A thick web of vines strangles the facade of the 252 year old Cherryville Inn, its ancient bricks stained with memories and stories, the crumbling mortar exuding a hidden plethora of centuries old history, the entireties of which remain trapped behind boarded-up windows, and doors secured by haphazardly nailed two-by-fours. The inn hasn't greeted a single guest in ages, despite the hundreds of vehicles which swiftly cruise past the melancholy hotel which has recently slowly masqueraded into an eyesore over the course of the passing years. The windows once gleaming with light have faded into black holes of oblivion, like lifeless eyes of a being worthless of affection, tainted by decades of neglect. Situated at the intersection of two busy county roads, the hotel rots, silently forgotten, barely noticeable. Obscured behind a dense vegetative wall, the brick exterior camouflaged perfectly within, like a depressed brown chameleon, withering away amongst the abundance of similarly colored lifeless dead twigs, rotting foliage, and washed up faded political signs from elections long lost. The spread of trash littered along the roadside gutter encompasses the decaying structure like a polluted moat of misfortune, preventing all but the most curious passers-by from taking a closer gander.

Out front, a lone pine tree leans against the inn like a loyal dog beside its master, the tree's roots entombed beneath a sea of asphalt, the pavement cracking as the tree grows wiser and taller. The limber trunk almost appears to extend out for a hug, like a longtime acquaintance consoling a weeping friend, the prickly branches reaching out like a long comforting arm above a trio of rotting dormers adoring the top of the inn. Above, a battered window shade scratches and scurries about, as if it were a ghost dancing within a hollow window pane, the glass long since shattered. A gust of cold air bellows out from the gaping window high above, emitting with it a stagnant yet familiar scent, the odor dense like lead yet delicate as a feather slowly gliding to the ground within a pocket of chilled air. A fragrance putrid yet pure, a concoction of an aura, like a mixture of rotting wood combined with a pack of expired mothballs, all blended together by the overwhelming whiff of a wet dog. The stink, upon wafting up my nostrils beckoned me to pause, for that smell I recognized immediately as all too familiar, it is the perfume of adventure; and with it I am convinced. I pull over and park my vehicle to gain closer look.

I cross the hectic intersection, and just in time, for the traffic light behind me quickly flashes from red to steady green, signaling the start of what I can only assume was some type of unforeseen Pennsylvanian driving ritual unfolding right before my very eyes. I barely made it to the safety of the adjacent curb as a duo of doofuses nearly burgeoning out from their overcompensating pickup trucks, roar their domestic Ford engines in unison and spin in place the oversized tires bulging out from the rear chassis like an obese rump stuffed into a size too small yoga pants. All eight cylinders of the Ford F450's engines screaming to life with a deafening and thunderous blast of sound. The dual rear tires screeching in concord like a deplorable chorus of rubber instruments spinning in place against the frozen asphalt at a nauseating level of ear murdering howling, before finally barfing out a single note of horror, both vehicles then speeding off down the highway, like a bat out of Hell.

This freakish experience left me bewildered and confused, attempting to contemplate the purpose of the unfolding scene behind the safety of the cement curb. My only theory; it was nothing short of the extraordinary mating act preformed by the notorious Pennsylvania Faux-Neck, a rare breed of animal strictly found only within the Keystone State. Identifiable characteristics include plaid tablecloth like clothing worn regardless of season, a disheveled neck beard, a beer gut (with "beer" existing as just a synonym for big), and a plethora of empty tall boy and Natty-Daddy water-beer aluminum cans loosely clamoring around the otherwise empty bed of the pick-up. The faux-neck while indeed indigenous only to the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania is often confused with the more wide-spread and loosely related, often emulated, distant cousin, the All-American Red-Neck.

However, the faux-neck while an often compelling imposter, is always distinguishable from its distant cousin, the Red-Neck, by a few key attributes including, a Peeing Calvin Decal urinating on the company logo of an adversary's vehicle, the ability to produce a high school diploma despite adopting a fake uneducated persona, and above all, possession of an oversized pickup truck, often complete with a reproduction rubber scrotum and nut sack hung from the trailer hitch. The pick-up truck despite its lavish accessories provides the same purpose as a shell to a snail; safety, security, and shelter. The vehicle exists to serve two main goals, first as a hard protective outer layer protecting the faux-neck from reality, second, as a mating-mobile, used to travel quickly from post-industrial spawning ground to Walmart and then back to suburbia.

