Sperry drapes his towel on the closed toilet lid. There’s a stench in the air like he forgot to flush, but he never forgets to flush before a shower. Tainting his favorite cleaning ritual would be a foolish self-betrayal. His chest releases tension once the locks are secure, finally feeling comfortable enough to twist the shower knob with the memorized set of revolutions learned after years and years of the routine. It’s the best routine he has.

He stands in front of the water, zoning out in anticipation of an endless shower.

“Ha ha, you think those locks will do you any good?”

There’s a booming presence in the room and Sperry snaps out of his trance by falling out of the shower, bringing the curtain down with him. He’s frozen, or at least as frozen as someone nearing a seizure could be. All of a sudden, the booming presence becomes a gigantic hand that rips through the ceiling and picks Sperry up between thumb and finger. Sperry begs for a towel to keep his decency, but his pleas are ignored. The hand plucks him out of the locked bathroom and into the air above his broken roof, the naked Sperry wiggling like an aborted caterpillar.

TO BE CONTINUED