Serial Experiment

By the next day Wilson found himself returning to normal, at least to a certain degree. He still hurt whenever he thought about Tooth, and he thought he may do so for some time, but everything else was beginning to slip away. He had convinced himself that the business with the will would all turn out to be an elaborate prank, he would not be hearing anything more about it, and so had nothing to worry about. He was not at all certain about what he was going to do about his book situation, he had simply begun to reread the book he had just finished and was taking a hard look at his budget to see if he could afford a new one somewhere else. Shopping at another bookstore felt like a betrayal to him, but his nightly reading was what got him through the day, and the thought of giving that up was even more distasteful. He was sure that Tooth would understand, the old man understood how much the books meant to him.

Beyond that he just slipped back into work, and into his routines, trying not to think much at all. The work was good for that, he supposed, he could go along his route as usual, as he had after the bookshop, not paying much mind to anything. He continued this way for a few days, at least maintaining the image of normalcy. He wasn’t sure what he would do when the cycle of his routes brought him back to Tooth’s shop, but he also knew that it wouldn’t be a problem right away. Maybe he would have a better idea of how to handle it by the time it came around.

The evening of the fourth day, however, brought a new break in his routine. It was one that he had not expected or been prepared for, although in retrospect he thought he probably should have been.

A knock came on the door not moments after Wilson had sat down for a quick meal. That is of course the nature of knocks in the evenings, they are required by some arcane cosmic law to occur almost exactly when one sits down to eat. Other acceptable times would be right as the occupant of the house has begun making use of the facilities, entered a bath or shower, or is at a particularly exciting passage in a very good book. No one is really sure why this is the case, but it holds true nevertheless. Wilson sighed the sigh shared by so many with evening visitors, set his freshly filled fork back on the plate, and dragged himself out of his rough wooden chair to answer the door.

The door opened to reveal a short man in a deep black suit with very shiny shoes and possibly the most prim mustache Wilson had ever encountered. It was immaculate, and drew the eyes to the point that almost no other feature of the man’s face registered at all. He quickly shook off the distraction and asked “Can I help you?”

“Wilson Pool?” the man asked, in a matter of fact tone. Wilson simply nodded.

“Mr. Pool I am Herman Roth, of Liddy and Roth. If you have a moment I would like to discuss the execution of the last will and testament of Thomas Feris.”