Now, as I witnessed first hand, the "sexual advance ritual" itself starts with the faux-neck revving the engine of his truck in order to garner the attention of any roaming females in the area, much like a male peacock spreading its vibrant plumage. This act is often performed anytime the faux-neck is bored, such as when stopped at a red traffic signal or when threatened by higher level thinking mammals. However, as with most animal mating customs, competition comes into play, thus the loudest, most obnoxious and therefore assumedly also the largest genital sized faux-neck, always wins out. In general, the louder the mating call the engine can mimic combined with the more sumptuous the pick-up truck, the greater chance the potential female attracted will exist from outside of the typical twenty mile radius gene pool.

However, if no female can be allured on spot, as is most often the case, the in-heat faux-neck is able to spread his seed like an invisible message. This is accomplished via infusing such seed within a blackened cloud of exhaust smog, thrust from the tailpipe of the pick-up truck and blast out like a toxic tumultuous fart expelled by a fury of sexual excitement. All of this work completed in hopes that an estrus female near-by will pick up on the trail of testosterone and wait around at the closest Turkey Hill or WaWa for the horny male specimen, ready and willing to mate, to undoubtedly return, if only to purchase another 30-pack of Bud-Light, which is what the faux-neck's sexual fluid is primarily derived of.

I've only ever read about such a mating ritual within Gun Digest magazines I found discarded in abandoned buildings, thus I consider myself quite the lucky lad to have witnessed such a sexual tease in person. Although, I suppose I was of the wrong gender to have attracted such a muscular faux and was left only with the allure of the crumbling abandoned hotel to capture the remainder of my attention. As the faux-necks disappeared into the horizon embarking on their continual hunt for companionship, their sooty cloud of excitement soon dissipated within the chilly winter air. No sooner did I find myself struggling to escape the roadside gutter littered with a minefield worth of trash and convenient store heat-lamp sandwich wrappers.

Grabbing onto one of the dead vines extending off of the dilapidated building I was able to pull myself up and over the rubbish berm and into the rear courtyard of the Cherryville Inn which had since become a burial ground for empty glass beer bottles and ragged ripped tarps now worn by the trees and shrubs like ghoulish winter scarfs. Again the smell of abandonment permeated my nose and I knew an entrance must be near. I scoured the ground pushing through dense briars, dead thorns, and sharp branches which whipped against my legs and tore at my insulated pants like miniature fishing hooks, many becoming ensnarled within the fabric.

Pushing deeper into the dead overgrowth, a narrow deer trail presented itself as the path of least resistance to which I proceeded to follow as it snaked around toward the backside of the inn leading up to an overgrown deck. So far gone were the wooden planks of this once spacious deck that a tree had begun to sprout up from the foundation, piercing through the dry rotted boards which crumbled like hardened mud beneath the slightest test of my weight. The only planks which held my burden were the cross support beams, narrow yet sturdy enough for me to pull myself up and onto the teetering structure. Balancing upon the rotten deck, I was able to spot an entrance into the vacant inn, for a gap had rotted open just beneath an old wooden side door now precariously dangling by a pair of corroded hinges ready to snap at any moment, securing the door precariously like a guillotine blade.

Once inside I anxiously crawled upon my hands and knees until reaching a section of floor I knew was sturdy. The late evening sunlight illumined the otherwise dreary inn a wonderful golden hue, the light beams fragmented into beautiful rays emphasized dramatically within the decades worth of dust and rot I had kicked up from scurrying about inside. As I poked around the empty rooms I was a bit let down by just how barren the building remained. Despite the inn's impressive age, not much of interest remained inside. Making my way up the ornate central stairwell toward the third floor, I paused, feeling the building tremble beneath my feet. Could this be it?, I thought to myself, the prequel to my death by collapse within a shitty hotel older than the ground it was built upon.

Frantically, I raced up toward the single remaining landing of the staircase and onto the fairly stable looking third floor, expecting to witnesses the stairwell crumble below my feet, as if it were a scene stolen from some over pompous Hollywood action movie. Yet to my awe, the stairwell remained intact, but the trembling vibrations continued. Peering out the broken dormer window, this time from within, I realized I had been fooled, for the faux-necks were back again at their ritual, revving their engines like maniacs in heat, the vibrations emanated by which intimidating and forceful enough to literally rattle the entire centuries old inn as if it were just a skeleton in the wind. I laughed to myself at the absurdity of it all, my chuckling obscured by the pick-up truck tires screeching about the asphalt below, followed by a black cloud of exhaust which blurred the remainder of the scene, the interior of the in darkened as the smog engulfed the building.