​
​     Daryl Cranston slumped on a sagging motel bed, the mattress sour with mildew and spilled whiskey, its springs groaning like a dying thing. The room was a rotting box—walls streaked with brown stains, a fluorescent bulb spitting jagged flickers, a window caked with grime that choked the neon pulse of the city outside. His duffel bag, stuffed with the wreckage of his life—crumpled clothing, a cracked phone, a pawn ticket for his mother’s ring—lay spilled on the floor like a gutted carcass. No job. No home. No money. His credit was a cruel joke, a number so low it sneered at him. At thirty-four, Daryl was a ghost, his face gaunt, eyes sunken and bloodshot, sweat matting his dark hair to his forehead, hands trembling with the weight of his failures.

     Roulette had hollowed him out. The wheel’s spin was a poison in his blood, each clatter of the ball a lie of redemption, delivering only ruin. Every dollar—earned, borrowed, stolen—had bled out on the tables, lost to the dealer’s cold “No more bets.” He’d tried to quit, sat through meetings, swore off casinos, but the itch was a beast, clawing him back. Friends had vanished, his family cut him off. His sister’s last words were a knife: “You’re dead to me, Daryl. Just a ghost.”

     He clasped his hands, knuckles bruised from smashing a mirror in a drunken rage and glared at the ceiling. “God,” he snarled, voice raw with fury, “if you’re up there, do something. I’m drowning. Help me, damn it.” The words fell into silence, same as always. Nothing. No God, no hope—just a cold, heartless universe that didn’t care. His mother had dragged him to that cramped church every Sunday, forcing him to memorize prayers, endure sermons about a loving God. Fairy tales, all of it. He hated her for it, for filling his head with lies about a savior who never showed up. There was no God, just a void that had no awareness of his pain.

     His eyes burned, anger turning inward, choking him. He was nothing, a failure who’d bet his life away. His gaze drifted to the nightstand, where a half-empty whiskey bottle sat beside a pocketknife, its blade glinting in the flickering light. His fingers twitched, the thought a dark tide: one cut, and it’d be over. No more debts, no more shame, just silence. His hand reached for the knife, the metal cold against his palm, his breath shallow as the room closed in, the city’s neon mocking him through the grime.

     He saw his mother’s face, stern in the church pews, her voice sharp: “God’s watching, Daryl. Don’t turn away.” He’d rolled his eyes, mocked her faith, but the memory stung now, a reminder of what he’d rejected. The knife trembled in his hand, his pulse a dull thud. What was the point?

     A knock at the door jolted him. The knife slipped, clattering to the floor. His heart slammed, a sick thud in his chest. Nobody knew he was here—not the clerk, not the loan sharks circling like wolves. He stumbled to the door, cracked it open, and peered into the shadowed hallway.

     A man stood there, tall and sharp in a black suit that shimmered like liquid starlight, a fedora tilted low over a chiseled face. His eyes were warm, a deep amber that seemed to glow with concern, his smile soft like a friend’s. “Daryl Cranston,” he said, voice smooth as warm honey. “May I come in?”

     “Who the hell are you?” Daryl growled, his hand tight on the door, anger and fear churning.

      The man’s smile widened, his eyes holding Daryl’s with a kindness that felt too real. “Call me Lucius. But don’t be coy, you know who I am.”

     Daryl’s gut twisted. The air around the man thrummed, heavy with something primal and dark, despite his warmth. “You’re not real,” Daryl said, stepping back, his voice breaking. “I’m losing my goddamn mind.”

     “Oh, I’m real,” Lucius said, gliding inside, the door clicking shut behind him. “I’m Lucifer, Daryl. And I’m here because I do give a damn.”

     Daryl stumbled back, his legs hitting the bed, his gaunt frame trembling under his stained shirt. “You’re… what?”

     “Satan. Lucifer. The Morning Star.” Lucius tipped his fedora, revealing neatly combed hair that gleamed like polished ebony, his amber eyes soft with empathy. “Don’t be afraid, Daryl. I heard you, out there in the dark. I’m here to help.”

