Mr. Miles was incapable of speech for a moment. Justin Simian, desk clerk of The Fairbanks Inn, went over the room with a UV light. There was absolutely nothing to see. He turned the switch back on. The florescent served as crickets for the awkward silence.

“Was, was that a pentagram?”

“Just as artistic expression, Mr. Miles. As you can see our maid service is top notch.”

“Why did you need chicken blood?”

“Actually, that was just me multitasking.”

“You needed to kill a chicken?”

“Breakfast don’t grow on trees. Well, except grapefruit, melons… really any fruit.”

“But what about the feces?”

“You know I don’t think bananas grow on trees. No, they do.”

“Again, I ask why did you take a dump in my room?”

“Oh this isn’t your room. Plantains! Plantains don’t grow on trees.”

“That’s comforting but why?”

“To be thorough Mr. Miles.”

Mr Miles sighed deeply.

“If I stay in this room, could I get a 15% discount?”


Justin Simian left Mr. Miles to his room.


Something had died in Mr. Miles, but it had been replaced with a bargain.

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