They ran until they came to a turning of the dim hallway, to the right, and this passage led into an unlighted section through which they stumbled, bumping into one another and almost falling several times until they came to another turn, this time to the left, a long stretch of narrow corridor lighted by widely and irregularly spaced dim bulbs, and on they staggered, still hearing the shouting and stomping reverberating behind them.
After another minute they came to a junction where the corridor continued straight ahead into dimness but was bisected by another corridor going to the left and to the right.
They each bent forward, panting and sweating, their hands on their knees.
"Which way?" gasped Milford.
"I haven't the faintest idea," said, panted, Addison.
To the right the corridor continued on into dimness and then darkness, as it did to the left.
"This way?" said Milford, pointing to the right.
"Why not?" said Addison.
They both looked over their shoulders, and far back down the way they had run they saw the angry gang turning a corner stomping and roaring and shouting imprecations.
"Faggots!" one voiced yelled, echoing down the corridor.
"Cunts!" bellowed another harsh voice.
"Perhaps we should split up?" said Milford. "And then only one of us will die."
"Yes, but which one?" said Addison.
"I don't want to die alone," said Milford.
"I for my part don't want to die at all," said Addison.
"So we stick together?" said Milford.
"To the end," said Addison.
"To the right then?" said Milford.
"Why not?" said Addison.
"Cunts!" echoed a harsh voice.
"Faggots!" echoed another voice.
Not knowing why, the two companions turned and ran down the corridor to the left, and after another minute they reeled into another section of darkness, and when they emerged from it a few minutes or a day later they were no longer able to run, but walked, staggering and wheezing, and, turning another corner they saw up ahead to their horror that the corridor came abruptly to an end, but there was a door, which they limped up to, and on the door was a sign that read, in cursive script
THE PRANCING FOOL
If you've abandoned
all hope of hope,
if you've given up
even the the hope
of giving up,
then ring the bell
or go to hell.
Below the sign was a crude painting of what might have been a prancing fool.
"Ring the bell," panted Addison.
There was a door button to the right of the door, and Milford put his finger on it and pressed it for two seconds.
He turned and looked at Addison, whose normally pallid face had gone red, and was streaming with sweat.
Back the way they had come they could still hear the harsh voices, and the stomping of feet.
"Ring the bell again," said Addison.
"Do you think I should? My mother always told me it is impolite to ring a doorbell more than once."
"But was your mother ever chased by a mob of douchebags out for her blood?"
"Not to my knowledge, no."
"Then, please, Milford, I implore you, ring the bell."
"Well, all right," said Milford, and he reached up to press the button again, but before he could do so the door opened inward, and a little fat bald bearded man stood there, peering at them through thick-lensed glasses. He held a smoking pipe, and he wore a rumpled suit of brown serge, with a red and white polka dot bowtie.
"Hello," he said. "May I help you gentlemen?"
"Yes, sir," said Addison. "We are being chased by a mob of, you should pardon the expression, douchebags, intent upon killing us, and we ask sanctuary."
"I admire your succinctness, sir," said the little fat bearded and bald man. "So am I to take it that you have both abandoned all hope?"
"If you deny us entrance, then, yes, I think you could safely say that we have abandoned hope."
"Or hope has abandoned us," said Milford.
"Yes," said the little man, "good, very good, but have you abandoned all hope of hope?"
"Oh, for God's sake," said Milford, "can't you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"That stomping and shouting, down the corridor?"
The man cocked his head.
"Yes, now that you mention it, I do hear it. It sounds like an angry mob, or at least a gang."
"Precisely," said Addison. "A gang, a mob, and they're after us, so we adjure you, please let us in."
"First I have to ask you, and I think I know the answer, but I must ask anyway, are you gentlemen men of letters?"
"Yes!" whined Milford. "I am a poet, and my friend is a novelist."
"Splendid," said the little man. "Only one more question for each of you. Are you, young man, a bad poet?"
"Yes! Isn't it obvious?"
"And you, sir," the man said, turning his glasses in the direction of Addison, "do you write bad novels?"
"Well, that remains to be seen," said Addison. "You see, I am still only in the beginning stages of my first novel."
"And may I ask what this novel is about, if you are capable of saying so?"
"It is an epic of the old west, about a wandering gunslinger named Buck Baxter, on a quest to seek revenge upon a gang known as the Bad Men Gang for having slain his kinsfolk, but in a sense it is a novel about man's search for meaning in a world devoid of meaning –"
"Very well," interrupted the little fat bald and bearded man. "I think I've heard quite enough. You may both come in."
"Thank you!" said Milford.
"Yes, uh, thank you," said Addison, who was just slightly miffed that the man had not let him finish describing his novel.
In the dim distance the shouting and the stomping grew progressively louder, resounding down the hallway.
"Oh, dear," said the little fat man. "Come on in then, if you're coming, and I will lock and bolt the door."
He stepped to one side and Milford went in, followed hard on his heels by Addison.
{Please go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}