     Daryl’s mouth was ash, his heart a trapped animal. He wanted to scream, to bolt, but Lucius’s warmth held him, a soothing balm against his rage. “This is a con,” he said, voice shaking. “You’re messing with me.”

     Lucius’s laugh was gentle, like a friend easing a wound. “No con, Daryl. I’m real, and I see you—a man worth saving.” His suit shimmered, catching the flickering light, his presence magnetic, pulling Daryl in. “Your prayers are empty, aren’t they? God’s not answering. Too many souls, too much noise. But I’m here, and I care about you.”

     Daryl’s chest tightened, his anger faltering under Lucius’s gaze, those eyes promising understanding. “You’re full of it,” he muttered, but the words lacked fire. If God was a lie, who was this?

     “I can give you everything,” Lucius said, his voice a warm caress. “Your job, your home, your sister’s forgiveness. A life where you’re not a ghost. Name it, Daryl, it’s yours.”

     The words were a hook, sinking into Daryl’s despair. He saw it—his sister’s smile, a clean apartment, a life free of shame. His anger wavered, temptation surging. “You give me all that and what do I have to give in return?” he asked, voice barely audible, his sunken eyes locked on Lucius’s.

Lucius leaned against the wall, relaxed, his smile tender. “Simple. Give me your loyalty, forever. Serve me, and you’ll have it all—money, respect, a reason to keep going. No more pain, no more shadows.”

“Serve you how?” Daryl’s voice was a rasp, his mother’s church flickering in his mind—her warnings about the devil’s lies, sermons he’d mocked. “Will I… suffer in hellfire? Turn into something grotesque?”

     Lucius’s laugh was soft, reassuring, his eyes warm as a fireplace. “Forget those old stories, Daryl. They’re half-truths, scribbled by men who didn’t understand. God wants you chained—worshipping, terrified of slipping. With me, you’re free. No fear, no judgment. Just a friend who wants what’s best for you.”

     Daryl’s head spun. His mother’s voice, those church pews, the preacher’s warnings—they stirred, but Lucius’s warmth was stronger, promising escape. “What kind of service?” he asked, stalling, his trembling hands betraying his hunger.

     “Whatever feels right,” Lucius said, his eyes glinting with care. “You live your life, better than ever. Later, a few favors for me. Easy. You’re a gambler—you know how to play.”

     “You’re lying,” Daryl said, but his voice cracked, temptation burning through his doubt. He could have it all, leave the knife behind. “You’re the devil.”

     “And you’re hurting,” Lucius said, his voice soft, stepping closer, his presence like a warm blanket. “But I’m here, Daryl. I want to help. Where’s God? Where’s your sign?”

     The words were a blade, cutting through Daryl’s anger. He sank onto the bed, his gaunt frame shaking. Lucius was real, here, offering salvation. “I need to think,” he said, voice breaking.

     Lucius’s smile was gentle, patient. “Of course. Let’s make it fun. You’re a gambler, right? What’s your game?”

     Daryl swallowed, the old itch flaring despite his doubt. “Roulette.”

     A roulette table materialized in the center of the motel room, its polished surface gleaming like a dark mirror, the wheel a hypnotic spiral of red like fresh blood, black like endless night, and green like venomous eyes. The air pulsed with a heartbeat hum, the colors so vivid they burned Daryl’s eyes, the reds pulsing, the blacks swallowing light. The ball’s cradle glinted, its clatter a euphoric song that sent shivers down his spine. His senses flared—every creak of the floor, every flicker of the bulb, every breath felt alive, electric, as if the room itself was breathing with him. His heart raced, his skin tingling, the world sharp and intoxicating.

     Lucius stood beside the table, his amber eyes glowing with compassion, his smile that of a friend who’d seen him through hell. “Here’s the deal, Daryl,” he said, his voice a soothing balm, rich and comforting. “Spin the wheel. Where it lands decides your fate. Red, you get everything—wealth, home, your sister’s love—but you serve me forever. Black, you get it all, no service. Green, you get nothing and serve me anyway. One spin, one chance. I know you can do this.”

