He liked his job. The speed was just right, leaving him plenty of energy at night for cruising the clubs, where he dealt Ecstasy, roofies and bootleg Cialis. Somehow the money was always gone by dawn, so Vincent was grateful for his gig at the motel. He was slouched in front of his laptop, downloading some particularly extreme porn, when a street person appeared at the check-in desk. The man was quite tall and he had a fake eye that looked like it came from a stuffed moose. He was dressed in a crusty trench coat and wore two ratty gray braids growing at odd measures from his shaved scalp. The braids were garnished with colored plastic cylinders. “Good morning,” the man said. Vincent smiled neutrally. “I’m sorry. We have no rooms available.” “I don’t need a room. I need information.” “We’re not hiring at the moment,” Vincent said, at which point the street person reached over and confiscated Vincent’s laptop, which was by far the most valuable thing he owned. Vincent hopped to his feet and said, “Give it back or I’ll call the cops!”
