Mosquito Manor

Charlie walked the length of the east wing of the family motel, stopping to straighten any tilted picture frames, replace any dead lightbulbs. The appraiser would be by that afternoon and he couldn’t leave anything to chance. His sister would have his head.

This was his last chance to get enough money to escape his beheading by finding a masterpiece among his collection that he could sell. He barely managed to get away from her last time. With nervous pacing, he wore his already decrepit shoes until the appraiser finally came.

The appraiser studied the family motel from office to storage, and spent long, agonizing minutes with a clipboard inside each of the building’s 12 small rooms. When at last she returned to him with her findings, his palms were sweating. He’d have his head cut off if he couldn’t

meet a simple goal: make this 70+ year old motel turn a profit this year. It was miles from the highway in a town with only one attraction. The largest alligator ranch outside of Florida didn’t bring many overnight visitors.

Not had it ever really, but Floridians are like mosquitos in the marsh - they don’t give up.

They’re very insistent and could even talk you into as much as buying a bucket of air with a hole in the bottom of it.