So, as before the wanton digression…

The alarm went off, it’s clear ringing resounding through the room with sharp clarity. This happened every morning (or night, as the case sometimes was, seeing as the clock was broken and couldn’t be fixed, or so they said), and today it was Four AM, even if the clock that worked said Six. The working clock never adhered to the city’s standard time index anyway; and every time he changed the clock, it was turned back when he returned from his work.

But enough on that subject; Maj. Elliot did make it out of bed without oversleeping, while stumbling a bit through the adequately lit room. Routine, barely stable anymore, dictated a bathroom trip, followed by a visit to the closet for a clean uniform.

On the way, he tripped over something; a small idol he found, but didn’t recognize. It was small, stone, and seemingly representative of a female form. The statuette was marked something, but his tired mind barely registered the word to mean something to do with physics, which he didn’t know about, or some kind of muscle deterioration, which he didn’t care to know about. So he dropped it onto a nightstand that had mysteriously appeared in the night (logical, he felt) and continued towards the closet.

The half-conscious man stared at the clothes rack for a few minutes, as his mind took the time to register that the closet was empty of anything resembling fabric. Since usually that was all it held, the tiny storeroom looked completely bare. And, just as sudden as the thought, so did Elliot feel.

An hour passed before he moved, and that was only a nervous twitch. Forty-five minutes later, the major began his frantic search for clean clothes to no avail. So he started searching again, this time gathering all the clothing he owned into one place – quite an extensive wardrobe of precisely the same apparel as well as one or two mismatched items. When he was finished, the pile was quite high. Enough to cover his bed’s mattresses and twice as high. Now that they were all together, he dug through the mass.

Twenty minutes of this turned up the cleanest uniform. Well, two, but the first had some holes in conspicuous places and probably should have been turned in months ago. However, the clothing re-conscription service refused to take his used apparel for some reason they kept changing. So he had amassed a large collection of the stuff, and used it all to stave off doing the wash for as long as possible. A plan that would have worked, had he not forgotten to get a new uniform for this week.

So he only had the one least dirty suit of clothes (two counting the holed one), as the standard terror the day sneaked upon him.

* * *

The phonebook was his friend. It held the numbers of all the important things in life – government officials, doctors, pizza deliverymen…. Somehow; perhaps he had offended it; it was giving Maj. Elliot the cold shoulder. And he didn’t like that; he had few enough allies as it was.

So he tried the next number on the list, and leaned forward to make sure no one was around or coming. For some reason, no one liked it when he used his office phone. The other officers complained, though never gave any solid reason, and Gen. Hein seemed to think that phones were in league with some radical social group known as the ‘Intrepid Holy Flower Helpers,’ despite the fact that the group didn’t seem to exist anywhere but in the general’s mind.

But that was enough, in most cases, so why bother?

So far on this call, the major had counted five chimes. Five added to the previous thirty-two rings, four busy signals, and a this-number-not-in-service recorded image. On the sixth dial tone, he hung up – just as he saw the imaging thingy kick in.

He stared at the phone, trying to decide whether or not to strangle the thing. Unlike the phonebook, the phone, itself, was not his friend.

Suddenly, the door to Hein’s office opened just as the image again appeared over the phone’s holographic display, and Elliot paled.

* * *

An insignificant change of plans – finding a laundromat became to find one with dry cleaning service. Or find an exact replica of the general’s notorious leather jacket, save this new one being clean, and replace it without him noticing, whichever came first.

Elliot shifted his weight under the giant sack of attire. He had considered asking for help, but figured no one else would care the state of his clothes unless they were obligated to; which they weren’t; and that was just fine; because he didn’t want anyone going though particular garments of his anyway!

They wouldn’t have to help me sort it, the disgruntled officer suddenly realized, all I need is help carrying it. But, alas, the thought arrived too late, for he had already arrived at the Small Laundry Shop on Fiftieth Street. Besides, it probably would have turned against him somehow, as Fate had a tendency to make even the smallest, most insignificant, and highly unaffecting to normal people’s lives events turn against him in gruesome and terrible ways.

That aside, he made his way indoors with some difficulty, hauling the ton-weight bag after him. He wasn’t the strongest man in the city, which may have made things more difficult. Hell, he had difficulty matching up to a few of the women in the city – scientist women, mind you; he tried to avoid anything female or effeminate in the militant forces, and if it did come to interaction with a fem, he tried to at least avoid eye contact.

The ‘mat was small, probably would have been bordering on bankruptcy had it not had a near monopoly of the washing machines in the city. This and a couple of other laundromats held all of such contraptions in New York, and hired mercenaries to service the premises and guard the washers and dryers. A bit excessive, but no one had the nerve to complain. Even the Council was held in fear of the threat of losing their clean clothes.

But that held nothing in the mind of our major, who pushed the professional, businessy, glass door open, and trudged inside.