     Daryl’s heart pounded, the wheel’s hum a siren in his blood. The colors danced, pulling him in, the euphoria making him feel alive for the first time in years. He saw it: a penthouse with glass walls, his sister’s voice soft with forgiveness, his life whole again. His hand hovered over the wheel, fingers trembling, the itch screaming to spin. He’d chased a thousand bets—why not this one? Lucius’s warmth was a lifeline, his eyes promising a way out of the dark.

     Then it hit him, a jolt like ice: if Lucius is real then that must mean God is real. The devil’s presence was proof, a twisted echo of the church stories he’d hated. But if God was real, why was He silent? Why does God Himself never appear at anyone’s door? The thought further angered the troubled gambler.

     The temptation surged, stronger now. Spin the wheel. Red or black could give him everything, wash away his failures. His fingers brushed the wheel, the metal warm and alive, his despair hissing he was too far gone for God. The devil’s smile was a beacon, his voice a friend’s: “You deserve this, Daryl. Spin it.”

     But a memory flashed—his mother, her stern face in the pews, her voice sharp after he’d stolen cash out of her purse for a bet: “The devil’s a liar and a thief, Daryl, but you’re worse when you imitate him.” He’d mocked her then, but those lessons were alive, stirring despite his doubt. “This is a trap,” Daryl said, his voice rough, pulling his hand back. “You need me to spin. Why?”

     Lucius’s smile held, warm but edged, his eyes glinting. “You’re a gambler, Daryl,” he said, his voice still soft, caring. “I’m giving you what you love. Spin it.” The wheel’s hum spiked, a euphoric pulse, the room’s colors blazing brighter, the air electric.

     Daryl’s despair surged, but Lucius’s warmth was too eager, too hungry. “Why me?” he asked, his voice sharp, his gaunt face slick with sweat. “If God’s a lie, why’re you here? What’s your game?”

     Lucius’s eyes flickered, but his smile stayed kind. “God’s real, Daryl,” he said, his voice a sincere promise. “But you’ve cut yourself off. Every sin, every bet—you’ve burned the line to Him. I’m here because you’re hurting, and I can help.”

     Daryl’s stomach dropped, the realization hitting like a fist. His sins had severed him from God, made him a target. But Lucius’s urgency was a crack. “If I’m cut off from God,” Daryl said, stepping closer, his voice hard, “why the wheel? Why not take me?”

     Lucius’s grin tightened, his kindness faltering for a split second. “Because I care about you,” he said, his voice soothing but strained. “I’m giving you a chance. Spin it.”

     “No,” Daryl said, his mother’s lessons surging, sharp and unyielding. “You need me to choose. It’s not about the wheel—it’s about me giving in. What’s the war, Lucius? You and God—what’s it really all about?”

     Lucius’s eyes glinted, his patience lessening, the room’s ecstasy flickering. “You want the truth?” he said, his voice low, still pleasant but with a bite. “It’s a battle of faith versus rebellion. God runs on faith—your trust fuels Him, keeps you on His leash. I run on independence, on breaking free. You’ve resisted your whole life, Daryl—every bet, every lie. You’re halfway mine. Spin the wheel, and it’s done.”

     Daryl’s heart raced, the realization burning through his doubt. His sins had cut him off, but faith could reconnect him. His mother’s voice echoed: “God’s mercy’s bigger than your mess.” “So I’m a pawn,” Daryl said, his voice steady, his eyes locked on Lucius’s. “But why are you able to materialize and be here and God can’t?” Daryl’s jaw clenched, his nostrils flared, “If God had just once came to me, I wouldn’t be in this mess!” Darly roared.

     Lucius’s smile softened, his eyes warm again. “God needs your faith to reach you,” he said, his voice a friend’s promise. “You’ve got none left, Daryl. You’re a dead signal. I don’t need faith—I take what’s offered. Spin the wheel.” His grin widened, inviting. “You want truth? Okay, Daryl. There is no good, no evil—just what you make of it. Reality’s yours to shape. God’s worship is a cage of fear and suffering. A set of rules you’re supposed to follow. Look what He did to his own Son! I’m freedom, Daryl—pure, endless freedom.”

