A rush of cold water drenches a rag of brown hair. The shocked, shivering body underneath stirs in his chair, arms and calves immobilized down the legs of his seat.
“W-where am I?”
He peers around the dimly lit room, but no windows can be found. No sort of reference point to tell whether he’s inside a basement or a top-floor industrial closet. Isolated. Just Patrick, and the man with an empty bucket in his hand.
“Welcome to your punishment, Patrick.”
“What the hell is going on?”
“It’s simple,” the mystery man replies, approaching a metal surgical table. “You did the crime. Now you do the time.”
He unfurls a roll of precision surgical tools, the last being a fairly large ball-peen hammer. He scans the hardware with his fingers, looking for the right one for the job.
“‘Time?’ What the heck? Where’s my trial? Why am I in this place? Where are the prison bars?”
CRACKKK! The head of the hammer lands straight on Patrick’s left patella.
Patrick continues to agonize, while our mystery man juggles the hammer playfully.
“You know, I never knew why torture was so popular. It didn’t make sense to me.”
Patrick starts to gag for air, while the Hammer Man decides to retire to a different tool.
“Then, I started reading through Google and all these Wikipedia articles about severing arteries and cauterizing wounds. Sounded like a whole lot of… work.” He slides out a filet knife and a small vial. “I couldn’t imagine why someone would go to all that trouble just to cause so much pain.”
He pulls a small stool in front of Patrick and takes a seat. Patrick is on the verge of passing out, his head bobbing this way and that.
“Hey!” The Filet Man gives Patrick a good slap to his face. “I’m still talking here.
“Anyways, I read on the psychology behind torture, and they said that its effectiveness is slightly skewed. Something about the victims will tell you what you want to hear instead of the truth.”
“You… didn’t… even… ask… questions…”
“You’re right,” replies the Filet Man, in much anticipation. “I didn’t. It’s because I found this one site where a guy lists these unofficial longest times for how long he’s tortured people before they kicked the bucket.”
A colder shiver runs through Patrick. He meets the Filet Man in the eyes.
“That’s right, Pat. I already know that you killed Amy. I know where you buried her, where you threw away her effects, how you tried to destroy the evidence. Of course, you would’ve gotten away clean if it weren’t for one thing.”
Filet Man leans his lips lick-ably close to Patrick’s ear. “I know you’re guilty.”
He slices the knife across Patrick’s chest and empties the contents of the vial down the cut. The smell of acid searing his flesh is too much for Patrick, who convulses backwards onto the floor.
“WHY?!” cries Patrick.
A twitch. Filet Man looks down at Patrick’s pathetic squirming.
“Why?” He leans down into Patrick’s face. “Because people like you deserve exactly what’s coming to you.”
Filet Man walks back to the table to return the knife and vial. Patrick tries to wriggle through his pain, but to no avail.
“On second thought, you’re right. Quick and easy.”
Filet Man returns with a pistol and plants two shots into Patrick’s chest.
“This is for Amy, you sick son of a bitch.”
Patrick coughs up a few gurgles of blood, enough time to catch a final glimpse of Filet Man’s true face of vengeance.
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
Patrick lays there lifeless. Satisfied, Filet Man turns back and rolls up his surgical tool kit. He bags the roll, and pulls out a large can of lighter fluid. Without missing a beat, he coats Patrick’s corpse in a thick layer, lights a match and commits Patrick’s body to the flames.
And for twenty minutes, Filet Man enjoys the consummation of his revenge in a cold, dark stare.