3 minutes 53 seconds| Occasionally I still dream of my old Les Paul sunburst guitar, packed in its case under my twin-sized bed in Memphis, Tennessee.
Novel-in-Progress, excerpt 18| This is a continuation of the previous scene:
Lowell’s attention had remained on the incapacitated Korean’s reflection during this morbid recitation. The mirror’s slackness seemed unusually slack, as if the hanging wire supporting it was purposefully loosened to create greater tilt. A nearly full view of the floor in front of the sofa was captured, and the most prominent feature in it was the guard’s bare feet.
The relieving observer pressed his own hypothesis. “The uniform is a poor fit. We might be looking at a homeless man who happened on the location, found guard clothes in a closet, and decided to camp out. After all, the whole point at Hotel Pyongyang is to lure people in like a roach motel.”
The other man grumbled, “It would take considerable effort for anyone, deranged or compos mentis, to get anywhere on this terrain without shoes. This guy’s been parked on that sofa for at least eighteen hours. Given how punctual the Koreans are about rearranging the mannequins by the Kama Sutra playbook, no one has even bothered to feather dust him.”
“The readjustment in the mirror raises questions,” injected Lowell. “He is not being ignored. You could not see the couch so well before this.”
David was not convinced of tampering but, on hearing the confident declaration, left his replacement to the chair and his own interpretation. Smugly he commented from the doorway, “Maybe the Koreans realized you’re an artist, and that you’ve been sketching the filles de joie for your improvement. They want to offer you a more challenging subject.”
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