Time passed.

I was passed out, but time must have passed.

Time continued to pass.

I experienced many nightmarish dreams, in which Semchevsky was dressed in that awful top and was making advances towards me of a most explicit sexual nature.

I came round.

I was back in my room in the motel.

I checked.

I double checked.

I rang down to room service and asked that they check.

It was the young boy from room service who asked why I was wearing women's clothes, I didn't, couldn't, wouldn't answer, I gave him the smallest of small tips, and sent him away to fetch coffee and food and that day's papers.

He returned, and I then figured out I'd got the giving the tip thing wrong, but well, he wasn't getting aught else.

I scanned the newspaper, and read the date.

'Oy, boy, you sure this is today's paper?'

He said it was, and I drank the coffee, and gawped open eyed at the headline:

'Dyson Factory Takes Over Hooverville; Name Changed To Dysontown'.

This couldn't be happening, I thought. This is horrible. Not only have I failed miserably, I seem to have done some serious damage. What information did Semchevsky get from me that night?

What information, indeed, did I know?

It all seemed very weird and more than a little wakky pokko to me. Here I was, again, in the motel room... it seemed that as each time I got close to something, I came right back to the beginning, here in the motel.

And, why was I wearing women's clothes? And why had I been left here, with my gun, and not ended up in the bottom of a deep deep hole with lots and lots of earth on top of me?
I decided this time that it was futile to keep thinking I'd decide what I was going to do, and rather act, and actually do something, no more gallivanting about in bars, no more drag-queen dancing routines, and, if Bob was on my side, no more of that horrid guitar music.
I rose from the mattress, stripped off the women's clothing, and was startled to see writing on my body. I began to read it but it didn't make any sense. 'Dyson raped and killed my wife', said one writing, which was obviously false as I didn't have a wife, and another one was just a number. I wrote the number down and went to the shower.

After I washed off the strange writings I picked up the phone and called the number. The voice on the answering machine was unmistakable – it was Pottsy.

The message on the answering machine was even stranger. It said: 'This is the Personal Space of nighthoover. Unfortunately nighthoover doesn't seem to be here at the moment, but you can leave a message after the beep'.

There was no beep.

Night of The Hoover Archive

Written by 'various'

07.10.04 Front Page

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