Chester A. Arthur XVII, Queen Victoria XXX, and William H. Taft XLII limped into the hotel lobby. Their faces were either bleeding or bruised; they were covered in dirt and sweat and pieces of shattered glass. They smelled like smoke.
“Our car,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, approaching the hotel counter and the young woman behind it, “appears to have fallen into a hole.”
“Oh,” said the girl, “yeah, we, uh, we have a small… Hollow Men infestation. In the, uh, general area.”
“Are you sure?” asked Queen Victoria XXX, stepping up to the counter next to Chester A. Arthur XVII. “It didn’t look like one of their sinkholes.”
“Oh, well, by ‘small Hollow Men,’ what I meant was ‘Hollow Men who are tiny in stature.’ Hollow Midgets and Dwarves. By god, they try, but they’ve got such little arms. They’re just not very good.”
“And the fact,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, “that the entire plaza is buried in a cloud of black smoke?”
“Because every other hotel in the plaza, and only the hotels, mind you, is on fire?” continued Queen Victoria XXX.
“Hollow… Arsonists,” replied the hotel employee, raising an eyebrow.
“Really? Hollow Midget Arsonists?”
"Yes,” said the girl. “They are exceedingly real and in no way something I just made up. Now, how many rooms will you need? Three?"
"Two should be fine,” replied Chester A. Arthur XVII with a sigh. “Billy and I can bunk together."
"Please tell me Billy’s the fat one and not the girl,” said a tall, blonde man entering the hotel lobby.
"Billy’s the fat one, not the girl."
The man was covered in dirt, wearing a singed hotel uniform and carrying a shovel.
“Dude,” said the girl behind the counter. “Your arm’s on fire.”
Also, the man’s arm was on fire.