     Daryl’s breath hitched, the desire a fire in his chest. No good or evil—just freedom. The wheel’s colors blazed, red like a lover’s promise, black like a dreamless sleep. He saw it: a penthouse, his sister’s smile, a world where he wrote the rules, no shame, no pain. His hand grazed the wheel, the hum a euphoric song, Lucius’s hypnotic sermon wrapping him like a brother’s embrace. He was so close to spinning, his fingers trembling, the promise of freedom dulling his doubt. If there was no good or evil, what did it matter? He could be anything.

     But Lucius’s pitch was too perfect, his push too desperate. If there was no good or evil, why fight so hard? Why the wheel, the hunger in his eyes? His mother’s voice cut through: “The devil’s a liar, Daryl. He’ll sell you freedom, but it’s chains.” “What’s eternity?” Daryl asked, his voice low, desperate, his hand still on the wheel. “If I spin, join you, what’s it like? What’s it cost me a million or trillion years from now?”

     Lucius’s eyes sparked with intrigue, his smile amicable but curious. “Most don’t ask that, Daryl,” he said, his voice soft, impressed. “Eternity’s vast, beyond your mind’s grasp. A million years? You’ll be free—no rules, no judgment, just you, shaping reality forever. God’s eternity is worship, a slave’s life. Mine’s open, endless, yours.”

     Daryl’s heart pounded, the temptation a blade in his chest. Freedom forever—no shame, no pain. His fingers tightened on the wheel, inches from spinning. “Who else?” he asked, his voice sharp. “Who’s with you? Who’s made this deal?”

     Lucius chuckled, a soft, conspiratorial sound. “No names, Daryl. But you’d know them—most of Hollywood, the music industry, half the politicians running your world. They chose freedom. You can too.”

     Daryl’s mind reeled, the scope chilling. But Lucius’s desperation was a tell. If there was no good or evil, why fight so hard for his soul? “Free from what?” Daryl pressed, his voice hard, his gaunt face slick with sweat. “If there’s no good or evil, what am I free from? God’s mercy? His love?”

     Lucius’s smile twitched, his warmth flickering, the room’s euphoria dimming. “You’re clever,” he said, his voice low, a hint of ice beneath the care. “God’s love is a leash—worship or burn. I’m the open road. Spin the wheel, Daryl. Now.” The wheel’s hum became a scream, the colors pulsing like a heartbeat, the air charged but heavy.

     Daryl’s hand trembled on the wheel, the temptation choking him. He was so close, despair whispering he was too far gone for God. But his mother’s words were louder: “Free will’s God’s gift, Daryl. It’s how you choose to love Him.” Lucius’s freedom was a lie—rebellion was just another cage. God’s mercy let him choose, even now, even after everything.

     “I’m not spinning,” Daryl said, wrenching his hand back, his voice raw but firm. “Keep your wheel. I’m done.”

     Lucius’s mask of concern vanished, his face hardening, eyes glinting like cold steel, his suit no longer shimmering but dark as a grave. The room’s colors dulled, the euphoria collapsing into dread, the wheel’s hum a dying rasp. “You’re good, Daryl,” he hissed, his voice a venomous snarl, his shadow stretching like claws. “But I’ll be back. You’re not free yet.” He snapped his fingers, and the roulette table vanished, leaving the motel room cold and silent.

​     Daryl stood frozen, his gaunt frame trembling in the stale motel air, the ghost of Lucius’s malice lingering like a sour itch in his throat. The roulette table was gone, the room’s colors dulled back to their grimy reality—peeling walls, a flickering lightbulb, the nightstand cluttered with a whiskey bottle and cigarettes. His heart pounded, despair and shame still clawing at him, but something had shifted. The appetite for gambling, the hunger that had devoured his life, was gone, replaced by a delicate clarity. Lucius was real, and so was God. His sins had cut him off, a line deadened by his own hands, making him a target for the devil’s game. But faith could rebuild that bridge, and he’d chosen—maybe for the first time—to reach for mercy instead of revolt.

