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"In the same state of decomposition since 1958!"
A lone fast food wrapper flutters across the empty lot. A
broken neon sign flickers on and off on top of its rusty pole,
proclaiming the name of the establishment in square letters.
sidestep a fallen trashcan and walk into the Forgot Inn.
As you push the door aside on its squeaky hinge,
a blast of
air only two degrees colder then the outside climate rushes past
you onto the scorching asphalt road.
You cross a sea of colorless shag carpeting to the reception
where oldies blare weakly from a beat-up radio, and see a bell
the counter with a watermarked label that says "ring me". When
you follow this direction, a slightly chubby old woman grunts
the ladies room, then shuffles out with a scrap of toilet paper
on her shoe. She waddles behind the desk and asks you for your
Soon, you are situated in a room upstairs, which smells of
and disinfectant. You are happy to see a pair of mints laid out
your pillow, but when you swipe for them, melted chocolate
smears onto the bed from the loose wrappers. Hungry, you
wander back down to inquire about refreshments.
The old woman at the reception (whose nametag, you now
says "Loretta") beckons apathetically towards a pair of decaying
vending machines lined up next to the cracked and peeling
You put in a quarter and recieve a bag of chips of a brand
discontinued during your childhood. When you ask Loretta about
coffee, she grunts towards a small table where a pitcher sits
to a pile of sugar packets. Seeing it, you already know that the
contents are cold.
Forgot Inn is a chain of motels who purport to be decaying and
decrepit. Customers pay extra for the kitschy appeal.
||So...Howard Johnson's then?
||Not an uncommon experience by any means :S At least in these parts
||Does Loretta keep her son's stuffed carcass in the fruit cellar, by any chance?
||yeah baked: would you like a list of fleabag motels that charge too much ?
||I thought you meant the sugar packets were cold. Oh
I get it now, errrmmm...no I don't.
||Widely known to exist........ unfortunately.
||Sounds like any place in Terre Haute, Indiana.
||[note to self] When I get home, must try to find a link on YouTube where Alan Partridge has to phone the Travelodge Reception Desk to report that he's accidentally disassembled his Corby trouser-press.