Mr. Kindred, why do you think you're always running into Dick Overtone? Do you think he's real? Do you only see him when you're very tired?
He does have some rather radical theories about this establishment, wouldn't you say? I mean, really, government-sponsored mind control?
This is a four star motel situated at the intersection of love and hate, dreams and reality, King and Main, life and death, Guns 'N Roses.
It's a small Mom 'n Pop operation. Pop's dead now, isn't he Mr. Kindred? Did you kill him? Because he met secretly with the 12 Disciples?
Why do you keep insisting the 12 Disciples were -- are? -- a radical collective of bomb-worshippers? Is this all linked to Trinity? 1945?
That's utter rubbish. How could anyone see the Virgin Mary in a retinal capture of an atomic bomb blast? Flash frozen forever in an eyeball?
Well, yes, okay, if that were true, it could be the iconic touchstone for those who want to quell disorder and randomness with detonations.
Your father, then, a kind of postmodern Robin Hood, leading his merry band of 12 followers on cross-country terrorist bombings. Badda boom.
They went to Tokyo, too, did they not? Where they lost control of the Eyeball? Or rather, sold it to the highest bidder? Gankyuu Bakudan.
Gankyuu means eyeball in Japanese. Bakudan means bomb. So it isn't even the buyer's real name. Are you the buyer, Mr. Kindred? Where is it?
What are you looking at? Who do you see in the mirror? Dick Overtone again? Why would he tell you this is not a real motel? Sinister plot?
Are you in danger? Are G-Men in a white nondescript vehicle going to pull into the parking lot any minute? Are they motivated by revenge?
Do you trust me? I can help you if you take your hands from my throat. You can't kill me anyway. I exist inside your head. Burnt edges.
I am your superego. You id is running out of control and I have been given the onerous task of reconnecting your various disparate neurons.
Of course, that's the sort of poppycock nonsense a psychiatrist might twaddle to see if you're capable of coherent assessment of reality.
Yes, I know there are no farmers from the midwest enjoying the sauna, no businesswomen from Pittsburgh in the pool. No guests at all. Odd?
No teens on spring break, no pastors from Indiana here with their mistresses, no celebrities hiding out from LA paparazzi with zoom lenses.
But that does not mean this is an insane asylum. What am I saying? I meant to say 'government-controlled center for psychdaddy vacations'.
It does not mean anything of the kind. You know, you and I could hang out, be buddies. Whaddya say, K? Pals? Friends? Why are you sneering?
Okay, then, have it your way. Our time is up. Gotta run. Places to go, people to meet, things to do. Busy. I'll lock you in on my way out.
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