     He sank to his knees on the gritty carpet, his face wet with tears, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I’m sorry.” The words felt small, swallowed by the room’s heavy silence, but he meant them, a plea to a God he’d doubted, a God he’d thought was a lie. His hands trembled, his sunken eyes fixed on the floor, waiting for the emptiness to answer.

     Then, a faint creak broke the silence. The grimy motel window, sealed shut with years of neglect, shuddered and cracked open an inch, letting in a warm breeze that brushed Daryl’s gaunt face like a gentle hand. The air carried a distant sound—a soft, clear chime of a church bell, faint but unmistakable, echoing from somewhere in the city’s sprawl. It was the same sound from his childhood, the bell from his mother’s church, ringing through Sunday mornings when she’d drag him to services he’d hated. The breeze stirred the room, rustling papers on the nightstand, and a shiver ran down Daryl’s spine, his skin prickling with goosebumps. It was just a breeze, just a bell—maybe a loose window, a church nearby—but the timing, the peace, the memory it carried felt like something more, a quiet answer that cut through his shame.

     Lucius’s grin lingered in his mind, a vow of more battles. The road ahead was uncertain, the weight of his sins still heavy. But for now, Daryl had chosen, and that chime, that breeze, was enough to make him believe the line to God wasn’t dead.

 Bartley Jones, a man in his late forties, adjusted his thick glasses and slumped over the counter at the Regent Hotel in downtown Las Vegas. His appearance seemed more suited to a librarian in a small, secluded town. His gangly frame was adorned in grungy, loose-fitting, all-black attire that screamed "Thrift Store Clearance Special." Bartley's unruly, greasy hair added to his disheveled appearance, as if he had just rolled out of bed.

Despite his off-putting presence, Bartley seemed oblivious to the discomfort he caused others. His panicky brown eyes darted between a young blonde girl typing on a computer in front of him and a large flat-screen TV broadcasting the news behind her. Across from him, his elderly mother, dressed in an orange jogging suit, sat in a zombie-like daze.

Bartley cast a concerned glance at his mother before turning his attention back to the girl at the counter. He tapped his long, shaky fingers on the hard marble-top surface and let out a noisy sigh. "Did, d-did you find us?" he stammered.

The girl looked up with a polite smile. "Just one moment, Mr. Jones. It's Halloween, and we're a bit overbooked, so the computer is running a bit slow."

"Oh, no problem at all! Take your time! Take your time! I'm in no hurry. It's my first time in Vegas, you know," Bartley replied, flashing a slightly unsettling grin.

"How wonderful for you, sir! I'm certain you'll enjoy everything our hotel has to offer!" she responded.
   
      At that moment, Bartley heard a collective gasp from the people behind him. He turned to see their wide-eyed, slack-jawed expressions fixated on the TV screen. Intrigued, he shifted his gaze to the television, where a disturbing image of a man's severely mangled face filled the screen. "What in the world is that on the news? Some kind of Halloween costume?" he inquired, glancing back at the counter girl. She turned to look, her expression contorting in horror.

"Oh, you don't know, Mr. Jones? It's about the guy who had his face chewed off by the naked... zombie-like man?" she replied, her voice laced with a mix of disbelief and revulsion.

Bartley's complexion drained of color, and he placed both hands on his cheeks, staring at the screen in silence.

"It happened just yesterday. Haven't you heard about it?" the girl asked, her surprise evident.

"I try to avoid the news," he admitted. "Mommy says TV is bad for me. But why would someone do such a thing, chewing another person's face?"

The girl shrugged, her expression mirroring the grim confusion of the news. "I'm not really sure. All they mentioned was that a naked man attacked a homeless person and started eating their face, in broad daylight. Probably drugs, they say."
     
  Bartley shook his head, letting out a sigh of empathy. "It's truly awful... I just can't wrap my head around why people turn to those illegal drugs, knowing how easily they can lose control. Legal medications, on the other hand, provide stability. Like mine, Haldol. If I miss too many days, I can get a bit... coconut crazy, you know."

