KLOKWERK

"It’s just a matter of moral software."

Somewhere in the United States of America
God’s Friday
9:13 PM

I didn’t know if I was dreaming or having a ‘60’s flash back or strapped to a chair in a CIA mind-fuck lab with electrodes sticking out of my ass, but I suddenly found myself standing in front of a huge, spooky house that would’ve scared the living shit out of Norman Bates. It was a rundown, three-story Gothic monstrosity in desperate need of repair. Everywhere I looked on the saggy, old woman of a building, there were broken shingles precariously hanging from the frame of the hotel like so much wrinkled, flabby flesh. As I gave the old broad the once over I spotted a weak light in a second floor window. I thought it might a night-light until it flickered. A candle? No one leaves a candle burning while they’re out, right? So I decided to investigate. Maybe whoever lives there has some answers? I started toward the fading façade and mounted the creaky front steps, walked to the front door, grabbed the marred, brass handle, pulled, and it whined open. I was immediately assaulted by this old, musty smell. I almost changed my mind about going in, but decided that answers were far more important that my nose’s repugnance for foul odors. So I headed in and gingerly cross the deserted, shabby lobby with it’s threadbare rugs and upholstered furniture that was from another time and place, and headed for the stairs just twenty feet right of the marred front desk. I carefully inched my way up the creaking stairs and stopped on the second landing and looked up and down the long hall of peeling paint, faded wallpaper and thread-bare throw-rugs until I spotted the candle light flickering under room 2-C.

"There," I mumbled to myself and started walking towards the door and hopefully to some answers why I’m here and who I am. As I gingerly come up to the door and was about to grab the knob when this feeling of foreboding suddenly came over. Not so much as a danger to me, but of something I was about to do. I didn’t understand why I was feeling that so I chalked it up to just the skittish feeling that comes over anybody in my situation. Presupposing anybody’s ever been in my situation that’s not a character on The Twilight Zone. As I was about to give the doorknob another I heard: "Come in," when my fingertips were mere inches from the dull, brass orb. The voice sounded soothing to the ear, yet laced with a slight rattling of advanced age and too many years of drinking and smoking. I open the door and stepped inside without closing the door behind.

"Close the door my boy," the white-glad, old man smiled while lighting a cigarette. He continued to smile as he beckoned me with a white-gloved hand that had rings of a garish design on every finger, including the thumb." Have a seat. You could probably use a shot of the finest Tennessee has to offer."

"Then I am in Tennessee?" I asked, desperate to at least know where I am.

"No."

I sighed in disappointment. It was not that I wanted to be Tennessee, it was just...well at least I would’ve known where I was.

"I don’t drink," I lied (or at least I think it was a lie), and remained standing by the ruined door. I felt my anger returning.