THREE DEAD MOUSE.

Aesop Morrigan. Sitting at his desk. New apartment. Box after box after box after box. Unpacked. Litter in an empty, sterile space. The desk – covered in paper and ashes and fast food wrappings and beer bottles and pencils and, in the middle, a typewriter. Nobody uses a typewriter anymore. His (Aesop's) father gave him the Underwood Five when he was fifteen. Aesop, that is. Aesop was fifteen when his father gave him the Underwood Five. Aesop's father was a clerk for some government agency that, to this day, is still a complete mystery to the XXXXX family. The father. Ulysses was his name. Matthew was his name. John was his name. Ulysses was not his name. Ulysses stole the typewriter after being fired (LET GO!) on his son's birthday. Aesop. Aesop Morrigan. One of many Morrigan children. Five. Aesop turned fifteen and got a typewriter. Half the world doesn't even know what a typewriter is. Fuck technology. Aesop always thought himself a bit of a luddite. He likes film. Hates video. Likes analog. Hates digital. He likes knowing how things work, how things don't work. How do we work? How is not the question. The typewriter. Despite the cold surface, the broken return, the sticky keys, he loves it. Aesop cherishes his typewriter. Underwood.

A phone rings. That's right. There is a phone. It's not in Aesop's apartment. The phone rings again. It's coming from next door. The phone rings again. Again. Aesop is getting annoyed. Mad. Annoyed. Hand to forehead. Temples. The phone rings again. Aesop pushes away from the desk and slides backward in his chair. It cracks a bit. Creaks. Any more abuse and the chair will probably break. Collapse. The phone rings again. Again. Again. Answer the fucking phone! Again. Answer the fucking phone! Again. Again.