The dusty attic smelled of death. Grandma Anderson's corpse remained in the rocking chair where she had died. Her skeletal remains reeked of all the roaches and rats that had died in this attic with her as well. Spider webs contained dead flies that lingered over chests of photos that were yelllowed and withered. She had never had a proper funeral. She had been left behind by her family. The attic had been locked for years, the house was being foreclosed. Paint peeled off the rusty shutters of the outside window to the dingy attic. Dead corpses of squirrels cats and dogs were underneath the floorboards of the house. A bicycle sat on the patio leaned up against the porch covered in rust. Dead plants alligned the walls by the front window. Inside, the water had been shut off, and an army of ants crawled out of the sink. Microscopic amoebas fought for survival in this toxic environment. Cockroaches reproduced with other cockroaches. A Van Gogh reproduction had fallen off the wall and broken glass covered rotting, yellow paper. A sofa was deformed by all the the cat-urine stains it had recieved for generations. Mousetraps lay out with decomposing skeletons of mice hidden inside. The house looked and smelled like dusty death. Randolph Roddenberry the Realtor's job was to remodel the house and sell it to some rich clients. He would do it. After all, nobody knows what goes on behind closed doors...