

I knew that this wasn’t the first time George Gannaro had threatened suicide, but it was the worst.

So I left.

I didn’t know why the police were here, nor did I know what I should do.

But I had no choice but to take them all seriously.

I drove the three miles to my brother’s house.

I took the elevator up to his house and sat down.

When I went down, I realized I had a phone call.

I heard a woman’s voice on the other end.

I looked up and saw a woman in the back of the elevator.

She was wearing a pink shirt, black pants, and black shoes.

She walked up to me and asked, “Why did you call me?”

I told her the story of my experience at the hotel.

She told me she had been in the building when a fire broke out, and she had heard a fire alarm.

She asked me to wait outside the building until the police arrived.

I listened as she told me to take my shirt off and get out.

She said I would need to take the shirt back to the lobby.

I left the building and took the escalator down to my room.

I quickly went to bed.

The next morning, I woke up and found my phone still in my pocket.

I called my brother and said, “What did I say?”

He told him I had just heard someone yell, “George Gannaros dead!”

I asked if he had seen a man with a gun in the hallway outside the hotel building.

He said he didn’t see a man in the hallways, so I assumed it was George Gaggaro.

I went into my bedroom and locked my door.

In my closet, I found George Gannaos body, with the jacket, pants, shoes, and shirt.

His head was shaved down.

The autopsy showed he had a gunshot wound to the head.

The coroner’s report was released shortly after, stating that Gannari had been shot multiple times, but the circumstances of his death remained unclear.

It took almost three weeks for the coroner’s findings to be made public.

The LAPD, which had been called in to investigate the hotel, released a statement that stated that Gaggaros death was a suicide, that the shooting occurred when Gannaria tried to break up with his girlfriend, and that there was no evidence of a robbery.

The Los Angeles Police Department and the Los Angelenos Fire Department investigated the shooting, but found no evidence that Gannonarios death was related to the hotel fire.

The following day, the police arrested two men in the case, but they were never charged.

I returned to the city that morning, hoping to get a better sense of what happened at the Los Alamos nuclear power plant that had burned down during the World Trade Center attacks.

My hotel was on the west side of town, and the building was in a neighborhood where there were many businesses.

I pulled into the parking lot, just off of I-70, and saw the police on the sidewalk outside my hotel.

I followed them and noticed a young man with long blond hair walking up the street toward my hotel and onto the street.

He was wearing his