Conor had seen this in a comedy program once, and it had been amusing. Now, it was puzzling.
He had discovered the little lane – a seldom-used back route to town – almost ten years before. It was a pretty and pleasant walk between green fields, and it provided just enough exercise to keep his old body limber and the blood flowing. He took it daily, had a cup or two of tea in town with friends, and then walked the lane back home.
Today, the path had a new feature: a doorway.
He was getting reports about this place, and there were stirrings in his own office that lent those reports credibility. Something looming this large demanded his personal attention.
He donned a disguise for his task, making himself appear to be a white male of average height with dark hair and a Van Dyke beard.
It was late in the afternoon when he walked in the door. The office held all the charm of a medieval sanitarium, only with overhead fluorescent lighting and Lysol. He took a ticket from the dispenser and waited in the shortest line. It also was the slowest line. Just as he was about to become annoyed, he recalled having instituted that perversity himself. He reined in his attitude; he was supposed to be the author of annoyance, not a victim.
“Six six six,” a flat female voice called, and he stepped up to the counter.
“Last name,” the woman demanded in the same monotone.
“Satan.”