Mr. W

On Tuesday, Zoe Robinson walked into a room. She was fair and delicate and had a handbag with a tin box of peppermints. As she walked in, the eight peppermints that were inside rattled a bit, like the first notes to a forgotten song. She was tentative in her manner, but her face was earnest. Her long fingers were tangled around a manila envelope with pieces of paper inside. The room was dark, but not intentionally. There were several bare light bulbs that hung many meters above the floor each of which gave off a dim but persistent glow that only illuminated the bulb itself, and uttered an incessant and perpetual buzzing noise. The room was long with a sprawling polar bear pelt rug that was made from the pelts of many separate animals, as one would never fill the great expanse even partially. As a result, the rug had three snarling heads, eight clawed limbs, and an unexplained antler. At the end of the room was a wooden chair with what appeared to be a floral patterned rickshaw canopy sewed onto it. There sat Mr. W. Zoe had never actually seen him herself, nor could she confirm what Mr. W really was. But he was always there, casting an enigmatic silhouette through the rickshaw hood. Once, she had tried to talk to him. She had come in, handed him the envelope as usual, and asked him why he needed the papers inside, and what he did with the information inside. Mr. W had responded with the noise of a startled pig. He perpetually sat in front of a huge machine that was made of dark metal. The front piece seemed to be a typewriter, judging by the noise it made, but the rest was inscrutable. It had many gears and strips of dark metal, and the clockwork of the great machine became dense as it neared the center. Every day, Zoe delivered the envelope to Mr. W.