The man walked into the hotel lobby on a gloomy winter’s afternoon. He wore a long overcoat with a high collar and a broad leather hat on his head. He had the look of a drifter, like the ones you see in old photographs from yesteryear. He carried no luggage except the covered trolley he pulled behind him. The hotel concierge at the desk eyed the trolley curiously before politely greeting the man.

“Welcome to The Kingdom Hotel sir, how may I help you?”

The man looked at the concierge with blue eyes that shone like sapphires in the afternoon sun.

“Name’s Randall Forge, I’ve got a room here”, the man said in a voice as strong as steel.

“Ah, certainly sir”, the young clerk said as he turned to the computer to begin the check in process.

Soon after, the man called Randall was led to his room. The hotel porter tried to help but Randall insisted on pulling the trolley himself. He entered the little apartment and sent the bellboy on his way. He sat down on the bed, pulled the cover off the trolley, took a deep breath and got to work.

The loud thumping noise had been going on for hours and in the same consistent, fast paced rhythm. It wasn’t unusual for strange sounds to be heard in the hotel but the volume of this one was particularly disturbing. It was coming from room 301. The room of Randall Forge. The staff had received numerous complaints from guests and had tried unsuccessfully to unlock the door to gain entry. They called the police who arrived promptly at the scene, ready to deal with whatever situation this was. The manager led the officers to the door where they got in position to break it down. They called out warnings but doubted anyone could hear their commands over the racket coming from within. The cops nodded at each other and began the countdown.

5

4

3

2

1

BREACH!

They smashed in the door with their battering ram and it flew off its hinges into the room. The police entered swiftly with their guns drawn but were immediately stopped by the sight in front of them. There sat Randall Forge, hammer in hand, huge iron anvil at his feet, looking directly at them.

“I have to finish it.” he said calmly.

Sitting on the anvil in front of him was a beautiful sword, so close to being finished.

The frightened officers looked at each other for a moment, then they started firing. 

And so Randall Forge, the last great blacksmith, was killed for banging too loud in a hotel room.