text: [Themes: Comedy, Comedy, dog, female protagonist]
  
  > look at your surroundings
  right at home.## Closet
  The inside of a dimly-lit storage closet, unfurnished except for an uncomfortable-looking cot pushed into the corner. One whole wall is covered with newspaper clippings, and a tower of dime novels teeters next to the cot. There's a door to the north.
  
  > take the novels
  There's too many of 'em to carry.
  
  > go north
  Second Floor Corridor, Right in the Middle
  You're standing around the midpoint of a long hall that runs the length of the Grand Poseidon's second floor. There's a small closet to the south, and the hallway continues to the east and west.
  
  > Go east
  Second Floor Corridor, East End
  You're standing at the eastern end of a long hall that runs the length of the Grand Poseidon's second floor. Doors to the north and south lead to luxury suites, and the hallway continues to the west.
  
  A laundry cart trundles slowly along the edge of the hallway, brass wheels squeaking.
  
  > look at the cart
  The cart, already piled high, prowls as if looking for more dirty laundry to add to its haul. You wish you could show this to the old lady. She's always claiming laundry doesn't do itself.
  
  > search it
  You swore off searching years ago. That sort of prying is for
  the fuzz and your old lady. You'll stick with examining things, thank you very much.
  
  > Go south
  You can barely see this suite beneath the dropcloth on the floor and the host of half-finished canvases leaning against every wall. The second floor hallway is to the north.
  
  Crispin Fourment slouches at an easel, staring at a blank canvas with a tortured expression on his face.
  
  A smallish display table sits a few feet from the easel. On it is an uninspiring bowl.
  
  > examine the canvas
  Crispin has painted a beautiful picture of a polar bear in a snowstorm! No, wait, it's blank.
  
  > look at the easel
  It's a Codman's Uncollapsable Easel. "Canvases clattering to the carpet? Should gotta Codman's, chum!"
  
  > look at the table
  An elegant little white-draped table, perfect for displaying the subject to be painted.
  
  On the small table is an uninspiring bowl (empty).
  
  > examine the bowl
  A bland, boring bowl. No artist could possibly be inspired by this.
  
  > say hello
  (to Crispin Fourment)
  There is no reply.
  
  > talk to Crispin
  Crispin looks up at you. His gorgeous peepers have lost their smoulder, and his complexion is pale and drained.
  
  "Go away!" he moans. "I don't deserve admirers. I'm no artist!"
  
  1) "Why would you say that?"
  
  > 1
  ["Why would you say that?"]
  
  "Look how they laud me! Look how they applaud! Look how they clap and cheer for me, when I am but a fraud! A joke! A piglet of pigment!" Crispin looks sadly at the blank canvas. "I want to be a real artist, but I can only paint dames!"
  
  1) "So paint dames."
  
  > 1
  ["So paint dames."]
  
  "Ha! My populist claptrap period is over! Never another dame shall spill from this brush, for I now only paint Real Art, and Real Art means but one thing - bowls of fruit!"
  
  1) "So paint...fruit?"
  
  > 1
  ["So paint...fruit?"]
  
  "I only wish I could!" Crispin sighs deeply. "And yet, every container I find is so...uninspiring. A true artist would be inspired. A true artist would capture the hell out of that bowl!" He sighs again. "I...I am not a true artist."
  
  1) "Who says bowls of fruit are the only real art?"
  2) "Well, good luck, Crispin."
  
  > 1
  ["Who says bowls of fruit are the only real art?"]
  
  "They all say that! Every real artist!" Crispin says glumly. He hands you a thick art history textbook. "It's right here in black and white. Read it for yourself. I used to scoff at the opinions of my betters, but...but tonight, for some reason...I just can't stop thinking about what a failure of an artist I am."
  
  1) "Why not just paint what you like?"
  2) "What kind of container would inspire you?"
  3) "Well, good luck, Crispin."
  
