First he was tired, so tired he was afraid he would drive his car off the mountainside, then the electrical system went… no, that’s too realistic… then all four tires simultaneously…
How do we get him here? Getting off the bus, the pool cleaner unloaded his gear and thought to himself with satisfaction that from the looks of this “resort” he had a few weeks work at least. Everything was covered in a foot of leaves, at least. The whole place smelled like when you drop your cell phone in the woods and have to rake around in the mulch with your hands until you find it again.
That’ll do.
He went inside but no one was at the desk so he went into the dining room where a dozen zombies with blue rinses sat around listening to a stand-up comic. The comic stood on a small, round make-shift stage, with a drink in one hand and the microphone and a cigarette in the other.
He was telling an Irish joke that he had remanufactured from an old Jewish joke.
“So Mig Mick can’t stand it anymore and he goes up to the local priest, see, and he says, Father, I can’t stand it anymore, ye see.”
The pool cleaner notices the dining room is so quiet that when someone drops a piece of silverware in the kitchen, you can tell from the sound it makes that it’s a fork, and that the floor is tiled.
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