Once the highway went through the state, the old road's traffic steadily and eventually dried up. What at one time had been The place to stay along the road for those heading into Capital City is now uninhabited. With no one to maintain it, the roof has decayed, the plaster has cracked and fallen, the windows have cracked. The bright neon sign out front that, in a former life, called to tens of thousands of travelers each day that air-conditioned lodging "now featuring televisions in every room" was available for a reasonable price, now only stood as a reminder to the few motorists a day who see it that they dont want to run out of gas in this literal neck-of-the-woods. The last paying guests having checked out decades ago, the only inhabitants are the two big-titted broads left bound and gagged in one of the razed rooms. They struggle furiously while strapped on, or to, the digny, decrepit furniture. Their cries silenced by strict duct tape wrapped clear around their heads. Their captor isn't worried about any passer-by hearing the ladies laments, but you never know when some pain-in-the-ass urban explorer is going to happen along. But if they do, they'll be too distracted by the struggling sirens to notice the hulking man coming up behind them...
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