Central Inn

Those in the know call this place the “Bait Motel” because it caters to the most despondent and struggling of Los Angeles’ denizens. The official daily rate is fifty dollars a night, but most of the patrons can’t afford it. Instead, they pay in blood to the vampire landlord and his pals. It’s a typical cheap Californian motel; a two-story square of rooms encircles a lukewarm and usually dirty pool. The stucco was probably once white, but is now a dingy gray; the Spanish tiles on the roof are chipped and speckled with bird droppings. The rooms are uniform in their grunginess: a double bed, a floral bedspread, one cheap art print above the headboard that’s nailed to the wall. The bathrooms are a tight squeeze with a small shower, commode and sink. There is no television nor wifi.

Interior rooms:
Dingy gray carpet match the dingy gray bedspread on the double bed. The walls are a pale yellowish beige that was maybe once white, but has been stained by cigarette smoke over the years. A small table and two chairs, a cheap no-name 30” flat screen with basic cable, and a tiny bathroom with a shower barely big enough for a full-grown man give truth to the words, “you get what you pay for.”

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