Page 12 of Run

The carpet in his bedroom silences my steps, and the fan running blurs out any sound of my breathing, even though after all these years I’ve learned how to regulate everything so I can sneak in and out of places completely unheard, even in utter silence. His blankets are warm from his body heat as I slide them down, and he thankfully has shorts and a shirt on.

Tossing him over my shoulder bare ass naked would be an annoyance that I’m not in the mood for tonight, but I would deal with it if I had to, just to hear him scream.

“What the?” He blurts out as I throw back the covers and grab him by the throat, pinning him down to his pillows.

His eyes fly open, their bright blue irises glowing in the moonlight that filter in through the window above his bed. Hispanicked look, with his flared nostrils and reddened face, is beautiful as I squeeze his neck with my latex gloved hand.

“You touched something that’s mine tonight, and for that, you need to be punished.” I snarl, leaning down masked nose to bare nose with him.

His words can’t get past the grip I have on him. The only sounds escaping his agape mouth are the gurgles of his spit trying to fill his mouth. I don’t want to hear excuses or questions, or any other type of dribble that he’s going to spew. All I want is to get him to the truck and back to my place. Once he’s in my cellar, where no one will hear him scream, he can make all the noise he wants.

His body bucks under me, his hips thrashing, his hands clawing at me. There will be no DNA evidence though, there’s not a lick of skin showing on me except around my eyes. The black racing suit and mask cover everything to a point that his grabs at me will never connect with my flesh. His flesh though, that’s another story. It slices open so perfectly as I punch him in the face, busting his cheek, exposing the bone with one solid hit.

He falls silent and still, a heavy sack of skin and bones that flops like a rag doll as I toss him over my shoulder and carry him to the truck that remains idling in his driveway. With a quick pat of his disheveled hair, I leave him in the bed of the pickup and hop in the driver’s seat.

Time to play.

The drive back to my mansion is quick, maybe five minutes at most, and I chuckle at his body making loud banging noises against the steel as we drive up the long, rutted driveway when we arrive. Each bump and jolt is on purpose with me turning the wheel into the deep tracks in the now hardened mud.

I want him awake and ready to struggle when we pull into the garage. I like the fear in their eyes, and the scent of panic in their sweat as they fight for their freedom. It turns me on, makes me salivate, and sets the mood for the activities that will come once he’s in the basement.

Worrying about him escaping the truck before we make it to the house is a null point. Even if he were to pop up and jump out of the moving pickup, there’s no way he’d make it through my labyrinth of a garden to find a way off the property, and that’s if he didn’t get mauled by the dogs first.

My pack of canines bark and howl as the metal door lifts and we slip inside the warmth, their cries all knowing, all wanting for the feast they’ll help themselves to from the pit once I’m done.

“Sorry my babies, no live prey tonight.” I call out to them, seeing their feet pacing back and forth as the door slides back down, shutting us in the utter silence of the garage that’s only broken by the quiet pants of my Magnolia.

She sits at the entrance to the main house, her soft brown eyes watching me, her ears pointed forward in attention, and her tongue slipping out, licking those always hungry chops.

“Come.” I say, patting my thigh as I yank down the tailgate of the truck, and slide the still motionless form of the dude towards me by his ankles.

She’s at my side in a heartbeat, her ass hitting the cement floor instantly, her gaze lifting up at me awaiting her next command.

“Wake him up.”

With a quiet woof of approval, she leaps up in the bed of the truck, her little docked tail nub wagging happily. Her teeth sink into the guy’s neck, slowly, methodically, puncturing the skin with practiced precision.

“That’s my good girl.” I say, my voice almost inaudible beneath the screams from the now alert, and flailing douche bag that touched my newest and prettiest girl.

His feet kick and his arms flail, his hands grabbing at the dog, pulling on her short, fur covered skin. She ignores his attempts to free himself, holding him in place by his throat, her bite a consistent pressure even though I know she wants to rip him apart.

“Release.”

The one-word command has her letting him go and calmly sitting down next to him as he tries to scramble up, his hands slapping at the cold metal of the bed, his knees slipping on its surface as he crawls towards the open tailgate, and to me. I don’t even think he sees me in his fright, because he falls right into my arms with a shriek and renewed vigor to his fight.

His feet drag on the garage floor as I wrap my arms around him and drag him to the wooden door that leads to the basement. Having an entrance to my play space added to the garage has made it so much easier to get my victims down into the soundproof room. He bucks against me, his garbled screams filling the air around us, but he puts up less of a fight than I expected from a buff college kid.

“You know you can fight more. I’d enjoy it actually.” I laugh as I open the door and push him down the darkened steps.

He tumbles loudly, head over feet down the ancient wooden stairs, landing on the poured cement floor with a heavythud and pained groan. I follow behind him, my boots clunking as I trot downwards, entering my favorite place to be. My playroom, workshop, dungeon, whatever you’d like to call it. It’s where I torture and kill the people unlucky enough to cross paths with me when I’m in the mood to rid the world of assholes and whores that taint our society.

I’m like a dark superhero, ridding the earth of its shit stains on humanity, and sometimes innocent people too, but not often. You have to do something to deserve the trip down these steps. This poor fellow is kind of in the middle of the spectrum. I’m sure he’s probably a good dude underneath, but he touched what’s mine, and that’s enough to warrant his fate.

“Come on. Let’s get you settled. It’s going to be a long night for you.” I say as I pick him up by the collar of his shirt, pulling him along behind me, his feet barely able to keep up with my long-legged stride through the narrow entrance to the final place he’s ever going to see.

Tossing him down on the repurposed dental chair in the middle of the room, I pause to look around my play space with a happy smile. The stone walls are thick and damp with the seepage of water from the ground outside, a little trickle of water running down the corner, reminding me of all the rain we’ve had this spring so far. It puddles in the corner before running towards the center of the room to the drain on the floor that resides at the foot of the metal and vinyl chair.

On the far side of the shadowy room sits my workbench. It’s a massive wooden table that holds all the tools of my trade. Everything from screwdrivers, knives, pliers, saws, and bottles of caustic chemicals are all lined up meticulously in order of usage and size. They shine under the minimal lighting of thesingle bulb above the chair that swings from the disturbance in the air from his panted breath.

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