Or would have, if the outward opening door hadn’t befouled his progress.

Once he got that little problem figured out did he trudge inside. He found the place refreshing (for a dark little pit, that is) and empty, exception the burly man with ‘Intrepid Holy Flower Helpers,’ printed on his sweatshirt. Satisfied, the major proceeded to grudgingly hand over the leather coat to the dry cleaning service and find himself a machine… well, two. Perhaps four… five at the most.

So he lay claim to his seven machines, and filled them to a dangerous capacity. He was checking his pockets for adequate currencies when a voice interrupted his thoughts and chilled his soul.

"Hey!"

Oh Godless Heaven above! By the Wastelands and Ruined glories of the world! The Succubus and agent of all unholy things! What had he done to deserve this? The fiendish woman approached him, as his thoughts rattled through his head, Away with thee, spawn of the abyss! God Smite Thee! And to her he said, "Hey."

"That’s… quite a load you got there," Hershey observed the row of ten washing machines (the big ones mind you) almost overflowing with one man’s garments. Or maybe, she reasoned, he volunteered for some friends, and since the sheer volume made that seem more likely, how cute.

Elliot didn’t respond – more infatuated with the way the woman’s innocent smile changed towards slightly impatient as she watched him fall ever farther into his rock-like stupor.

"Hello?" she asked, getting weary of watching for any sign of life.

"Hi!" he perked up, "H-how are…"

"How are…?"

"You!"

"Uh…" Hershey replied nervously, "Fine. And, you?"

"Huh?"

"Nothing," Hershey sighed, "Would you like to sit down?" she didn’t wait for an answer, instead, leading him to one of the non-machine hidden walls, which was hidden by chairs instead.

Elliot resigned to watching that cute lil’ nose for half an hour while her (or so he had decided) owner decided to read a magazine.

That was before he remembered that he forgot to pay for or turn on his laundry machines.

He sorted that out, and he caught himself as he was returning to his ‘post.’ If he went back now, something bad was going to happen. He just didn’t know what.

* * *

Elliot shuddered, trying to pack as much of his clothing into the bag as possible. Thankfully if was clean, if not entirely dry. He couldn’t stand it another minute here, not with that… that inhuman thing (who hadn’t even the decency to return his sentiment and ask how he was!) tormenting him the way she was. Not to mention the other odd things that had happened in this strange place. But he didn’t want to think of that – he just wanted to go home and take the blue pills that were supposed to make everything better. Or were those the purple pills? He never could remember…. Anyway,

He headed towards the Dry Cleaning Service Desk, intent on collecting his… er, Hein’s leather jacket, momentarily forgetting that’s where Hershey had gone to collect her dry-cleanables; an action that had allowed him his escape.

And he stared in horror at the things she claimed – a wedding dress, something sequined that shone too brightly to be identified, and a pair of leather pants; as well as some other things that should probably remain unnamed.

He dropped the bag where he was, rushed to the counter, and demanded Hein’s coat in a vain attempt to get away without being seen. The young woman staffing the counter stammered that he needed to show his slip, despite the fact he’d handed the thing to her in the first place. Once he dug it out of his pocket, the young woman took it and retreated into the back to whatever the mysterious place a dry cleaning center was.

He tried not to get sidetracked by Hershey, who, thankfully, only smiled at him. With the help of the counter, he remained on his feet until the attendant returned.

He would have gotten away, too…

"Where’d you get that?"…Had not the demoness stopped him.

And he would have answered intelligently, had he not been caught up in those green eyes.

"No, it doesn’t matter, this is great!"

"It is?" Elliot mumbled, unable to fully listen due to a slight case of being sun-struck.

"Of course!" Hershey pulled him away from the counter, "This is what I think it is, right?" At Elliot’s dumb nod, she continued, "We can get whatever we want with this. We can ransom this to him; and if he doesn’t give in right away," she looked around conspiratorially and lowered the volume of her voice, "We can cut pieces out of it, and send them to him one by one…"

Elliot had begun to back away at the word, ‘ransom.’ He tore away from Hershey when she tried to take the coat away, and, forgetting his own clothes, rushed outside in another escape; this one from the foul treachery.

Once he was in his office, the major quietly contacted the ‘mat and requested they deliver his clothes to his office. They seemed happy to comply, and Elliot could only sigh to himself in relief.

* * *

It was morning again, and some shady guy that Elliot neither got a good look at nor cared had delivered the clothes just prior to his routine.

So, clean again and happy to have that ordeal over with, Elliot hummed to himself as he began rummaging through the bag…

… And stopped suddenly when he realized these weren’t his clothes. He optimistically searched throughout the bag, only to find he had been given someone else’s laundry.

And he discovered whose clothes they were when, in an attempt to see if they would fit him anyway, he discovered the familiar name written on a tag.

And he screamed.