The sound of footsteps grabbed his attention as he heard a steady thud of leather soles on wood. Gradually the sound got louder, causing him to put his hand over his face as he tried to forget a pounding headache enveloping him. Then, the rhythmic plodding passed outside, and Warren caught the faint aroma of bacon waft by.

His eyes still closed; the man shifted his thoughts back to his new film performance. He could smell perfume, but it differed from the fragrance that was worn by the woman who killed him the night before. The scent, overpoweringly strong and cloying, struck him, and he shifted his face away.

Observing the world around him with his eyes closed, it was like the game he used to play as a kid. He took the time to take in observations about what was going on around him, his new reality. The ploy allowed him to accept his new reality.

No, I don’t accept; I adapt!

Warren heard two quick raps on a door, followed by a mumbled conversation. Faint but distinct, he heard enough to know that someone delivered breakfast to a nearby room.

Apartment?

An image of a luxury apartment came to mind before the thought of food, along with the lingering smell, made his stomach rumble. While contemplating his surroundings, he slowly smelled the scent of ocean spray. Then, he felt a slow, subtle roll shifting his position in the bed.

At sea and on a ship?

Warren felt a quick panic fill him as he recalled becoming seasick on his first fishing trip with his dad. He hoped his stomach could manage this boat. He finally opened his eyes.

A tangled mess of blonde hair greeted him. He pulled away slightly and saw a certain feminine body lying next to him. A woman was on her side, her back to him. Both were facing the paneled wall, the small bed which barely held the two of them. He looked at the white pillow that cradled the woman’s head, and he wondered who lay just a few inches away.

A morbid memory struck him, and he slowly lifted his head. Instantly, relief swept over him as he saw the woman’s bare shoulders rise slightly when she took a breath.

That’s good!

He did not need another corpse in his bed. That happened once before in his purgatory world. Framed for a murder, Warren ended up with a painful death by an electric chair. The agonizing memory quickly swept across his mind. He vowed that would never happen again, even if he had to slit his own throat.

A good hanging was better!

His mind agreed after comparing the two executions his characters went through in the past. It looked ugly but was surprisingly painless and basically instantaneous after you got past that abrupt drop. He could easily recommend such a death if one had to be executed.

The woman’s slight snore brought him back to the present, and he grinned slightly. He noticed she was naked under the sheet; her dress and undergarment lay at the foot of the bed. Inspecting her from his vantage point, he could not see her face, but he noticed the blood red fingernails on her left hand on the pillow. She wore no ring, and he quickly inspected his own hand, letting out a sigh of relief.

That’ll take care of the jealous husband or wife killing me scenario!

Carefully, Warren turned his body, realizing his waking libido pushing on his underwear. Awkwardly swinging his feet off the bed, he sat on the edge. Slowly, he stood up while watching the woman to avoid waking her. She grunted, then rolled over on her back, exposing her well-endowed breasts.

The stale smell of whiskey wafted from the sheets and assaulted him as he ran a thick tongue through an unpleasant tasting mouth. However, his bare feet noticed the soft fibers of the carpeted floor. He glimpsed the ocean outside the open porthole, confirming his suspicions. His head felt the pounding of tom-toms while his stomach carried the nausea of a hangover which he had no part in creating. The hangover apparently overrode the seasickness that initially concerned him.

Thoughts swirled around him, threatening to overload his brain, but he came back to the basics. There were major items he needed to sort through before he could talk to the stranger in the bed, let alone anyone else he might bump into.

Staggering a little with the roll of the ship, he wondered what terrible part awaited him within the script he had entered. It did not help his mood while Warren gathered in every detail of the unimpressive stateroom.

Aside from the two narrow beds, brown painted walls, worn carpet, it was a first-class cabin. It said so on the yellowed plaque on the wall. Still, the room had grown tired, and the carpet gave off a musty smell.

