I left you on a Southwesterly corner, not too far, but an annoying distance, from my destination.
Chub had been acting like a silly tin can and, perhaps, my sense of curiosity was piqued by my tired exasperation. Standing at the corner, staring at a burnt out old warehouse, a humid breeze encroaching on my nostrils, I decided that this previously unknown, to me, warehouse deserved a visit.
With a cursory glance for roving police-drones (they were mostly used in this day and age to grab and deliver coffee), I slipped through the front gates as they gave way with a rusty groan. Chub hovered in my wake.
The driveway (an ancient term, before zips and hove-cabs, that demarcated the area for terrestrial locomotion) crunched as my feet displaced its gravel, while dandelions mocked my presence and sent their seeds on the breeze of my passing. With a queazy feeling of unease, I turned the knob on the front door. Thinking again of my original task, I bent and opened Chub to reveal his inner trashcan, depositing the silver package for safekeeping; I, then, continued through the front door.
The interior of the warehouse looked exactly as the exterior had indicated: burnt out and decrepit. There was old furniture strewn about the concrete floor: various bits of it separated from it's main body like the battlefield of a furniture war. I stepped and glass crinkled under my feet, at least, I think it was glass as it had been legislated away more than fifty years ago as posing a clear and imminient threat to humanity. A decidedly musty smell creeped in my nostrils, upon the smell a particle of dust, a result of the dust, I sneezed. It boomed and echoed through the empty warehouse.
"He that gives us meaning sends a blessing upon the morsel of dander. Which is to say, bless you."
Quite startled by this audible intrusion, I hopped backward and stumbled over the infernal tin can heretofor indicated as Chub the Very Worst. I fell quite loudly on my bottom and was worried beyond the intrusion of this stranger about the imminent danger of my flesh coming into contact with the dreaded glass: stories of its betrayal of humanity being my only experience with the industrial material.
"I quite apologize for startling you, may I interest you in a tour of my warehouse or perhaps you would enjoy a visit to the gift shop." The intruder opened his prodigious coat to reveal all manner of trinkets, mostly scraps and garbage, sewed into the lining.
Having no experience of a sharp pain, I returned to feet and looked again at the man, his coat opened wide. His hair was thin and black and stringy; he looked unkempt and a patchy beard sprouted randomly from the rounded curves of his face. Beneath his coat, he wore blue overalls over a button-up shirt with a red and green plaid design. His shoes were sturdy and brown and went unlaced, in fact, did not have any laces. His eyes were a piercing blue and sat peacefully in his head which sat comfortably on top of five and a half feet of body.
I said: "Did you say this was your warehouse?"
"This is the warehouse of Professor R. J. Stubble and I am him, and he is me. Thus, this is my warehouse. Would you like a tour?"
"How can you own this giant heap of building materials?" I asked, wondering.
"By a technicality. One that requires that I ask, 'Would you like a tour?' and that I maintain this gift shop." He, again, opened his coat. "Would you like anything from the gift shop?" He asked.
"I'm fine," I said. Another bit of dust swooped on an updraft and hit the signal in my nose; my face crinkled but there was no sneeze.
"Aww...A free bit of dander, how unenjoyablly lucky for you!" Professor R. J. Stubble turned around with that declaration and began walking in the opposite direction.
"Where are you going?" I inquired.
"I'm giving a tour whether you're coming or not!" From somewhere in the gift shop, he plucked a pair of old-fashioned spectacles and placed them upon his aqualine nose. I followed.