A Happy Ending

Trigger warnings: Butt stuff, nefarious dealings, mentions of sexual assault (not too graphic, don't you worry).

I stepped out of the car and slammed the door behind me. With my folding massage table slung over my shoulder—safely nestled in a heavy-duty bag—I took in 127 Hummingbird Lane. Its exterior was a trendy gray stone, two stories worth of brick, and an emerald ivy insidiously crept about, its greedy fingers enclosing black-shuttered windows. The front porch lights—wrought from heavy black iron—weren’t actually lights at all, they were torches with an actual flickering flame. Not a generic lightbulb, a flame. I always thought, “Wow, how fancy!” when I saw them. Hedges that resembled stunted pine trees lined the front—sending up a sharp and refreshing clean scent. The rest of the landscaping was no less impressive. The lawn appeared a uniform two inches high, freshly cut and meticulous.

Based on my first impression of the house (and knowing the expensive zip code it was in) and I could tell they dropped a cool $2,000 for their country club membership… monthly. And I’d bet all the cash in my 401k that the wife collected Birkins—a totally reasonable, completely wholesome pursuit that wasn’t showboating at all.

This was obscene money.

Maybe not a Kardashian level of wealth, but matching the caliber of one of the Real Housewives… although not Lisa Vanderpump. She would have kept preening black swans in the classy brick fountain I’d driven past—halfway up the driveway lined by a sophisticated wrought-iron fence that reminded me of hushed graveyards.

Clearing my throat, I walked to the ink black door, and wrapped my fingers around a brass knocker—a lion with a flowing mane clenching a ring in its mouth—and—

TAP! TAP! TAP!

Even the sounds the knocker made were dignified—reminding me of setting down an Earl Grey-filled porcelain teacup on the table.

Pattering footsteps, at first muffled, increased in volume, and stopped. Audible breathing: a sharp intake of air on the other side of the door.

A pause that went on long enough that I worried I should say something to break the silence, but I feared I might interrupt the other person.

Social anxiety, in other words.

Plus, I was nervous since my stopping by was unexpected. People often don’t like to be bothered and they might send me away.

I couldn’t let that happen.

I’d finally mustered up the courage to speak, mouth opening—

“Yes, hello?” came a feminine voice, faintly accented, “Who is it?”

Part of me felt disappointed they didn’t ask, “Who may I say is calling?” but this was the new century… not Downton Abbey, after all.

“Hi, I’m the massage therapist for Mr. Lowe?”

She muttered, “Massage therapist?” as if utterly baffled by the proposition. “He booked a massage?”

I chuckled. “No, Mr. Lowe didn’t book me! His friend Chuck Thorne made the appointment for him.”

Seconds passed, reeking of skepticism.

Sweat trickled down my neck, partially from the strain of lifting the table, but mostly fueled by anxiety.

She had to let me in.

“Listen, this table is really heavy, so how about you let me in? I’m dying here.” Fucking table… I needed a massage after lugging that thing around!

Various locks rasped, and the door swung inward, revealing an older, slightly plump, attractive woman. Silver threaded her ebony hair, and she’d pulled it back in a bun at her nape. Dark, flinty eyes rested on me. Thin lines marched across her face, making her appear both wearied and kindly.

“Come in. Sorry… about that. No one told me you were coming… and Mr. Lowe typically only meets people by appointment.”

“It wouldn’t be a surprise from a buddy if I called ahead, now would it?” I said, tipping her a wink as I walked in, my tennis shoes slapping against the marble floor. “Nice place. Where should I set up?” I tipped my head to my massage table, which grew heavier by the second.

Her eyebrows creased together. “Um… well… I guess the master bedroom? It’s on the first floor.”

“Perfect, no stairs!”

She turned.

I followed.

***

Even without the prospect of stairs, the journey to the master took far longer than I expected. Despite the stately exterior that looked straight out of the roaring 20s (missing only the green light that Gatsby lit for Daisy each night), the interior had been remodeled, and by the looks of it, rather recently. Open concept was the name of the game, and I passed by a massive living room with an exposed brick wall, a roaring fireplace, blindingly white couches without a blemish, all watched over by a rustic wooden chandelier that probably cost more than my first car.

