We wrapped our hot bodies in paper towel togas, then locked ourselves in the room and slid the key beneath the door. We tore up ragged strips of carpet with our teeth in search of the flat cardboard heart we suspected was pulsing beneath. We were wrong though, there was nothing there but the metallic powder of squashed silverfish. The curtains were made of long tresses of hair that had once been blonde, the bed stuffed with wet oatmeal; we heard it squish beneath us as we rolled about. Above the bed hung a painting of a fish market, and we slid it aside to find the safe behind it. When we spun the tumbler it creaked open but all that was inside was a stack of postcard reproductions of the painting of the fish market. We thumbed through a catalog of Gideon's Gags and Novelty Items, mistaking it for a bible. The light fixture was made of a thorny crown of antlers around which was woven a stuffed rattlesnake that had long since lost its scales. There was a ghost perched on the toilet and we pissed right through its misty ass. There was the usual flyspecked mirror, the predictable fireplace choked with crusty tissues. We rode the night like a brick galleon barreling towards a shore of silk. By morning your tongue was wired to your cheek so you couldn’t laugh when I showed you that trick you love where I pull a roll of yellow Police Line tape from my mouth, pull and pull and pull and wrap our own crime scene in it.