Forgot Inn

A lone fast food wrapper flutters across the empty lot. A broken neon sign flickers on and off on top of its rusty pole, proclaiming the name of the establishment in square letters. You sidestep a fallen trashcan and walk into the Forgot Inn.

As you push the door aside on its squeaky hinge, a blast of moist air only two degrees colder then the outside climate rushes past you onto the scorching asphalt road.

You cross a sea of colorless shag carpeting to the reception desk, where oldies blare weakly from a beat-up radio, and see a bell on the counter with a watermarked label that says "ring me". When you follow this direction, a slightly chubby old woman grunts from the ladies room, then shuffles out with a scrap of toilet paper on her shoe. She waddles behind the desk and asks you for your name. 

Soon, you are situated in a room upstairs, which smells of mildew and disinfectant. You are happy to see a pair of mints laid out on your pillow, but when you swipe for them, melted chocolate smears onto the bed from the loose wrappers. Hungry, you wander back down to inquire about refreshments.

The old woman at the reception (whose nametag, you now notice, says "Loretta") beckons apathetically towards a pair of decaying vending machines lined up next to the cracked and peeling wall. You put in a quarter and recieve a bag of chips of a brand discontinued during your childhood. When you ask Loretta about coffee, she grunts towards a small table where a pitcher sits next to a pile of sugar packets. Seeing it, you already know that the contents are cold.

Forgot Inn is a chain of motels who purport to be decaying and decrepit. Customers pay extra for the kitschy appeal.