“Whoa,” I whispered to myself, taking in the sheer opulence.

“Crazy isn’t it?” The woman replied.

My cheeks filled with heat. I hadn’t meant to utter that out loud.

The woman flapped her hand. “Don’t worry, I’ve worked here for years and I’m still surprised at how… nice… everything is.” She stopped, pausing—in front of the kitchen where I spied a red-knobbed stove that I’d only ever seen on those fancy cooking shows—as if considering something. “I grew up in a shack with a dirt floor so… this really is something.”

While I hadn’t grown up in those conditions—we had linoleum and a puke brown colored carpet, at least—I sympathized. I shared a bedroom with my older sister for most of my young life, showing up at school wearing her tattered hand-me-downs, and played with secondhand toys missing crucial parts. I opened my mouth, intending to spout some words of commiseration—

“Here. You can set your table up in front of the fireplace,” the woman said, pointing a slim, red-tipped finger into another ungodly large room.

“Holy shit,” I muttered, swiveling my head like a spectator at a tennis match, drinking in the room.

It was… stunning. The bed—no doubt a California King—set on a black rug, the rich wooden legs kissing the fabric. Perfectly polished wooden floor stretched out, ending on white walls, except for another exposed brick wall where said fireplace was. A fireplace? In a bedroom? Now that was real money. A chaise lounge sat in front of the fireplace, looking ready for someone to plop themselves down, spilling dirty secrets to a therapist reclining in the rich leather chair that sat directly opposite. I walked inside, my shoe-clad feet whispering against the black rug. Had my shoes been off, I was certain that my toes would have felt as if they’d died and gone to foot heaven—the rug looked so soft and inviting. Delicately, I sat my bag down and began the arduous process of unsheathing and unfolding my table.

“Well… I’ll let Mr. Lowe know that you’re in here. Last I knew, he was on his phone in his office.” The woman’s dark eyes glanced at her wristwatch. “Then it’s quitting time for me.” Her lips twitched upwards into a small smile. I pictured her walking into a small apartment, letting her hair loose from her severe bun, and pouring a liberal glass of red wine.

“Thank you. I’ll get all set up so Mr. Lowe can get to relaxing,” I said, reaching into my bag. I’d already set the table up, but I had to ready my conglomeration of essential oils I regularly used: peppermint for its cooling sensation, eucalyptus for reinvigorating tired muscles, and frankincense used for calming. If it was a good enough gift for baby Jesus, it was good enough for my clients. My fingers brushed against a small glass bottle, its surface cool and unyielding. Not the time to get that one out.

No, that was for later.

***

As befit a rich asshole, he kept me waiting for fifteen minutes. I leaned against my table, weary of sitting in the furniture around the fireplace. I could just picture the ass-chewing I might earn from that, my middle-class germs capering over the luxury leather. Stealing a look at the door—Mr. Lowe nowhere in sight—I pulled my phone from my pocket and fired off a text to my wife:

Hey, babe. Hope your shift is going well, and no one shoved anything up their ass. I’m at the job and I’ll be done soon. I love you.

I returned my phone to my pocket, not expecting a text back in a timely manner. As an ER nurse, my wife’s job was pure chaos, and she was lucky to piss once during her twelve-hour shift, let alone answer a text.

I heard Mr. Lowe before I saw him.

“Well, tell those assholes that they either take the deal or they go fuck themselves. Yes. Yes, I mean that. I’m tired of listening to their whining. Yes. Go tell them. And don’t call me back until those pussies have decided.” The words were clearly audible and coming closer. He spoke decisively, a man used to getting his way. He probably considered himself an alpha male, a cringy term during the best of times. Still… his deep voice had an engaging quality, making me think of executives dressed in tailored suits, their cheeks peppered with 5-o’clock shadow.

