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Where the hell indeed. (open)
Beretta? Check. Silver bullets? Check. Knife? Check. Flask with holy water? Check and double check. ID…? Sam ran through the mental checklist, making certain each item was physically accounted for and on his person before taking further stock of his surroundings. At first glance, it appeared to be a normal studio apartment, in a normal city, but the longer he was there, the more it felt like something was off--only he couldn‘t quite put his finger on it. All he knew was that it was giving him flashbacks to the time the Trickster had stuck him in an endless loop of Tuesdays.
He'd checked his cupboards--or rather, the cupboards in the apartment he'd woken up in that morning,seemingly at random--hoping for salt. Rock salt would be ideal, but even table salt would do--and sure enough--he found a canister of the latter above and to the side of the stove, as well as a bag of the former under the sink. Just like the doctor ordered. Only he told himself it was probably left over from winter...or something. He opened the fridge/freezer with the thought that he should find something non-greasy and hopefully non-disgusting--like waffles--to eat, and there was a box of Eggos. He shut the door, his brow furrowed. He opened the refrigerator door again, deliberately thinking about maple syrup. The real stuff, not Mrs. Butterworth's. There it was. Coincidence? He shut the door again. It had to be. It only made sense that someone would have syrup to go with their waffles. Right?
“Come on, Sam,“ he muttered to himself as he stepped outside, “What is wrong with this picture?” Maybe he would find someone on the street who could tell him where the hell he was.
He'd checked his cupboards--or rather, the cupboards in the apartment he'd woken up in that morning,seemingly at random--hoping for salt. Rock salt would be ideal, but even table salt would do--and sure enough--he found a canister of the latter above and to the side of the stove, as well as a bag of the former under the sink. Just like the doctor ordered. Only he told himself it was probably left over from winter...or something. He opened the fridge/freezer with the thought that he should find something non-greasy and hopefully non-disgusting--like waffles--to eat, and there was a box of Eggos. He shut the door, his brow furrowed. He opened the refrigerator door again, deliberately thinking about maple syrup. The real stuff, not Mrs. Butterworth's. There it was. Coincidence? He shut the door again. It had to be. It only made sense that someone would have syrup to go with their waffles. Right?
“Come on, Sam,“ he muttered to himself as he stepped outside, “What is wrong with this picture?” Maybe he would find someone on the street who could tell him where the hell he was.