I cringe as the lock to the ice-cream shop finally gives with a crack
and the door swings open, banging against the wall behind it. The
mottled counter, the spick and span ice cream machines, and the pop
dispensers all cast creepy shadows over the turquoise tile floor,
and only the shop's logo floating mid-air over the counter betrays
the 1950s ambiance, revealing that I'm in an alternate future world
where ice cream is lumpy and beat-downs take place over root-beer
floats.
