Has anyone sold or exited their timeshare agreement with this company? Can you recommend a reseller? My parents bought this thing, and it was bequeathed to me. Now I'm on the hook for the maintenance fees. They say they can't help me and won't even take a quitclaim on the agreement. They said sell it on the open market. Of course, that feels like I'm screwing someone else.
Halloween 4:50 PM Providence Hospital Administrative Wing
There was something calming about spraying glass cleaner on the restroom mirror and moving the cloth in a circular motion, but this was the third time. She’ll be here, the janitor told themselves while wearing a mask that covered the whole head. A rag soaked in starter fluid had dried out twice since entering the restroom, and still she hadn’t arrived. Be patient, she’s a creature of habit. A janitorial cart with a trash barrel and supplies sat, blocking access to the stall. With God’s grace, that will slow her down. That’s right. It’s God’s will. A quick glance at the mirror confirmed, to the janitor, they were alone, at least physically. No matter how often they tried to catch the person who spoke to them, they always seemed to escape. No mirror, no quick turn, no furtive glance revealed the ever-present voice. Soak the rag again and relax. “The fumes will knock me out if she doesn’t come soon.” Stop whining and shut up. People will think you’re crazy.
“I won’t have five minutes to myself,” a woman said, pushing into the restroom. It was her. A quick glance at the janitor, and she asked, “Will you be much longer?” They responded with a shrug. She took hold of the cart’s handle and pushed it aside. An arm snaked around her neck fast and tight. Before she could scream, the other hand clamped the starter fluid-soaked rag over her face. She struggled, but fumes filled her lungs.
The woman, barely five feet tall, thrashed, kicking at the wall with winter boots. She’s strong. The others had practically begged to be put out of their misery. Squeeze her tighter. “You said this would be quick.” Pure ether is quick. “They don’t sell that at Walmart,” the janitor grunted, tightening their grip. Again with the talking? Hang on to her. It won’t be long now. A buzz sounded in her purse. “What’s that?” Her phone, dipshit, keep going.
She fell heavy in her attacker’s arms, slumping to the floor, eyes closed, but still breathing. “Is she dead?” You wish. Put her in the trash barrel. “I am, I am.” The janitor pulled at Sarah, but she lay like a dead weight. Tie that rag around her face. “All you do is tell me what to do, but you never help.” Someone has to be the brain of this operation. Pick her up. “I can’t.” Tip the barrel over, stuff her in, and stand it up. And stop grunting like a pig, you sound like someone bound for hell. “This is not separating the sheep from the goats.” No, but the sheep have lost their way. Stand the barrel up. Push it onto your cart.
The janitor removed the Halloween mask. Sweat dripped from sodden temples, landing on the floor. “The smell. I’m gonna be sick,” they said aloud. Put that back on and focus. "But I can’t see; my eyes sting." Wipe your face. You said you’d serve the lord. He expects much from his servants. Put the mask back on and dump the trash on top of her. “What about you?” I told you, I’m the messenger of the lord. No one sees me or my brilliance, or they would be blinded. “ Is that why my eyes sting?” Yes, hurry up.
A minute later, the janitor leaned on the cart’s handle. Let’s go. “I’m comin’.” With a heave, the cart bumped against the door, and it swung open. In the hall, two men, no doubt goats wearing cafeteria worker uniforms, walked toward the elevator while another man stood staring at his phone, near the men’s room, and looked up.
“Hey, Dylan, was anyone else in there?” the man asked.
The janitor glanced about. That’s you, asshole, shake your head no and get on that elevator. The janitor reached for the mask. Keep it on. “I am,” he mumbled unintelligibly through the slit. Shut up. The janitor shrugged, pushing the cart toward the elevator. The biggest goat held the door. The cart’s wheels hung up on the space between the elevator doors. The big man reached out to help, but the janitor pulled the cart away, turned it around, and backed up. The doors closed. The cafeteria floor button glowed, and the masked janitor pushed the one for the basement, passing the parking garage.
You are so stupid. “What?” The two men eyed the janitor. Shut up, for the love of God. The janitor nodded his head. The elevator doors opened to a crowd waiting. “Shit.” The janitor mumbled. If you don’t shut up, I’ll drag you to hell myself. The cafeteria workers stepped off, but no one got on. The doors closed. You still have much to do. The janitor heard the voice sigh from behind him. The Lord’s messenger angel had grown tired of questions. “I am the servant of the Lord,” the janitor said. Bless you. Now shut the fuck up and get back to work. “Which one are you, Gabriel?” the janitor asked. In all the time I’ve been with you, has it ever mattered?
It seems like 95 percent of those posting questions are asking about magic and world building. I write thrillers, do most of you prefer your violence spelled out in graphic detail or do you prefer the implied violence off the page?
Writers like SA Cosby are very graphic and popular but so is what I call the cozy thriller by authors like Freida McFadden.
What's your preference and why?