Overall, the place was spartan, with no radio or television. Other than the narrow bed, the only other furniture in the cabin comprised a mahogany secretary with a single chair, along with a mahogany wardrobe.

He silently found his pants, instantly searching through the pockets for identification. Finding nothing but loose change, he remembered men often kept their wallets in their inner chest pocket of the suit jacket back in the day. He picked up the jacket and found a wallet. As he opened the leather case, Warren glanced at the woman, a strange feeling he was robbing the former tenant of the room.

Get a grip!

In the pocket, he found a passport. Dated June 1933, he learned his character’s name, Warren Baker. It wasn’t a surprise. Most of the scripts inside his insane world appeared set in the era, so he was getting used to it.

That’s a bunch of bull, he thought.

Pulling out a pigskin leather wallet from the same pocket; he noticed the initials ‘WB’ on it. Inside, he found several hundred dollars and four unsigned traveler’s checks worth a thousand a piece. The money surprised him, given the surrounding décor. The amount made him wealthy.

“What was it? Maybe a grand or so,” Warren tried to remember a college lecture that brought up the average yearly wage in the era. For some reason, the information intrigued him at the time.

Funny that I can’t remember the name of that hot blond in the class!

He shrugged to himself as he recounted the money and went through the wallet finding identification papers.

“Well, at least I have the same first name,” he said.

The woman in the bed mumbled, rolling over in bed. Warren silently cursed himself for nearly waking the woman with his words.

Get yourself together. Maybe there’s hope, he thought.

His brain rebelled at the thought amid the increasing pressure from the throbbing pounding.

Well, let’s get this over with!

Rubbing his face, he went to the mirror. Identifying his latest look and body was always a shock. A glimpse earlier showed him he wasn’t overweight or skinny. That was pretty average, which seemed normal in his crazy world. He leaned in close to get a good look at the new appearance. A white oval face with a slight stubble stared back at him.

According to his identification, Warren was five foot eleven, weighing 185 pounds. His green eyes and brown hair showed in the mirror. The man considered his average looks, determining he could live with the face. Not that he had a choice, he thought.

Shirtless and wearing boxer underwear. Warren turned, inspecting his stomach, arms, and legs and pleased with his general shape. Not a bad carcass for him, considering some of the other bodies he had lived in. Warren could swear he saw a hint of his former self in the mirror.

Out of habit, he rubbed on his elbow and found the same small scar just under the elbow. Strangely, the scar and his eye color remained the only identifiable marks he carried from what he called his first life. The traits came through the various characters he inhabited throughout his time in his purgatory.

Warren turned on the faucet, splashing the tepid water on his face. He stuck his tongue out before filling the glass next to the sink. After he downed the water in two gulps, filled another glass.

Phillips sat the glass back on the sink edge, preparing himself for the day. Investigating his new character and look for ways to avoid his promised death. It was the way of his existence, if you could call jumping into a place with a target on your back.

Over time, Warren gradually convinced himself that he must reach the conclusion of the movie alive. He convinced himself that he must change the script in order to get out of this cycle. Of course, it was only a hunch. He had no way to prove it. Obviously, he never made it far enough to determine the truth. His many attempts bore only bitter fruit, to use a biblical term. Warren Baker is the persona for him now. He sighed, trying to guess the reason for his role in this new place.

It’s damn tiresome.

Hearing movement coming from the next room, he went to the toilet and relieved himself. After washing his hands, the new character walked over to the chair and sat down.

With his identity established, Warren flipped through his wallet and passport again to embed the little information in his head. His background consisted of a few pieces of paper so far. But that was normal for him.

The woman grunted as she rolled over, allowing him to get a good look at her face for the first time. It was nice-looking, round with a little too small nose and pouty lips. While she had a nice body and he enjoyed the bare breasts in his view, the woman was a little older than he would go for. Warren noted she was slightly overweight, and she wore too much makeup. Some of it remained smeared across the pillow cover.

How did they say it in the 30s? That’s right, she’s curvaceous.