I plastered a smile on my face, and he appeared in the master bedroom doorway, holding his cellphone. He looked a little different in person than he did online: brown hair a little thinner, and a deep crease between his eyebrows that gave him the appearance of a permanent scowl. I made it my business to look up my clients beforehand, both out of curiosity and safety. I wanted to know who I was dealing with and would diligently search, looking for any arrest records and bad press.

This guy had no bad press.

In most articles, there were mentions of his generous donations to charity and nearly all images online featured him in either suits or tuxedos, hoisting a champagne glass or cutting a red ribbon with oversized gold scissors. For a high-powered CEO of a Fortune 500 company, he was a real philanthropist and overall, a nice guy.

Of course, you can’t believe everything you read.

“Hello!” I greeted him brightly, infusing my voice with honey. “I’m Madison, the massage therapist your friend Chuck booked.” His eyes narrowed and his lips twitched, arranging themselves in a lecherous expression. Sadly, I was used to that reception. I wore form-fitting black scrubs, and while I was a runner—often clocking eight miles a day—my boobs remained a perky C-cup. I preferred a natural look, often eschewing make-up but today I’d made an exception: an attractive blush applied to the cheeks with a fluffy make-up brush, mascara and eyeliner that made my green eyes pop, and a glossy lip balm. His eyes stared at my lips as I continued, “He told me you are really tense and needed some…” I purposely paused, building up a sense of anticipation. “Release… I think that’s the word he used.” I capped off the statement with a wink.

His grin grew wider, predatory, like a wolf who found himself in a hen house filled with sleeping, unsuspecting chickens. “Well… Madison,” he said, saying my name in an off-putting manner, as if it were a stage name. “I sure am tense and am dying for…” he paused, his grin widening further. “Release.”

Ignoring all the innuendo, keeping the smile on my face, I handed him a fluffy white robe, tipping my head to the master bathroom filled with Calcutta marble. “You better get changed, Mr. Lowe.”

He reached for the robe, snatching it from my hands. His fingertips brushed against mine, oddly dry and snakelike, sending a shiver down my spine. Still, my smile didn’t waver.

“I’ll be back, Madison,” he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. I watched him retreat, slamming the bathroom door with enough force to rattle the abstract painting that hung above the bed.

“Prick,” I muttered, reaching into my bag and grasping the glass vial.

Time to get everything ready.

***

I grabbed the robe from the sexy masseuse. Our fingertips touched and an electric shiver ran through me. My heart rate responded too, thrumming against my ribs. I snuck a glance at her. Based on her wry smile, she’d felt it too.

She wanted it just as badly as I did.

Robe in hand, I walked to the bathroom, loosening my tie as I went. I stared at the marble that Trish absolutely begged to have. The price tag on that one! Every time I saw it, my guts twisted. Had to have it flown in from Italy and as one might imagine, that shit didn’t exactly come cheap. His and hers sinks, mine Spartan in appearance—one electric toothbrush and a comb, while hers was ringed with various ointments, balms, serums that promised to keep users young forever.

And boy… were those pricy too!

How did that saying go? Separate sinks, separate lives?

Not that I give much of a shit.

Trish was easy to keep occupied, if I didn’t mind hemorrhaging money. When my darling, gold-digging wife was armed with my AmEx…

I was free to have my fun.

Off came the fitted trousers, meticulously measured by a practiced tailor. Flattering. Even more so with the perfect crease that came courtesy of Maria’s iron. The starched white-collared shirt followed. No suit jacket today. That I reserved for days when I strove for the true professional persona.

Projecting a man in charge vibe.

The way things should be.

Things are so much better when I’m in charge.

Robe on, I gave myself the once over in the mirror. I’d been skeptical about the Rogaine but had to admit: my bald spot was shrinking. Thrice weekly sessions at the country club were paying off, too. The trainer—a 20-something former volleyball player—always wore tight yoga pants. All to show off her perky ass. Viewing that for an hour every other day… not exactly a hardship. Plus, I’d developed the barest hints of abs.

I bet that sexy masseuse would like my abs.

Madison? Was that what that she said her name was?

It had surprised me when Maria came to my office, speaking in that spic accent of hers that still ground my gears, announcing that my buddy Chuck had booked me a massage.

