I think I accidentally started a short serial with this, so I guess we’ll see how it plays out… Part 1 of ???
PS: “Motel Wizard” is a working title… That’s the first sign this thing might be a *project*... I save the real title for 2nd drafts, after it’s all, uh, figured out.
Crude humour and foul language warning, as usual.
Here goes!
Motel Wizard
Part 1
Well, that was a mistake.
It stinks in here.
There were voices nearby, but it was too dark to tell much of anything. Tight space—his cough bounced back at him. “Hello?” he whispered. Had he been sent to a tomb, or a dank chamber near some leaking cesspit?
The floor was cold, hard, and sticky. He peeled his hand from the stone and regretted the sniff of his palm. Human, at least he could say that much. He groped out in the dark, something to grab, not able to stand on his own, still too travel-sick and all the motions made him queasy. A tiled wall, a smooth sculpture, round, and—oh God, full of water. He swallowed the bile that rose in his understanding—this was not some sacred vessel, at least not according to any cult he was familiar with.
“Hello?” he asked again, louder. His voice was hoarse. Finally, he stood, all wobbling—a great crack through his mind and he was stooped with pain—a door nearby swung open, the handle inches from his face, and blinding light overhead came on with a faint hum. Yes, according to the smell, yellowed surfaces and cracked mirror, he had arrived in a—what was it called? Toilet.
A strong but well creased woman stood frowning. Grey hair in a messy knot, spectacles on a beaded chain hung over her chest. Her shirt had a painting of a round-eared creature in red pants. It was familiar to him from his studies and was sure it had a name—some minor demon or other. “How the hell’d you get in here without a key?” She paused for a beat, eyes raking him up and down. “What’s wrong with you?” She thumbed behind her. “Buy something or get the fuck out. Or I’ll call the cops.” She mumbled some lovely epithets as she walked away, and he was thankful for the fresher air from the open door.
The larger and better smelling room was a sort of shop. One man at the counter where the angry woman had gone asked for fourty bucks on pump three. A young woman opened a glass door and pulled out a green cylinder. Everything was bright. Hundreds of colours and letters and numbers. Lotto Super 7, that was a new phrase. The young woman noticed him looking around and furrowed her brow—a small moment before his vision blurred, a dizzy spell—and she was called to the counter. The angry one was her mother, he gathered from their whispers as he leaned against a rack of books.
“Dressed funny,” the young one said. She had a much pleasanter disposition in her walk towards him. Dark blonde, blue powder on her eyelids. No demon on her clothing, but her skirt had once been longer, judging by the frayed hem at her upper thigh. “You need help with something?”
Oh, that’s me. Yes, I do. He was too busy sweating to answer.
She returned to the counter, glancing over her shoulder as he decided now was the time to make an exit. He heard “weird as hell” from the mother as the metal-framed door hit a bell when he opened it.
A blast of hot air, with a strange tang to it. Summer. Those things—cars, yes. Man from pump three was returning to his. Big, dark blue thing. Not a car, tail was too long.
The bell rang again. “Hey, this yours?” She touched his sleeve before he turned. “You left it in the bathroom.”
His sapphire signet ring. “It is. Thank you.” It shone sickly. He held out his hand—shaking, he was still jostled, and to drop his ring!—and she placed it gently. “Looks real cool.”
He slipped it on his finger, gave a hum in agreement.
“Where you from?” There was a strange tone to the question.
“Where? Well, I don’t know—”
Whatever reason she had to laugh at him, he didn’t detect any malice, so he didn’t interrupt. “Mom’s right, you are out of your mind.” But as he stood there, her smile fell. “But you aren’t, are you? You’re stone sober.” Grabbing his chin, she brought down his face to her level, scoured his pupils with her own, and let go. “Listen, there’s a motel kitty-corner from here—see it? Clean, cheap, owner’s name is Bill, nice guy. Why don’t I call for you and see if he’s got a bed? Might make you do laundry or something—if you can. Get yourself a sleep and a shower.”
“A place to stay—yes, I would like that.”
“I had a feeling. My name’s Miranda. What’s yours?”
“I have many names.” They shuffled sideways to let someone enter the shop. “But you may call me… Call me Kollun.
