Hickory dickory dock

As soon as the hour hand and the minute hand of the clock hug at the midnight mark, an unheard bell goes off inside the mind of Mr. Hickory, the caretaker of the Dickory Dock hotel. It is an unusual hotel, to be sure, and requires a special kind of person to run it. Mr. H is one such person. The Dickory Dock has been in his family for generations and it is not a small feat that out of the seven brothers and sisters, Mr. H was chosen for this honour.

Mr. H leaves his room that is actually an attic. He finds comfort among broken and forgotten things. The people who come here are much like this attic. You see, the Dickory Dock hotel is a way place for the retired and extremely dangerous individuals. 

He arrives at his desk and to no one’s surprise, there is already a line forming. Though there are chairs for the individuals to sit, they prefer to stand in a queue. It gives them the illusion of control. Control that is missing from their lives, unless they’re involved in an extremely dangerous activity.

He clicks a sign on his desk and it changes from we’re closed to we’re now serving. The queue, that had until now been quiet, starts to hum in anticipation. Mr. H opens his ledger and takes his feather pen. He dips it into the blood red ink bottle and says, “Ah Ms. Emily?”

Ms. Emily is a thirteen year old person who killed her parents because they wanted her to wear a pink frock and pink earrings. “Like a bloody cotton candy Mr. H I swear to you…”

He does not even blink as he takes her in. She’s indeed wearing a pink frock, which is rather pretty he must admit, but currently blood splattered. “Would you like the usual Ms. Emily?” he asks.

Mr. H’s voice is nothing like you would have heard before. It is flat, like a still room, but it is also soft, pliant, like a newborn babe’s skin. 

Ms. Emily nods and Mr. H directs her to floor thirteen, room fifteen. Another unusual thing about Dickory Dock hotel is, it knows exactly what the person needs, without having to use words. It’s one of the reasons that the individuals flock to its premises every midnight. You see, it is not easy to be inside your own mind sometimes. And sometimes you need a face like Mr. H and a place like Dickory Dock, to take care of you.

Mr. H deals with fifteen more names before he arrives on his favourite. “Ah monsieur Mont Blanc. How may we serve?”

Monsieur Mont Blanc has been coming to Dickory Dock since he was eighteen after he had robbed his first museum and killed his first security guard. Now, he had a veritable harem of thieves, cutthroats and degenerates to do the work for him. After all, at seventy-five, with snowy white hair and in an impeccable grey suit, he had a respectable establishment that was in the business of procurement and distribution.

“There may be an associate of mine coming through. A mademoiselle who goes by the name Orange. I will need you to detain her, here, for a fashion.”

Mr. H’s blank face gathers around the forehead. He knows not if this is a request Dickory Dock hotel can fulfil. Before he can say yes or no, the monsieur opens his mouth.

“Orange is my daughter. Do not fret Mr. Hickory, I will not ask for something that you cannot give.”

The gathers do not smoothen. If anything they deepen. “Is she a threat to you?”

The anger that flashes on monsieur Mont Blanc’s face is there and gone. “To herself. She has developed a conscience it seems.”

All in the room, right from Mr. H to the last person in the line, shiver. 

“It shall be done.”

There is no handshake. There is no need. Word is bond here.

Mr. H continues to go through the line and when the hour hand reaches one, a mouse runs across his table, clicking the sign back to we’re closed. He places his pen back in its place and closes the ledger carefully. He gets up from the chair and goes back to the attic. He’ll be back at the devil-hour of 3:33 AM.

The queue disperses, the individuals settling into the chairs and rugs scattered in the lobby of the Dickory Dock hotel. Much like the attic, it is a place for worn, forgotten things.

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Connecting this post to #BlogchatterA2Z. To read other posts, check Theme Reveal 2022: Without Prearrangement.

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