But now… seeing her?

It was obvious she was one of those special masseuses. A high-end gal, not at one of those dingy parlors where the Oriental women worked that always got raided by the cops.

I grinned, examining my reflection’s teeth, making sure an errant piece of salad wasn’t wedged within.

Not like it really mattered… if Chuck booked her for me, I was getting my happy ending, regardless of how I looked.

He paid her to make me happy.

Not that I had to spend money on pussy. Women were always throwing themselves at me. It’s like they could sniff out net worth in the air, like a bizarre pheromone. Sure… I had a wife, but a man like me doesn’t limit himself to just one woman. Women saw my tailored suits, golden cufflinks, Range Rover and they practically threw themselves at me. I’d be a fucking idiot not to dip my wick in all that fine pussy.

And if they didn’t want it?

Well… I took what I wanted.

Like that nurse last month…

She’d acted so aloof, like she was doing her best not to pay me any attention. All my best lines bounced off of her like she was coated in Teflon, and her polite smile didn’t touch her eyes. Her scrub top clung to her tits, practically begging for me to grab a handful. C’s at least… a woman doesn’t walk around with assets like that unless she wanted people to look at ‘em. After the doctor came in and stitched up my hand where I’d accidentally sliced myself instead of the lemon for my Old Fashioned, she dressed the wound, slathering my skin in antibiotic ointment, her fingers brushing along my skin.

Far more contact than was necessary.

Trust me, I knew it.

She wanted me; I could tell. But she was playing hard to get. Making it a challenge. Making me work for it.

Lucky for her… I like a challenge.

After she’d placed the bandage, she turned to leave, giving me another glimpse of that voluptuous ass! I reached forward, ignoring the pain in my hand, and grabbed her. And damn… what a handful I got! I pulled her closer to me, running my fingers along her cleavage. Caressing that smooth, milky skin.

Flawless. Perfect.

Like a frigid bitch who was too afraid to admit she wanted a good fucking, she screamed, then raised a huge stink. Which was utterly ridiculous: she might have acted like she didn’t want it, but I sensed the truth… she was just too scared to make the first move.

“Sexual harassment,” she called it. Can you believe that?

Well… it was her word against mine, seeing as no one else was in the exam room with us. No cameras. No recordings.

I chatted with the hospital CEO the next day—my eyes roving along his mahogany desk covered with accolades and awards—and I apologized for the misunderstanding, emphasizing I hadn’t touched that nurse. But, as a gesture of good faith, I wrote a fat check to the hospital. As I signed my name, I glanced up at the salivating suit. “Maybe this will smooth things over?”

Well… it had. I heard not another peep from the bitch.

And even better, it was tax deductible, being a donation and all.

I turned my attention from that mess to the task at hand.

This Madison masseuse?

She was paid to want it.

I took one last glance in the mirror, happy with what I saw.

I opened the bathroom door.

***

Madison was waiting for me. She’d flicked the wall switch for the fireplace—the grate already piled high with logs—and a roaring fire greeted me. She shrugged, seeing my gaze settle on the flames. “I hope you don’t mind… I wanted to…” Another smile. “Set the mood.”

“Honey, I don’t mind at all,” I replied, shooting her a smile of my own.

“You can disrobe and lay face down on the table. I’ll start with your back. I’m sure you’re very tense. Then we’ll work on the front.”

The front… I couldn’t wait for that. She lifted the sheets that she’d placed on the massage table, beckoning me inside.

She’d be inviting me inside, alright.

Robe off, I climbed between the sheets. These were definitely a high thread count, similar to the sheets at the Ritz Carlton. They smelled faintly of eucalyptus and peppermint, bringing to mind every spa I’d ever set foot in. As I settled in—cozying myself within the sheets—she extinguished the overhead lights. The only light in the room came from the dancing flames and the rapidly falling dusk. From somewhere—maybe her phone—came tinkling music that made me think of bald monks striving for enlightenment in Buddhist temples tucked away on snow-capped mountains.