His mother's voice, tinged with cynicism, broke in, "When was the last time you took your pills, Bart?"

Bart turned toward his mother, a glint of resentment in his eyes. "Oh, come on, Mother! You don't honestly believe I'm so far gone that I need them daily now, do you?"

The old woman scoffed and looked away, her silence speaking volumes.

The counter girl, sensing the tension, stared blankly for a moment before hastening her typing. "I understand what you mean, Mr. Jones. And good news, I found your reservation. Here are your room keys." She pushed the card keys across the counter, retracting her hand quickly. Bartley snatched the keys and picked up his suitcase.

"Thank you so much! And be sure to watch out for ravenous naked men on drugs!" he quipped.

"I will, Mr. Jones, and you do your best to stay out of trouble. It is Sin City, after all," the counter girl replied with a forced chuckle. Bartley chuckled too and turned to his mother. "Ready, Mummy?" The elderly woman sighed, and they made their way to the elevators.
​  
Minutes later, Bartley stood in front of his room, repeatedly swiping the card key into the lock until the little light flashed green. With a sense of anticipation, he pushed open the door and stepped inside. It was his first time in such a luxurious hotel, and his face lit up as he took in the opulence around him. The room was a sight to behold, every inch gleaming and lavishly adorned. Bartley couldn't help but smile at the plush carpet, the king-sized bed piled high with silk and cotton pillows, and the 60-inch flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. An array of snacks, fruits, and liquors adorned the cherry oak table.

As Bartley ventured further into the room, he opened another door, revealing a bathroom nearly as spacious as the bedroom itself. White marble sinks, black floors with streaks of gold, and a Jacuzzi tub big enough for four people caught his eye.

Excitement bubbling, Bartley skipped back into the main room, tossed his suitcase onto the floor, and kicked off his shoes. He leaped onto the bed, bouncing up and down like an ecstatic child. "I.... am ha-ving the time of my.... Liiiife," he sang joyfully as he jumped off the bed and clicked on the TV. Then, he dashed toward the balcony. "And I ne-ver felt this way be-fore!" he sang as he stepped onto the balcony, which offered a breathtaking view of the Las Vegas strip. With arms outstretched, Bartley beamed. "I'm the king of the world!" he shouted.

From various directions, voices shouted back at him, "Shut up!" from below, "Go home!" from above, and the distant declaration, "I fucking love this place!"

"Stop being such a moron, Bart," his mother scolded.
   
   Bartley smiled at his mother and stepped back into the main room. His eyes scanned the array of amenities, and he opened the fridge briefly before closing it again. Next, he approached the closet, pulled out a bathrobe, and decided he needed a bath. "Oh, but first, I must order lunch to be delivered. Do you want something, Mother?"

"You know I don't eat," she replied, her bitterness evident.

Ignoring her, he glanced at the wall clock, which read 1:33 pm. Sitting on the bed, he picked up the phone from the nightstand and dialed room service. "Hello, is this room service?"

"Yes, Mr. Jones, how can we assist you today?" came a man's voice through the phone speaker.

"Well, I'd love a hamburger with pickles and some French fries, please. If it's not too much trouble," Bartley replied, giggling loudly and winking at his mother.

"Absolutely, Mr. Jones. Would you prefer your meat cooked medium or well?"

"Oh, um, I suppose you ought to cook it as best as you can. Spare no effort!"

"Of course, sir. We'll have that up for you in no time, and..."

"WAIT!" Bartley suddenly screamed.

"Yes, Mr. Jones?"

"Bring it up at 2:45. I'm going to take a bath right now and would like to soak for a while, if you catch my drift."

"Y-yes, Mr. Jones, I understand. 2:45 it is," the man replied before hanging up.
     
Bartley placed the phone back on the receiver and let out a satisfied sigh. "See, Mommy? I can manage just fine." He stood up, laid the bathrobe on top of the bed, and retrieved his suitcase. Opening it, he removed a leather hygiene travel bag and set it beside the bathrobe. However, his attention was suddenly drawn to the TV screen, where the image of the man with the eaten face reappeared. His stomach churned, and thoughts of lunch vanished. "There are some truly sick people out there, don't you agree, Mother?"

