The Man From Mars - Episode Seventeen

   Alfred Backman was not a nice man. He was a wicked man.
   He was also the proprietor of the "Come On Inn." The motel I decided to stay at once I reached the city of Paulding, Ohio.
   You wouldn't really suspect the bespectacled, smallish, and roundish Alfred Backman of being a wicked man by his demeanor. When I first met the man, I wouldn't classify him as being shy, but he definitely wasn't outspoken. He didn't ask me any conversational questions like, "This your first time in Paulding?" He just went about his business of getting my driver license, collecting a deposit, handing me the electronic key card, and assigning a room.
   I asked a couple of meaningless questions and he answered them politely, but with as few of words as necessary. He then handed me a pamphlet with a map of all the room locations, checkout time, and a wi-fi pass code.
   He then left the front counter and headed to the back room without saying another word.
   I stood there for a second or two, befuddled, then left the Come On Inn Office, and searched for my room.
   What I thought about was, do people living in the State of Ohio know anything about common courtesy? First the obnoxious behavior by the waitress this morning, and now the indifference attitude by the Inn keeper.
   I found my room, threw my only luggage, a carry-on bag onto the bed, and sat at the little writing table you see in all motel rooms.
   I took out the amulet, from around my neck, and stared at it. I wear it pretty much all the time now. Otherwise, I would worry about it, even when I new I had just put it in a safe place.
   So why worry? I figured I would wear it all the time.
   Still staring at it, I thought about what had happen to me on the bus.
   Did the amulet have anything to do with the police dog acting the way it did? Did it have an effect on the other officer, who I thought was in charge?
   Deep down inside me I felt that it did, but how? How could an ancient relic, made out of gold, help me persuade a police officer, that I was not the suspect he was looking for? Or cajole a dog, who is trained not to be friendly with strangers, that I was OK?
   I was rubbing the artifact between my hands while I was in this contemplation. It had a soothing sensation to it. So much so, that I started to relax.
   An hour later, it was only 9 p.m. on the complimentary alarm clock, sitting on the night stand, next to the bed. But, I was so unwound by this point that I felt a good night sleep was what I needed the most.
   So I went to bed.
   I remember vividly dreaming about a strange world of red. Where sleek building rose high into the air. People stood on round disc platforms, which would rise up into the air, carrying the passenger to their destination of choice. Huge, winged, pterodactyl looking creatures flew along side the discs, hauling everything from large boxes to small looking purses. The beings on the disc, constantly looked at green 3D images in front of them. Waving their arms to view another page, or pointing to different parts of the sky, like they typing on a keyboard. Some were reading their screens, some were talking to their screens. No one was watching where they were going.
   Why should they? The flying discs never came into contact with one another or the flying pterodactyl. This red world even had its own rush hour, where the crimson setting sun was almost complete blocked out by the throng of discs in the evening sky. I imagined, bringing commuters to their homes.
   Then the dream turned bleak. The planet burned a deep fiery red and the smell of burnt tobacco filled the air.
   Burnt tobacco?
   I sat up startled.
   Sitting on the chair next to the writing desk sat Alfred Backman. He was smoking a large cigar. Occasionally, he would blow smoke rings in front of his face, all the while holding a 9mm Beretta in my direction.
   My head cleared enough from the dream state I was in to clearly see what kind of situation I was in. So I asked him, "What are you doing in my room?"
   "Normally, I would have killed you already Mister Jeffery Povlich," said the now talkative Alfred Backman. "Oh, wait a minute. There is no Mister Jeffery Povlich living at 222 Sea Breeze Lane in Miami, Florida. Matter-of-fact, there is no 222 Sea Breeze Lane."
   "What do you want Alfred?" I asked a little miffed.
   "Call me Al. All my friends do and I will be the last friend you will ever have." He said with a smirk.
   "Al, you will never be my friend, as long as you hold that gun on me."
   I waited to see if something would happen. Like what happened on the bus.
   Nothing did.
   "Don't be like that Jeff, if that is your real name. I have some questions I would like to ask you before I kill you."
   I could see that Al was beginning to enjoy himself. Being in control of the situation, holding the gun on me.
   "You see, all sorts of criminals pass through here and some of them stay at my Inn. Most of them pay cash, as you did, use false identification, as you did, and carry lots of cash, as you probably do."
   This where Al takes a deep drag off of his cigar, blowing the smoke across the room, into my face.
   "And now I am going to relieve you of that cash and that pretty medallion I saw you wearing."
   I glared at him, saying angrily, "You've been spying on me?"
   "Sure," he said nonchalantly. "You think I am going to come in here without knowing what I am up against?"
   He starts to laugh, then says, "I have cameras in every room, looking at every corner, so I don't miss a thing."
   "Do you always talk to your victims, first?" I asked.
   "No, you are the first," he said. "I just had to find out."
   "Find out what?" I asked.
   "How you did it?" He leans forward, blowing smoke my way again, and says, "I googled your name, your driver's license, and your supposed street address. I looked at all the different social media and obituaries, in case you stole someone's identity. I have a friend who works as a clerk in the Sheriff's Department and they can't find you using their facial recognition software."
   He leans back and says, "I could probably find out who you are by your finger prints, but I already asked my friend for help once and that'll cost me a hundred bucks right there. So, unless you are carrying more than a thousand dollars, I'd be wasting my money."
   I didn't say a word. All I was thinking about was, how in the hell did the Man from Mars use magnetism on me to push me up against the bar when I questioned his sincerity?
   "But if you do have a lot of money on you, I can always have the finger prints checked at a later date." He continued.
   When I first met Alfred Backman, I thought he was rude for not saying much. Now the damn fool won't stop talking. His constant chatter is distracting me from figuring out how to use the amulet against him.
   "OK Jeff. Why don't we start out by you handing that nice piece of jewelry you've got hanging around your neck." Al said smiling.
   All I could think of was, oh shit!

To Be Continued...

Next Thursday,

This is,

Wondering If Anyone Ever Spied On Me In One Of The Many Hotel Rooms I Have Stayed In Over The Years,

Jim Hauenstein,

And,

“It was an eight-harlot inn, if that's how you measure an inn. I understand that now they measure inns in stars. We are in a four-star inn right now. I don't know what the conversion from harlots to stars is.”
- Christopher Moore, -

That is my story and I am sticking to it!

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