Madison was a pro at cultivating ambiance.

And luckily for me, my bitch wife was off on a shopping trip somewhere upstate. Spending more of my hard-earned money, buying shit we didn’t need. Maria had clocked out after telling me about my impromptu massage, not due back until late morning.

We were alone.

Blissfully alone.

Light footsteps whispered along the carpet. I’d nestled my head against the headrest attached to her table, giving me an excellent view of the floor. Her hand appeared, waving a gauze underneath my nose, filling it with peppermint and lavender. A calmness rushed through my body, and without thought, my shoulders relaxed. Even without her hands kneading on me, I felt some of the tension melt away.

“Is everything comfortable for you?”

“Oh… definitely,” I murmured, my eyes closing.

“I’m going to start with your back and work my way outwards, then I’ll have you flip over. Chuck booked you a full body massage, you know.” She chuckled warmly. “He must be a great friend, gifting you a massage and all.”

“Don’t I know it! He also planned my bachelor party,” I said, leaving out the tawdry details. The strippers’ bodies were incredible and all of them could suck better than a Dyson.

She giggled in response; the sound playful.

Then her slick hands dug into my shoulders, expertly homing in on all the knots.

“How is this pressure?”

It’d feel a lot better on my cock, I thought, but aloud I said, “Great, absolutely perfect.”

“If you don’t mind me asking… what exactly do you do? This house is…” she trailed off. “Well… it’s incredible!”

I grunted as she worked on a knot next to my scapula. “I’m a CEO, head of the company.”

“Oh… the big boss, huh? Bringing home the bacon. It would certainly explain all the tension you have back here.” As if driving her point home, her fingers plunged deeply within my muscles, sending a tingling down my arm.

“Damn… that’s tight,” I said, wincing.

“There are so many knots! You need to book regular massages, so you don’t get this bad. You could certainly afford it. Or you could have your wife give you a few elbows.” The pressure increased, bringing tears to my eyes.

“Pssssssh. Sure… have my wife do it. She barely touches me as is, unless it’s grabbing the AmEx card out of my hands.”

“Well… I’m sure you wouldn’t have a problem getting someone to help you out. Or… you could just call me!” Her voice was warm. Inviting. Soothing. Like sipping a hot toddy on a frigid winter day while gazing out the window at the icicles dangling from the eaves.

I smiled. “I wouldn’t mind calling you, darlin’. As long as you wear those form-fitting scrubs. I love a woman in scrubs.” Once more, I thought of that nurse, how the curve of her ass made me hard, even now.

“Oh yeah? I bet you really like nurses then.” Her hand crept up, the ball of her thumb pressing into the tight muscles of my neck.

I thought again of that nurse’s massive tits. How hard her heart hammered underneath my hand as I touched her. “I absolutely love nurses,” I replied.

“I thought you might,” she said. Her fingertips danced along my neck, feeling as if she were spreading the skin, holding it taut. Probably working out some trigger point.

Then—

A sharp cold prick bloomed across my skin… a jagged fingernail? What? Cold became buzzing heat, spreading outwards like ripples in a pond after someone chucked a rock in the tranquil waters.

“Sorry about that. The pain will be over in a second,” Madison cooed. Her voice sent a chill down my spine. It sounded so… sinister.

“What—” I started, the words coming out furry, as if they were coated in mold. My tongue felt clumsy in my mouth. “What… did… you…?” I concentrated, desperately trying to spit the words out. Was I having a stroke? Had she dissected an artery in my neck with all her vigorous rubbing? With all my strength, I heaved myself off of the table. I moved woodenly, without grace. My feet tangled within the sheets and, like I’d come against a trip wire, I went down, hitting the hard floor heavily. My teeth clanked together, and I tasted hot iron. I tried opening my mouth, tried to cry out, but…

My muscles…

I couldn’t move.

***

I capped the needle, returning the spent syringe to my scrub pocket. I peered down at Mr. Lowe. Bright red blood dribbled from his mouth, joining a thin trickle from his nose. I eyed his back, watching his respirations, aided by the flickering firelight, only inches away from his head. The white at his temples glowed a muted orange.

