Strange Trip

The last check-in day had come and gone as quietly as most other days, but Tony had made it a point to linger around the lobby every two weeks. It was tradition, after all. You could only be cynical about a pink eldritch prison for so long before you felt the need to inject some decorum, however half-assed.

During a quiet trip to a Wisconsin suburb Otherworlds, Tony had snagged an old Harley-Davidson calendar at a garage sale (why not), unique in that the previous owner had filled every single square with national holidays. Today was National Linguine Day. Truly, the most hallowed of all holidays. To celebrate, he made an order to the kitchen to bless the inn with trays of pasta, inclusive to all diets. No gluten or dairy for him, see how long that lasted.

Despite the swift approach of fall, San Luis Obispo boasted sun and 70 degree weather, so Tony arranged a chair and table outside and fiddled with a little mechanical orb the size of a jawbreaker. He prodded at its insides with a screwdriver while his half-eaten pasta dish sat ignored, his glasses magnifying the orb's internal features.