“Call you Colin?”
“Ah, Colin, yes.”
“I’ll be callin’ Colin.” Her brow furrowed again. “You sure you’re alright to walk?”
No, miss, I’ve just broached walls through astral realms, my legs are a bit wobbly, aren’t they?
“Miranda! I need you in here! Damn bleeding-heart daughter I’ve got. She collects weirdos like a boy collects frogs.” The bell chimed again.
Miranda huffed. “Sorry, Colin. I’ll call ahead for you, but tell Bill I sent you, anyway. Here, have the rest of my ginger ale.”
Very cold, light on the ginger, very heavy on the sweet. God! But the bubbling… reminded him of one of his master’s potions.
Ah. Perhaps Miranda is a seeress, to know I needed reminding. First, the motel. What is that, like an inn?
***
He opened the door that said “OFFICE: Ring Bell for service.” There was a very sharp floralish odour masking something worse, the carpet was well-trod, of a brown and yellow abstract pattern. Sitting behind the desk was a large, bald man, and the familiarity chilled Colin’s bones.
“You the retarded guy Miranda sent over?”
“No—well, Miranda sent me, but I’m not—”
“So you’re just a good nut, then.”
“I, ah… thank you.”
He brushed crumbs from his shelf-like stomach. The plaid shirt could never button over it even if the man had thought to try. “Miranda is a great judge of character. Get yourself settled in. Number eight.” He pushed back his chair and stretched behind him to a wall of tiny shelves and hooks, grabbed a key from one of them and turned back to the desk. “You know how to use a key?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“That’s the spirit. Name’s Bill. Tomorrow you’ll be pushing broom.”
Colin took the key, but Bill’s hand lingered a moment too long.
Half mumbling, “Third boxcar, midnight train…” as Colin left the office.
His room was yellow papered walls, torn in spots, green carpet—cleaner than the office, barely—bed made and all the pillows and blankets were shades of orange. A black glass thing on a chest of drawers, a smaller black box chained to it. A door was open, and there was a much nicer toilet than the one at the shop.
“About time you got here. You smell like piss.”
Bill had followed, appearing silently behind Colin in the doorway. But he didn’t look like Bill once he passed the threshold. On his head grew a mangy red mess, streaked in grey. Cheeks more freckled. His stomach was flatter—though still large—and the eyes, the eyes! Of course!
“Wiyil—”
“Shh!” Bill pressed a finger to his lips. “Or I’ll cry.” He closed the door, closed the curtains, flicked on a lamp beside the bed, and chuckled. “So, you’re here. Wonderful. How’s the primitive electricity so far, eh? Get in the shower before we talk. There’s a little coffee maker there, I’ll make some.”
He kept talking as Colin soaped himself. Bill never had been much for privacy, and stood in the doorway holding an empty cup. “Sorry about the destination—you saw those big thundering Macks outside, what was I supposed to do? The gas station was close enough to the crossroads without you getting squashed like a bug as soon as you showed up. And I couldn’t have you here, because—well, I just couldn’t. At the time, I didn’t know if this place was safe.
“Miranda is a good girl. Her mother, on the other hand… can suck the chrome off a trailer hitch. Believe it or not. But you didn’t hear that from me. Damn, I have been here too long, haven’t I? How long has it been?
“Two weeks there? Thirty years here. I’m old! Didn’t I say if I was gone longer than three days to come get me?”
“Your notes were stupid and I met with some hiccoughs while travelling.”
“Like what?”
Colin passed his ring around the shower curtain, Bill only looked at it and swore.
“But you’ve studied this place?”
“I did my best.”
“You always were my favourite student.”
“I was not.”
“Well now you’re my only student, so how’s that!” He laughed until he coughed. “Anyway. Last guy through here left some clothes. They’re clean, and they’ll fit.”
My novels:
Pallas - Science Fiction
The Highwayman Kennedy Thornwick - Literary Fantasy
And don’t forget the completed fantasy serial here on my Substack, Pull Me Under
This is super fun. Love the defamiliarization. The green cylinder out of the glass case was the best, took me a second.
I like it. But I'd love a different line than the trailer hitch one. I know you have something way better in your arsenal.