Of everything that had just occurred in the past two seconds or so, perhaps the most remarkable of it all was the undeniable fact that his iPod headphones never once fell out of his ears. Surii’s right leg remains extended in front of him for a while, as he takes a couple of moments to collect himself and process the damage.

Every single piece of furniture that complemented the room now lay asunder across the floor. Even the serendipitous bag of hundred dollar bills that Surii was fortunate enough to stumble upon, is no longer stacked neatly in their distributive, compact formation. In fact, a great deal of the money is scattered across the room, with many large stacks of bills burnt or torn beyond use. The mirror and ceiling fan are now pieces of their former selves. They lay together in a way that many may rightfully mistake for modern art. One of his boots are in the bathroom, while the other lays up against a wall. Even his tough leather/denim combo-jacket that he’s come to appreciate many cold, lonely nights on the road, now only boasts half a sleeve on one side and three-fourths a sleeve on the other.

Of all that was destroyed in this blast, only three things remain unscathed: a three-pack of Hanes V-neck White T-shirts, his apparent, blast-resistant iPod, and some sort of metallic, cylindrical apparatus that looks like something a boat will need in order for its engine to properly function. Of those things, his attention is focused on the cylinder, which happened to conveniently land an arm’s length away from him on the edge of his nigh-unrecognizable mattress.

With his right leg still extended like some overzealous yoga practitioner, every part of Surii remains motionless, with the exception of his eyes. He now stares at the unidentified, cylindrical, resting object with a look that makes it seem like if the object had eyes, it would look back at him with the same endearing gaze of two brothers who just survived a month-long zombie incursion. Surii finally breaks his physical silence by grabbing the object, getting up, and walking towards the motel room door. With him and his trusty Unidentified Resting Object, or U.R.O., in hand, he finally exits the room to face whatever it was that nearly destroyed his iPod.