Work Text:
Knock Knock.
You hear a noise, a knock, someone is there.
You did not expect anyone this evening, nonetheless you are polite.
You look through the peephole.
A man, an old, a scruffy, bearded man, a sweaty man.
You are uneasy, but open the door nonetheless.
"Hello may I board at this house." the man inquired.
"Why so?" you reply.
"My car has broke down and I must phone for someone."
"I guess that is allowed." you say, with unease in inflection.
The man covered in sweat enters your home.
The man is Slavoj Žižek.
You are too late.
It has already begun.