The Settle Inn

The Settle Inn was a dated and drab drive-in motel on the faded side of a once sparkling southern resort and spa town. No longer the playground of the rich and famous or hideout for an array of infamous Mafia characters, the town had mostly become a tourist attraction afterthought. The Inn, which in its day bustled with excited guests and those just trying to blend in and fade the heat, was now mostly empty save the occasional one night guest. Its splintered wooden vacancy sign clung to rusty hinges as it swung precariously in the blustery north wind of a late January afternoon. The bleak, long narrow box of a building stood with its back slumped against the low glowering sky. The parking lot sat mostly empty except for a Ford F-150 and a dented and dirty late model Cadillac parked in front of the motel’s dingy roadside office, which glowed in the lonely light of a single lamp. Beyond the small office, the long row of rooms appeared dark and unoccupied except for one at the far end of the building.

There in Room 15, at the small dinette, sat John Sanders. On the table in front of him, a bottle of Jack Daniel's, a full shot glass and a loaded revolver. The cold north wind rattled the room’s window and buffeted the old wooden door as John stared at the items on the table. His left hand absently reached towards the shot glass. His right hand slowly grasped the gun's handle. The wind shouted louder while John considered his options. A metal garbage can careened and clattered its way across the weedy asphalt parking lot. John Sanders made his choice. His grip tightened on the pistol and his jaw tensed.