1: Önryo

I could smell the piss already. The mouth breather has finally accepted his fate and evidently it terrified him. Considering how doltish he is, I expected it to take longer. I turn the air conditioning off and roll down a window. On cue, he resumes trying to scream again.

Struggling to keep the vexation out of my voice as calmly as I could,I advise,

"We're in a moving car Sam,nobody can hear you."

He doesn't listen;no surprise.I turn up the radio and AC/DC's "Highway to hell"blares on the speaker. This is the high in my life now and as enthralling as it is, it still feels hollow, like a replacement. Months in and my avocation had done shit to fill the vacuum I have. The vacuum Jane insists is there. Still it has it's moments and I am addicted to them as unyielding as they are.

I ease into the driveway and come to halt in front of the garage, speaking the password into the voice sensor mounted on the old-fashioned Grecian style wall.The password is randomly generated every day and displayed on the screen of my car when needed, unnecessary but why not have it when you could.

With a deep breath, I'm out of the car making certain the garage door is completely closed before briskly walking to the right side of the room, where I hang the car keys and reaching into a vase,take out an already prepared syringe of Rophynol solution.

I open the trunk and there he is, nose swollen, and, bloody with his hands tied awkwardly behind his back. His fingers are blue and trembling, lips quivering visibly through the duck tape and eyes wide and unfocused.

Before he starts trying to thrash around I stick the needle in his neck and empty the contents.

A sound makes its way out of his throat but doesn't get past the duck tape. I can't help but grin at his utter helplessness.I close the trunk.He should be unconscious in eight minutes.

I retrieve my coat from the passenger seat ignoring the muffled screams and lock the car.

I walk into the kitchen dumping my coat on one of the ornate,hand carved seats I turn the coffee machine on and grabbing my coat again make my way to my bedroom.

I take of my clothes, folding them into neat piles and putting them away for laundry. I get in the shower and for about two minutes watch the cold water run down my body in rivulets and then I thoroughly almost aggressively scrub the blood and grime off me.

Once dressed I stroll intently down to the kitchen. I pour out the coffee into a mug and I take it with me to the living room. The caffeine should help with the work to be done. I can't help but appreciate the serenity. Worth the fortune I spent to ensure it. Little vanities I tried to steady the shambles holding up my amour-propre with.All this money and everything that mattered still all went to shit.

I glance at the antique grand father clock.Half past nine. I finish my coffee and rinse the mug. I walk back the bedroom and into the closet and on the sinistral side of the great oak shoe rack I press my thumb into a biometric scanner and like a scene ripped out of a Bond movie the shoe rack dislodges at the centre and opens up.

Of the Cartier necklaces and watches in the tiny, brightly lit compartment, the overalls and gloves seemed especially out of place. I put on the overalls my hands twitching. Never gets old.

Donning the gloves on my way back to the garage, I grab a military grade combat knife, a couple of tweezers, a hospital trolley with a variety of  recently sterilized surgery tools and, an electric hair clipper.

In the garage, I open up the trunk again and God it reeks in there. I prop him up in a seating position, and with my arms underneath his, I drag him onto the trolley.

Patting down his drenched trousers I discover his wallet, keys and, a pack of Tic-Tacs.In his wallet are a couple of twenty's and his I.D.

I roll him back in the house and toss his I.D. in the fireplace.                        

The incongruous cacophony that is my alarm, startles me awake. Six o'clock in the morning. I'm tired, yesterday's session ended on a high note, worth the utter exhaustion that came right after.

Reaching across the bed, on the bedside table, I grab a cigarette pack and a lighter. Out on the balcony, elbows on the banisters, I smoke watching the sun rise.

There was a time I thought this beautiful. A time when my outlook on life was a lot more sentimental. A time  when the sun rays hitting my skin felt good. Now it was just bland. What I'd do for some novelty.

I crush my still smouldering cigarette into an ashtray, and head into the bathroom.

I stroll down the basement humming joyously and the sight amuses me. He's tied to a chair, gagged and bloody. His nails have been torn out and index finger awkwardly broken, almost as if he was pointing behind himself. He's asleep

I tip toe to a tray, at the right--wing of the basement, and with a handkerchief, pickup a bloodied scalpel from the hospital trolley and as quietly as I can walk back to him

I drive the scalpel hilt--deep into his knee, his eyes snap open and the muffled scream draws a grin to my face, my eyes not leaving his.

He begins trying to tug at his restraints, clawing at the armrests of the chair, his fingers bleeding again.

"Hope you slept at least half as good as I did."

I pull out the scalpel, his thighs flex and blood oozes out the wound.I wipe the blood of on his shredded, denim shorts. He begins to cry.

I stare at him, my lips pressed together, face burning, fingers twitching. I feel the anger welling up, like a rising storm, a wildfire razing, incinerating any sense of reasoning.

Ears ringing, I grab a wrench from the trolley, smashing it on the injured knee with enough force to break it. His let's out a scream and falls unconscious.

I take a lungful of air, I drop the wrench and walk away.