The store’s owner resorts to appeasement by letting the man shuffle through a box of neatly sealed silver-age comics. He pulls out an issue of Fightin’ Five, rives open the adhesive sleeve and begins examining the garishly colored pages very closely.
“Alright, sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the store,” the clerk tries to inform him but suddenly you seem to be the object of the strange man’s piercing eye.
“You, my friend, are in some kind of trouble, aren’t you?” You take a step back at the forward comment.
“What…what do you mean? Do you know anything about me?,” you ask. The man hands the issue back to the clerk and ushers you outside.
“You are suffering from an acute case of schizophrenic-delerium – I can see it in your face.”
“Well, I guess I wouldn’t…”
“You wouldn’t know. Exactly. Because you are not on the outside looking in like myself. But I can get you some help, just trust me.”
You really don’t have much of a choice, seeing as you’re without a vehicle or any money as it is, but there’s something about him that you hesitate to trust – maybe it’s that all-too-stereotypical salt-and-pepper Van Dyke on his face.
It isn’t long before you have a cozy room of your own with a little bookshelf and an old-fashioned door buzzer that orderlies ring before serving you food. Although nothing in the hospitable environment seems hostile, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re someone’s prisoner.
Go to page 22.
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