VR Palace
By J.M. Snyder
Part I
there, where you’re just another nameless face looking to get lost for a few hours. In the office parking lot, you toss your jacket into the back seat of the car, loosen your tie, roll up your sleeves, and smile at the secretary who calls out goodnight to you as she passes. You put on music, something hard and fast, turning it up loud until it pumps through your veins like blood and pounds in your temples. You try not to think while you drive.
V’s burned out, the R stutters, and most of the time it just reads Place, A has a tendency to wink when you walk by. Like now, it’s out, and you watch it from the corner of your eye as you open the door and enter the shop. It stays off.
VR Palace isn’t the classiest spot around, and it’s not even the most popular,
