Monopoly Money

A couple I evicted from a room downstairs left it, after a habitation/infestation of seven months, in a state few experience outside the trenches of the Western Front.
There were six large bunk beds, five of which were covered in garbage in various states of decay, but none nearly so advanced as the trash under the beds. The kitchenette and washroom floor were slick and mildewed, and strong oaky notes with a lingering hint of gooseberry rose from the carpet in the anteroom. A thick layer of dust sat on the floor, and clusters of mould meandered up the walls.
I led the ground assault, spending hours removing those pieces of refuse larger than a matchbox and peeling thinner garbage from floors, walls, furniture and bedding. The mechanized division was next; a gun for hire was sent in to dissemble and remove every stick of furniture. Then came the napalm drop—armed with a mop, a strong back, a glove, and an extremely accommodating sense of smell, I blitzed the floors. The mop bucket proved ineffectual, and I rinsed the mop in the shower and toilet both, flushing away the ugly dark color of purified neglect.

After one day and three air fresheners, I moved in.

When the dust settled, dark hardwood floors reflected twin closets, a high ceiling, and a quiet and spacious room. The hallway leads to a small entranceway, with a kitchenette and washroom far away from the bedroom. The Inn's storage rooms are full of extra furniture—the pack-rat spirit is alive and well and living in Toronto—so I was able to appropriate two leather-ish divans, Art Deco lamps, a tall mahogany mirror, an unused queen bed and new duvet, drawers, and fans (I'm the manager and I can grab what I want to). I now rest in freshly-laundered sheets and feel like a guy who lives in a hotel. Yes, my life very much resembles Monopoly.