Jeff Strand - Single White Psychopath Seeks Same

Ten minutes ago, he brought them back on a big cart. I couldn’t even tell how many stab wounds they had, not with all the blood, and they had a bunch of metal things, about the size of pencils, sticking out of them.

Foster pushed the cart really slowly. And he was whistling.

He took them through the other door. I don’t know what they’re planning to do with the bodies. He was only gone for about half a minute, so I guess they’re just storing them for now.

Then he took Charlotte Burgin.

That was five minutes ago.

I want to go home.

THOUGH nothing had been explained to me yet, I had a feeling that this next event was going to be far worse than the game of darts.

I was in a small room with a white tile floor. An operating room, to be specific. The kind with the glass-enclosed spectator gallery above, which is where everyone but Foster was seated.

The walls were lined with eight different carts. One of them did indeed contain surgical tools. The others were filled with more different types of weapons and tools than I can even begin to list completely. There were the standards: hammer, screwdriver, nails, and wire cutters. Then hedge trimmers, a chainsaw, and a weed whacker. Knives of all shapes and sizes. Clubs. A blowtorch. A bottle labeled “hydrochloric acid.” Lots of frightening instruments that I’d never seen before or even imagined existed.

And (I swear this is true) there was a lawnmower in the corner.

Foster wheeled in a gurney, upon which lay a woman I recognized well from pictures Craig Burgin had shown me. It was Charlotte, his wife. Physically, she was quite the opposite of her husband, tall and slender instead of short and chubby. She looked about ten years older than her photos, but I was pretty sure that wasn’t because they were old pictures. Nevertheless, there was a definite sense of dignity about her, even now, that she’d somehow managed to retain for all these months.

I’d completely forgotten that the original purpose of my involvement was to aid in her rescue. I wondered what Craig was doing right now. Hopefully he wasn’t being a slacker about keeping the real Headhunter medicated.

She was on her back, her wrists and ankles tightly bound to the corners of the gurney with leather straps. Her face was tearstained but I could tell she wouldn’t be begging for mercy. Foster saluted, and then left the room, shutting and locking the door behind him.

“All right, Andrew,” said Daniel, speaking into a microphone. His voice, blasting through speakers, echoed throughout the operating room. “This is your big moment. The fulfillment of a life-long fantasy. You have every kind of weapon you could possibly want. You have a helpless victim. You have a captive audience. Do your worst. Entertain us.”

I was so appalled that I stood there staring at him for nearly ten seconds before I caught myself. “Sorry. What exactly am I supposed to be doing?”

Daniel rolled his eyes. “Use your imagination. Let it all out. Ruin her.”

There wasn’t truly every kind of weapon I could possibly want. What I really wanted was a trusty submachine gun, to take them all out. Or any kind of gun. But there wasn’t one, and somehow I didn’t think hurling a hammer through the glass was going to solve my problem.

“Okay,” I said, wiping my perspiration-soaked hands on my pants. There had to be a way out of this. There had to be. If I could stall long enough, I’d find it.

“However, I think we’re going to impose a new rule this year,” said Daniel. “If members of the audience get restless, they will express their displeasure using the good old-fashioned thumbs-down. If this vote becomes unanimous, you will then have thirty seconds to regain their approval. If you don’t, you die. Gunshot to the head. Bang.”

“Say what?” I demanded. “Are you threatening me?” I tried to sound more angry than scared.

“Andrew, c’mon. We’re just making things more interesting. This should be a cakewalk for you.”

“I don’t like being threatened,” I said.

“Yes, well, Mr. Headhunter, you’re down there and we’re up here, and it’s my lair of torture, and what I say goes. I have to say, you’re not quite the party animal I envisioned.”

“I’m not taking part in this. Open the door and let me out of here.”

Foster held out his hand, giving me thumbs-down.

“Uh-oh, looks like you’ve got audience displeasure already. Might wanna get started.”

“I’m serious, Daniel! Open the door!”

“I’m serious, too. Serious about fun ! And you’re not having any, so have some, willya? This place was expensive.”

“This is your last warning!”

“Well, it looks to me like my dear wife has just given you your second warning, so I’d strongly suggest putting an end to the whining and start cutting! Or sawing, or burning, or poking, or something! ”

Okay, fine. I’d keep them entertained while I figured something out. There was a solution to this problem. I just had to hope that my own substantially-less-than-flawless brain could work it out.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “This whole thing is totally surreal. I wasn’t expecting anything quite so elaborate; it’s got me totally weirded out.”

“No need to apologize, my friend,” said Daniel. “Just relax and enjoy yourself.”

Well, the first part of his advice was good, at least. Relax . Relax . Relax . You’re on a sunny beach, sipping a drink with multiple umbrellas in it, with Helen standing there in a bikini, the red one with the cutout-no, that’s lewd, focus on the problem at hand.

At the very least, I could keep myself occupied for a while going through the weapons. And so I did, holding them up, inspecting them, and describing in great detail what I could do with them. There’s no reason for me to share exactly what I said, but it was graphic and vile beyond belief. I don’t even know what diseased part of my mind came up with those descriptions, but I had no choice.

The whole time, I kept trying to find a way out.

The door was locked. I had plenty of tools on hand, and given enough time and a little privacy, I could probably get out. But I didn’t have time or anything resembling privacy.

Even without the glass barrier, there wasn’t much I could do to the spectators, unless they all promised to sit there quietly and not move while I threw knives at them.

Of course, I could’ve killed Charlotte and been home free, but that wasn’t even remotely an option.

She looked terrified to the point of shock.

I continued going through the weapons, chatting away. There was no way to escape, so I needed to figure out how to get Daniel to end the event without Charlotte ’s death, and without my own death immediately afterward.

How could I reasonably not be expected to continue, even by Daniel’s standards?

A hostage. That was the only way.

“Y’know, now that I’m getting into this, it really is a fantasy come true,” I said. “But I’ve gotta tell you, I’ve got an even better fantasy.”

“And what would that be?” Daniel asked.

“I can’t think of anything in the world more fun than to shred this beautiful, helpless woman with the assistance of another beautiful woman. And I think I see one right now. Josie, would you like to come down here and help out?”

She shook her head. “Sorry, Andrew, it’s your show.”

“Oh, come on! I’ll take one end, you take the other! You can’t tell me that won’t be a thrill!”

“It probably would,” she admitted. “But this is your moment to shine, sweetie. Show us what you’ve got.”

“You’re not seriously going to refuse my number one fantasy in the entire world, are you?” I looked over at Daniel for support. “Back me up here.”