“We’ve been expecting you,” says the receptionist, as I check in at Hotel Perdition.
Taking the elevator up to the 6th floor, the bell-boy breaks off from whistling some Johnny Cash to ask, “Ex-wife?”
I nod.
“Bitches,” he sighs. “Can always tell.”
Room 66 is small but clean, with a view of the factory below, its furnace spewing black choking ash up into the atmosphere. There’s a complimentary bottle of scotch beside the bed, which I dispatch immediately. For a moment, doubt kicks in and I search the bedside drawer for a bible but, unsurprisingly, there isn’t one.
I take a deep breath, loosen my tie and open the window. Standing on the narrow ledge, black ash beckoning around me, the doubt surfaces again.
The bell boy appears beside me. “Do you need a hand checking out, sir?”
Next thing is I’m falling, headed directly for the furnace below.
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Inspired by word-of-the-day Perdition
