Stanley Reed propped his head up with his elbow and massaged his forehead with his knuckles. “Think!” he commanded himself, the blank page on his monitor waiting to be filled. “Think!” he tried again, clenching his eyes shut, hoping to find inspiration on the back of his eyelids. A light bulb went on. Literally. Figuratively, he was still completely in the dark, but in reality, the light in the bathroom of his shitty studio apartment had turned on.
This wasn’t the first time that a crackhead had broken into his home, so when Stanley grabbed a hammer from underneath his writing desk and walked the four paces past the bedroom to the bathroom, knocked on the door, and shouted, “I know you’re in there!” he was startled to hear a voice reply in a calm fashion and Brooklyn accent, “Good. I thought I was being too subtle. Come in.”
Despite his better judgment and the better judgment of most rational individuals, Stanley opened the door to the bathroom. It was empty. He spun around looking until he got dizzy and stopped. The room didn’t get that memo and kept on spinning. “I’m up here!” said the voice. Sure enough, lying on the ceiling with his face to the floor, the man who had called floated with a big grin on his face. “My name’s Roger. Nice to meet you.”
Stanley thought he would faint, but realized that he didn’t have the resolve to go through with it, instead opting to spout gibberish. “But…how…I don’t…Wha…”
“Get it all out of your system now,” Roger said, slowly rotating until his feet were aiming at the...