Thousand: Three Hundred Eighty-Six

into the shadowy interior, but can’t see anything. Nothing. Just a blank of darkness. Wait. A movement? He puts the shoe to his ear and shakes it again. It’s a loafer. He wore it to the office. Imagine going to hell in a loafer. And chinos. Although, he thought, I guess you go to hell in whatever you happen to be wearing. What’s making that whispery sound? No laces to lash. He upends the shoe and whacks the heel. A little red scorpion hits the road on its back, flips over and waves its pinchers, arches its tail and points