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The hotel room was just as drab and decaying as the rest of the building. Dated flowering wallpaper, yellowed by decades of sunlight peeled itself from the walls. The carpet, once a faded red, was now worn down to a washed pink and fraying at the edges. Two pathetic little lamps tried desperately to shed some light into the damp and musty atmosphere. The gale from outside eased its way through the decaying window frames trying, but failing to blow through the awful curtains which had set almost like cardboard.
Irv Oswald stood at the doorway holding his laptop bag, camera bag draped over his shoulder and two tripods under his arm. He scanned the room, unimpressed. He dumped his belongings onto the ancient bed on the left. He popped his head into the en suite on the right. The scene wasn’t any prettier in there.
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