A legal notice informs the public that a storage company in the middle of nowhere will auction the contents of several units with rents long, long overdue.
At the the top of the auction list is one Charles Dickens and his 6′ by 14′ unit. At an appointed time, the bay to the unit will be rolled up and thirty minutes later, after an inspection of the contents, the auction for the possessions of Charles Dickens will begin. The winner must claim and remove all contents from the unit or the sale is forfeit.
A writer reads the notice in a podunk paper over cheap coffee. It intrigues and gives him rich food for thought on a mediocre day of a a mediocre week. Think of that name! Why was he named Charles Dickens? Mom or Dad’s idea? Maybe where they coupling while watching the Christmas Carol. Did he actually read Dickens or at least see the movies? Is he dead or disappeared into the slums or factories? Are there Charles Dickens novels in the unit? A fancy hardback, embossed set with woodcut illustrations? Did he transport to the future to put his shit in storage for some unknown cosmic use, and somehow got stuck in time and couldn’t pay his fees?
The writer decides he will attend the auction for the sheer literary hell of it. He senses that the real Charles Dickens has something to do with it. The writer will bring cash. He’s never attended an auction. Anything could happen.