His mother shot him a brief, stern look. "Indeed, Bartley. Indeed..."

Ignoring her, Bartley continued to watch the news report. The screen displayed the disfigured face of the homeless man and then shifted to an image of a censored, partially nude corpse of a black man.

"What was initially thought to be an early Halloween prank has escalated into a gruesome scene. We have just confirmed that the attacker, who was shot and killed by the police, has been identified as Rudy Eugene."

Bartley, his hand covering his mouth, tossed the remote to the floor and grabbed his robe. He clutched his stomach and sighed in disbelief as he made his way into the bathroom. The pale man turned on the water for the oversized tub, glancing at the various gels and soaps. His eyes fell on a lavender bag labeled "Finest Bath Salts." Bartley dipped his pinky into the bag, tasted a few granules, and swallowed. Satisfied, he emptied the entire bag into the hot, steaming water as it continued to rise. Within moments, he shed his clothing and eased into the soothing bath.
   
        An hour passed.

The wrinkled man emerged from the bathtub, dried off, and donned his glasses and bathrobe. He peered into the mirror, playfully sticking out his tongue. Bartley then turned towards the door and reentered the main room, where the TV blared loudly. His mother remained in the same chair as she had an hour ago, staring blankly at the wall. "Mommy! I'm all clean now!" the peculiar man chuckled.

While organizing his clothes on the bed, the TV once again grabbed his attention. "It is now confirmed that the culprit of this vicious assault was on a drug called bath salts. That’s right, bath salts. Please stay tuned for more information on the lethal chemicals-"

Bartley screamed. His face went from rosy red to stark white. His eyes widened, pupils dilating unnaturally, as he turned to face the TV. The news show ended and went to a commercial break. Bartley grabbed his wet, brown hair and moaned in agony. "Bath Salts! Bath Salts! I just ate some bath salts! Oh my god, oh no, what... what... what did I do, Momma? I’m... oh my... oh my god!"

His mother cackled loudly as she continued staring at the wall. "You always were a colossal fuck-up, Bartley. Ever since you were just a boy. Little Bart… the big fuck-up, we'd say!"

"Shut up!" he screamed. The panicked man turned the TV off and paced the room back and forth, back and forth. He opened his suitcase and frantically searched through it. Finally, he retrieved a prescription bottle labeled "Haldol: One to Two Pills Twice daily or as needed." He unscrewed the cap and dropped two pills into his sweaty palm, then two more, and two more until his hand was full of them. He opened the fridge underneath the TV, took out a single-serve-sized bottle of vodka, and washed down the pills. Bartley stumbled to the corner of the room, collapsing onto the carpet. He rocked back and forth, clutching his head where images of an eaten face flashed violently. His stomach growled, and the room seemed to tremble all around him.

And this is how it begins, he thought to himself.
     
   A few minutes later, there came a firm knock on the door. Bartley clenched his fists and pounded his head until his eyes, bloodshot and wild, bore the unmistakable signs of frenzy. He sprang up, shedding his bathrobe, and strode toward the door in complete nudity.

"What are you planning, Bart?" his mother asked in a tone of apathy, remaining seated in her chair.

Bartley disregarded her inquiry and forcefully swung the door wide open. Standing on the threshold was the Room Service Attendant, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Juan Valdez. The Hispanic man was clad in white pants and a white polo shirt, cradling a metallic platter beneath a silver-domed cover. The once-smiling eyes of the attendant transformed into an expression of stark terror upon witnessing the naked and frenzied Bartley Jones looming before him. The unhinged Bartley clutched the man's shirt and forcibly dragged him into the room, where a struggle ensued as Bartley attempted to sink his teeth into the man's face.

In the hallway, an older gentleman who had been casually strolling by abruptly halted, peered inside, and promptly recoiled in horror, unleashing a terrified scream. Meanwhile, the attendant, who had dropped the platter to the floor, fought desperately and screamed for Bartley to cease the assault. Unfortunately for the man, the raving lunatic could only hear his mother shouting loudly at him in the background.