  > 2
  ["What kind of container would inspire you?"]
  
  "Oh, maybe something with a bowlish...vasish...dishish quality, maybe in blue. No, white. No, red. And...maybe if it was large? Or small?" He puts his head in his hands. "I just can't think of what kind of container I should put the fruit in, but...but I know if I saw the right container on that table, I would be inspired!
  
  1) "Why not just paint what you like?"
  2) "What kind of container would inspire you?"
  3) "Well, good luck, Crispin."
  
  > 1
  ["Why not just paint what you like?"]
  
  "I would never be accepted. They'd all keep laughing at me behind my back!"
  
  1) "Why not just paint what you like?"
  2) "What kind of container would inspire you?"
  3) "Well, good luck, Crispin."
  
  > 3
  ["Well, good luck, Crispin."]
  
  Crispin sighs and goes back to staring at the canvas.
  
  You can barely see this suite beneath the dropcloth on the floor and the host of half-finished canvases leaning against every wall. The second floor hallway is to the north.
  
  Crispin Fourment slouches at an easel, staring at a blank canvas with a tortured expression on his face.
  
  A smallish display table sits a few feet from the easel. On it is an uninspiring bowl.
  
  > Go north
  Second Floor Corridor, East End
  You're standing at the eastern end of a long hall that runs the length of the Grand Poseidon's second floor. Doors to the north and south lead to luxury suites, and the hallway continues to the west.
  
  A laundry cart trundles slowly along the edge of the hallway, brass wheels squeaking.
  
  > go north
  This room doesn't look like it's been used in years. Everything's covered in a thick coat of dust-the Benzedrine bottles scattered on the floor, the drafting table shoved in the corner, and most especially the enormous scale model of the Poseidon Hotel which dominates the room.
  
  A typewritten note is affixed to the model.
  
  > read the note
  FROM THE DESK OF ROWLAND STORK, ARCHITECTURAL GENIUS
  
  Dear Thieving Pieces of Excrement,
  
  From the day the first man took tool in hand and, brick by brick, built a palace for his inferiors, the noble Architect has toiled to provide comfort and civilization to the filthy subhman masses who despise him for his talents. Thus so it was with the latest chapter in this age-old tragedy, in which I, I, who set my glorious brain to laying the very foundations on which you crawl, you purulent, pus-sucking larvae, was hired to design a hotel under the EXPRESS CONDITION that not one detail of my art be DEFILED by pointless, mindless, stupid changes! It burst forth from the loins of my hands and mind as perfection - a true masterpiece. And was my masterpiece built properly, AS AGREED? No, says the man at the planning office, you can't build a structure this size out of gingerbread! No, says the man on the construction crew, we're going to use stone and cement instead! No, says the man at the front desk, you can't build a gigantic scale model in your room midway through construction, how will we ever get it out? We didn't give you our permission!
  
  Well, I didn't give permission for my designs to be stained by the crude droolings of a bunch of single-celled parasitic idiot orangutans. You took my rights from me, and I shall take my hotel from you. The gift I've hidden in my room will soon blast your brains into the lifeless goop they are -
  
  (The page is labeled "1 of 147", but the others seem to be missing.)
  
  > examine model
  A 1/10 scale model of the Poseidon Hotel which takes up nearly all the space in the room, and, oddly enough, looks like it's been put together entirely out of gingerbread. It's otherwise perfect down to the smallest detail. The doors are just big enough to squeeze IN.
  
  > enter the model
  You manage to squeeze yourself through the tiny front doors and into a perfect model of the hotel.
  
  You're crouching on your hands and knees in a perfect stale-gingerbread recreation of the hotel's lobby. It should just be possible to crawl north or east, crawl OUT again, or go up the elevator shaft.
  
  > Go north
  You crawl north into the Neptune Lounge.
  
  You're on your hands and knees in a gingerbread recreation of the Neptune Lounge. You can back out to the south.