The night the Rhymer went whack

31

When Straffe purchased his condo, one of the first things he did was replace the front door. Now made of solid Sitka Spruce, each knock produced a powerful tone that accurately represented its occupant.

A boom awakened him. “Mr. Beckins! Mr. Beckins, open up! It’s the police!” The bright sunlight helped as he groggily pulled himself together. He checked his phone, noticing the steady beep of messages.

“Should we break down the door,” questioned an officer, quickening the pace of a still barely awake Straffe as he jostled down his hallway.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he shouted while tying and straightening his robe. “What the hell is going on,” he wondered out loud, still a little tired, as he’s quickly surrounded by five officers with guns drawn.

The sheriff, whom he was familiar with, quickly asked, “Where have you been? People have been trying to contact you,” as he instructed the others to secure Straffe’s surroundings.

“What?” a confused Straffe replied.

“No one has heard from you in three days,” the officer replied. “They thought you took a quick business trip, but they couldn’t find any records of you leaving, so they called us to come check to see if you were ok.”

Straffe rubbed his head and fell back against the wall. He chuckled. “Three days.” He said it again in disbelief and invited the officers in for pastries and coffee. They all spoke idly for a bit and concluded that Straffe was fine before parting ways and leaving him still a bit bewildered at how he could soundly sleep for three straight days. Remembering his trip through the soundbooth, he smirked then called his workplace.

“I’ll be in tomorrow,” he concluded, squaring everything away with his concerned staff. Still unsure of the events, he grasped on to the one certainty that he must confront. He dressed then headed downstairs. He was going to see The Soundman.