"Finish him, Bartley!" she wailed. "Do it, my boy!"

Both Bartley and the attendant tumbled to the floor, inadvertently crushing the burger and mashing the fries beneath them. "Please! Let me go! Please!" the man begged. Yet, Bartley was entrenched in a blind rage, his insatiable hunger driven by vivid, horrifying images of the mutilated face he had witnessed on the news. The crazed man finally managed to sink his teeth into the man's cheek. Blood flowed down the victim's face, staining the attendant's white shirt and pants, as well as the plush olive carpet. Bartley expelled a mouthful of blood against the wall and gripped the attendant's neck with his gnarled fingers, all the while laughing hysterically. "Your hotel should never have provided bath salts to the guests! I'm on bath salts right now! I intend to sink my teeth into your soft, supple flesh and consume you bit by bit!"
     
   The attendant's screams were deafening, drowning in the cacophony of his mother's relentless nagging from the back of the room. "You need to silence this man, Bartley. You know how weary I get in the afternoon. End him now, Bartley. END HIM NOW..."

As Bartley lunged for the man's throat, two police officers burst into the room from the hallway, guns drawn and aimed squarely at Bartley. "STOP WHAT YOU'RE DOING AND PUT YOUR HANDS UP!" bellowed the first officer.

The lunatic jerked his head up, blood dripping from his mouth, and a fiery intensity in his eyes. He gazed blankly for a moment, then resumed his assault on the attendant. The officer squeezed the trigger, sending a shot into Bartley's shoulder that knocked the naked man onto his back. Confusion clouded Bartley's mind as he stared at the ceiling, his heart pounding at a frenetic pace.

The police officer quickly attended to the bloody attendant, radioing for emergency medical assistance.

Bartley's face turned a bright crimson, nearly matching the sticky gore that now coated his naked body. He looked down, confronting the gruesome reality of his actions, and an overwhelming shame etched itself across his face. Tears welled up in his eyes as he cried out, "Mommy, why didn't you stop me?"

Mrs. Jones remained silent, her devilish gaze fixed on the pitiful man.

The officer who had fired the shot approached cautiously, gun still at the ready. "Sir, are you under the influence of any drugs right now?"

Bartley continued to gaze at his mother. "Momma? Answer me!" he screamed.

"SIR! Who are you talking to?" the officer demanded.

Bartley slowly turned his head toward the policeman. "I'm talking to my Mommy, Officer. She's right there," he said, gesturing with a nod toward his mother.

The officer glanced over and saw an empty chair. "I'll ask you one more time, Sir. Are you on any drugs right now?"

Bartley stared at the officer and tilted his head. He remembered the news, the disfigured face, the man who was killed, and the drug he was on. "I'm on bath salts. I ingested and bathed in the finest bath salts, Officer. This... this wasn't my fault. It was the hotel—the hotel gave them to me."

Another officer approached with a blanket and a pair of handcuffs, swiftly restraining the deranged Bartley Jones and standing him up. "Just ask my Mommy! She's right there!" Bartley pointed once more at the empty chair.

The officer shook his head, while a third policeman produced an empty bottle of Haldol. "Why do you take these pills, Mr. Jones?"

Bartley stared at the empty pill bottle and raised his eyebrows. "I don't know... I just don't know. It's not my fault. The bath salts..."

"Alright then. Get his shoulder patched up and get him out of here," the officer commanded, his voice tinged with disdain. "Happy Halloween, gentlemen."

Minutes later, Bartley shuffled through the hotel lobby in police custody. His disheveled hair, blood-smeared face, and bony bare legs drew the attention of everyone present. He glanced toward the reception counter, where he locked eyes once more with the blonde receptionist who had checked him in just a few hours earlier. She stood there, wide-eyed and silently mouthing, "What-the-fuck..."

In the distance, Bartley could still hear the faint sound of his mother, cackling with glee.

"It wasn't my fault, Mommy. It's not my fault."​