On the Hotel’s eighth floor, at the end of the hall, is Oto’s suite, which looks like any of the Hotel’s other suites. On each side of the square-shaped parlor is a room. On the right is the kitchen, the left is the bathroom, and behind the parlor is the bedroom, all of which Oto never needed. The suite is inaccessible to all mortal souls, save for high-ranking employees. It is also, to Cheron, free real estate. Upon moving in, she graced the space with plushies, party garlands, and all things peachy pink.
In the bedroom, beside the bed, Cheron shuffles through scattered files and piles of paper, some of which fall onto a chunky red computer. The duo’s private work space is small, worn, and, frankly, hideous. It looks like a teacher’s desk, but if the teacher was a raccoon.
Oto slams open the suite’s red entrance. “Cheron!”
“Bedroom,” she hollers.
“We’ve got rogues on the loose!” Oto growls, rushing to the redhead. “You have no idea what they could have done to— Don’t disappear like that!”
She keeps her eyes on the desk. “What does it matter to you? It’s not like I’ll die or anything.”
The reaper’s face drops to be even more grim.
Cheron sees this and stammers. “Woah. Hey, it’s okay. I was just doing the thing I do. Please don’t die.”
Oto musters a smile.
She stammers again, continuing to shuffle. “Uh, we really ought to clean this.”
“I swear it wasn’t this messy when we left,” Oto mutters, grabbing a file from the wrong side. Countless papers scatter across the floor. “Uh…”
“Let’s just transfer the rest of this to the…” Cheron says as she brushes her hands along the keyboard then stops and darts her eyes to the screen. “...You have a lot of emails.”
“Yeah. I’ve got a fan club.”
“It’s all hate mail.”
“They’re fans of hating me.”
“Very dedicated.”
“Their motto is #LivesMatter.”
“...Very inclusive.”
“Right?! How am I supposed to beat that?! Gah. They keep pestering me to take them off the List, as if they have the right to live. Forever, I mean. But no one does.”
Cheron scrolls through the inbox, not really looking at it. “Uh huh.” She could literally scroll forever.
“Not even you.”
“Uh huh.”
“But you’re a special case.”
“Uh huh. Oto.” She tugs on his shirt.
“At least, according to—”
“Oto.”
“What?”
“You read all of these already?”
“That doesn’t sound…” He glances at the inbox, in which there are no new messages. ”...Huh. Isn’t today Sunday?”
Cheron snorts. “So time exists now?”
Oto pouts. “It’s the eighth day of the week, you know we’re expecting an email from the Boss.”
“There are seven days in a…” Cheron sighs then rolls up her over-sized sleeves. “It probably just hasn’t come yet. Didn’t you tell me she works slow? Oto?”
Oto stares out the window above the desk. Eight stories below, a client sobs and holds her head against one of the Hotel’s entrances.573Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtvj2Wpxkil
He frowns then shakes his head back to his comfort zone. “Sorry I— Yeesh. Do you think Juno and Mary Milquetoast will be okay down there?”
“Madame Muffinpie?”
“My mistake feels more correct.”
Cheron saunters out of the bedroom and into the parlor. “No. And also, no. When they experience the Bosch nightmare that is Secretary of Styx, they’re going to wish they could die again.”
Oto follows her. “Gee, Cheron, what kind of institution do you think we’re running here?”
“It’s not our fault. At least, it’s not my fault. It’s just that they’re from Earth, and Earth’s never properly informed of Purgatory, let alone its… processes…”
“Really? Never?”
“I was utterly baffled when I got here, but then again, I didn’t really die.”
“Dead or feeling dead or rather be dead, do you like it here? Do you like the people?”
Cheron walks around a red loveseat, trailing her fingers across the top of it. “It’s fine. They’re fine. You could do with some work though.” She stops at the bathroom door and opens it.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you stink!” Cheron yanks Oto by the chest of his shirt then heaves him into the bathroom. ”Shower before dinner!”
He grins. “Fine, fine! But may I remind you, that’s my shirt you’re wearing, and you’ve been sniffing it like carbon monoxide.”
“You mean oxygen?”
“I meant cocaine.”
“Whatever. It’s your fault I’m wearing it!”
“Ah, you’re right. I guess I owe you a new uniform, huh?”
“Yes. Yes, you do,” Cheron whispers, shutting the bathroom door. She returns to the bedroom, where she continues shuffling.
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