Doug: Do ya?

“You ever get that feeling?” he asked, cocking his head in an odd direction, eyes focused far away, as if they saw something no one else in the room could see.

“That feeling, that, well, you just want to strangle EVERYONE around you?” a hint of life comes back to the eyes. But it is not life in the way normal people think of life. There is no hope here, nor friendship, or kinship, or any of those other ships. The life in these eyes is sort of a manic glee, a horrible joy that sends shivers and chills down your spine.

He refocuses, swinging his head around the room. “Strangling someone is really satisfying. It’s so personal. All you have to do is grab the windpipe and squeeze.” His voice changes with the last word, deeper, huskier, putting a lot of emphasis on it. “Too bad it’s not really a spectator sport.”

“There are other satisfying things too. Like baseball bats… and crow bars. You gotta love the solid sound that makes when it hits something soft on the outside but with a crunchy center. Like an arm. Or a leg. Or a skull. I love the hollow sounds skulls make.” He has gotten up from his reclined position, and is prancing around the room, feet carefully avoiding dark red puddles.

“I’m not sure what I love best. The tactile feelings, or the lovely sounds.” He frowns. “But nothing that comes out of the mouth. No one ever has anything USEFUL to say… It’s all: Please no! or threats.” The frown deepens. “Or they invoke some god or another…”

Finally, a shrug and the smile returns. “Oh well, no one ever comes to help out.” He looks over to a huddled form in the corner. Wrists tied, head cast down, shaking uncontrollably.

“You ever get that feeling?” The Philosopher sidled up to the Prisoner smiling uncomfortably. “Do ya?”

The Prisoner looks up, catches sight of the other bodies tied to the wall all around the room and vomits on the Philosopher’s bare feet. His grin widens.

“I liked those shoes.”

“No.” the Prisoner manages to choke out through the bile.

“No what?” The Philosopher is examining his feet bare feet. “I really liked these shoes.”

“No. I never get that urge.” The Prisoner looks up, bile dripping from the grim line that is his mouth. One eyeball is gone, and his features are hard to distinguish under the swelling. The look on his one eyed face is defiant though. “Just get it over with you sick bastard.”

“I’m not the sick one.” The Philosopher said, “You’re the one who vomits on people’s shoes.” He then formed his right hand into a scoop and grabbed the Prisoner’s long hair with his left hand. “I may pickle this one. I like the color.” The scooped hand plunges forward.

Screaming accompanied by a wet tearing sound.

The Philospher steps back, plugging his left ear with his free hand, the right holds something spherical and dripping. “Can’t you stop doing that? Ugh. This is why I hate forgetting the duct tape.”

The screaming just continued unabated. Finally, the Philosopher, quick as a snake, snapped his left hand out to the Prisoner’s neck and squeezed.

The screaming cut off, followed by the sounds of a scuffle as the Prisoner struggled against his bonds. Finally he quieted down just as the life was extinguished from his body. The Philosopher dropped the hand. “I was hoping to save you for a little bit longer…”

He sighed deeply, then looked down at the eyeball in his hand, the brown eye gazed back at him unblinkingly, almost quizzically.

“No one understands me.”

He tossed the eyeball at its former body and surveyed the gore spattered room. Eight bodies, four males and four females, all completely naked, all in various states of carnage, lined the walls. He took his time, looking at all of the individually, enjoying his masterpieces.

A half hour later, he splashed gasoline like a painter, struck a match with a flourish, and left.

“No one understands me.”

-Doug

"Torture mothafucka, torture."
Wu-Tang Clan