I read the note a few times before I literally jumped up out of my seat.

I looked through the frosty glass of the window on the passenger’s side to see the awful front desk woman glaring at me. She pounded on the glass again and pointed in the direction of the exit of the parking lot, back onto the lonely highway.

I tucked the bills into my wallet, let the note slip down onto the dirty floor.

Working Saturdays was always the worst. Not only was I eliminating myself from the potential of any kind of socialization for the week, the orders never stopped coming in and a huge percentage of them were the parties I dreaded delivering to. I had already dropped eight pizzas off at my high school vice principal’s daughter’s birthday party and had to tell the sad story of my adult life to someone while I saw the glint of disappointment appear in their eyes.

If I had made up the story of my acting failure, the early passing of my mother and my movement back to northern Minnesota as a tactic to milk more tips out of customers, I probably could have been defined as a bad person, but it was all coincidence.

I clung hard to the fifty-dollar tip when I got back into my car and remembered I had a second order to deliver. A small pepperoni and anchovy in the backseat, stinking up my car.

I double-checked the address on the ticket for the last pizza.

6834 Miller Ave. #7

It took a few seconds, but I remembered the address. It was the retirement home and room #7 belonged to George.

I spent the few minute drive over to the highway dreading having to see that awful woman at the front desk again, but strangely excited to see George. Sadly, my exchange with him the week before I had been one of the most-enjoyable social exchanges I had experienced in quite a while. Plus, he tipped me like 40 percent.

I was relieved to see a new woman working the front desk when I walked in with the small pizza tucked into my arms.

Obese with rosy cheeks and a head of curly blonde hair, she greeted me with an unexpected smile that wasn’t so unexpected when I saw her name tag identified her as “Bev.” No way a woman named Bev could ever mean, right?

“Ummmmmmm, for me?” She asked playfully, punctuated with a giggle.

I gave a courtesy laugh.

“It’s for George, in seven.”

“Ah, should have known. I can smell the anchovies. Go right ahead.”

The walk to George’s room was just as dark and ominous as it was before. It kind of reminded me of the waiting/staging area before a darker ride at Disneyland or some kind of theme park. A mysterious wind seemed to trickle through the hallway even though I didn’t see a single door or window, the low roar of the heater growled above from the rafters and the light was so dim it served almost as more of a trick on your eyes than lighting.

George was waiting for me on the foot of his bed when I arrived in his doorway. His eyes already locked in my direction before I could step in.

“Tombstone,” he announced my arrival with glee.

“Hi there,” I replied and set the pizza down on the table across from his bed.

“Now that’s a Saturday night special,” George went on. “You like Lynyrd Skynyrd?”

“Yeah, they’re great,” the sorrowful opening slide guitar riff of Tuesday’s Gone played in my head. “It’s just ten-twenty-three tonight.”

George shot a cautious look over at the empty doorway.

“Oh yeah, last time I had a little party for everyone around here. Hardly even got myself a slice, so many people showed up to get their cut,” George explained while the line “Everybody’s got their cups but they aint chipped in” played in my head.

It took George a while to pull out a stiff 20 from a thin leather wallet which looked homemade. He dropped his head next to mine when he slipped the bill over to me.

“Did you get my note?” He whispered, the hairs of his beard tickling my cheek.

The note? Oh shit. I forgot all about the note. Like it was a text from a friend I forgot to return. “Oh yeah, yeah. I got it. What’s it exactly about?” I asked back, assuming it was something about the landmine of a lady who worked the front desk the last time I was there.

“Exactly what is standing in the doorway,” George whispered back.

My eyes shot over to the doorway, but were distracted before they could get there. A hazy mist slunk into the room like one of those strangers in the night Steve Perry sang about. Crouched in the back of the cloud of fog, clutching what I recognized as a Nambu pistol due to my love of military video games, was a young Asian man clad tightly in wet, forest green military garb and a soft green hat.

“I wasn’t always a good man,” George’s words were wet against my ear, the room had grown incredibly hot. “They mostly come at night.”

My eyes hadn’t left the Japanese soldier who combed the entryway of the room like it was thick jungle. He didn’t appear to see us, giving me ample time to further analyze his body. A further scan revealed the truly gruesome.