His breathing… slowed… slowed…

Stopped.

At most, he had ten minutes. Ten minutes before his brain shut down, all of his cells hopelessly deprived of oxygen. Ten minutes was all it would take… and Mr. Lowe would be no more.

Of course, I could call 911. Summon paramedics who would rush to the scene, lights blazing, sirens blaring. They’d rush in with bags filled with medications, intubation supplies, canisters of oxygen.

They could save him.

But… why would I want to do that?

Then I’d have to answer questions that were better left unanswered:

Where did you get the Rocuronium?

Why did you do this?

Not to mention… I wasn’t made for life in prison. I was rather adorable, and I’d get passed around the joint like a package of Double Stuf Oreos.

Tucked in the bedroom's corner, I spied a table, a portable bar of sorts. A decanter filled with amber whisky (no doubt made of crystal and obscenely expensive) winked in the firelight. How could you tell someone was filthy rich? They had fucking fully stocked bars in their bedrooms! I grabbed the decanter, swirling the whisky about as I walked back to Mr. Lowe.

The medication was working fabulously. Not a muscle twitched. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead, wetting his well-kept sideburns. While he couldn’t do a goddam thing, he was fiendishly aware of everything happening around him. My wife said that normally they give patients a sedative before giving this medicine but… I didn’t think he deserved such things. I preferred having Mr. Lowe a prisoner within his own body.

There wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

My hand plunged once more into my scrub pocket and fingers closed around the cylindrical object. I extracted it, ripping off the outer covering. Carefully, keeping hold of the string on the end, I dropped the cotton within the decanter, where it rapidly swelled with the amber liquid.

Removed it.

Bent over, grabbing another object from my bag of tricks.

A speculum.

Mr. Lowe’s ass—rather flabby—beckoned. I pulled on medical grade gloves—pilfered from my wife’s workplace—and, grasping the speculum firmly, spread his ass cheeks with my left hand. I spied his brown eye and shoved the speculum within… without the benefit of lube. Mr. Lowe would have yelled out in pain if he could, but…

Crickets.

I clicked the speculum open, spreading him open wide. Then, I shoved the booze-soaked tampon up his ass, removing the speculum once it was in place (without clicking it shut, whoops!).

That dirty deed completed, I kneeled by his head, feeling the warmth on my backside from the fireplace. I’d grabbed the decanter once again, clutching it like a security blanket.

“I’ve injected you with a paralytic. It’s the same medicine they give you in the ER when they need to place a breathing tube. Of course, they normally give you a sedative so you don’t know that you can’t breathe. I can imagine that it would be pretty alarming to suffocate to death… and to know that you’re suffocating.” I laughed. It came out harsh and oddly gleeful. And why not? I was enjoying this. “Sort of like drowning on dry land, I guess.”

I peered closer, examining his eyes. His pupils were dilated, and I made out my reflection within their inky depths.

“Oh, and that whole ass play you just felt? My wife told me it’s a new trend, ‘boofing’, they call it. Kids these days either soak a tampon in alcohol—I’m told vodka is a crowd favorite—and shove it up their ass or ‘butt-chug’ beer. It’s a way to get hammered even faster! So, when the coroner does the autopsy, they’ll find that your blood alcohol level is high and they might even find that tampon in your ass… if there is enough left of you to examine, that is.” I pictured the county coroner, a severe-looking woman, finding the tampon secreted in his ass and how she would shake her head, disgusted at the depravity of humanity.

A giggle escaped my lips at imagining such scenes. Then I turned my attention back to Mr. Lowe. “You’re probably wondering, ‘Why would she do this?’. Nod yes if so.” I chuckled again. “Ha! Just kidding! Just some humor to lighten up the situation. To… you know… ease the tension.” I grabbed his robe, tossing it over his head. Then, I uncapped the decanter and began pouring whisky over him, taking care not to drip any on myself.

Had he been able, he would have sputtered, moved away. But the amber fluid pooled by his mouth, mixing with his blood in a bizarre kaleidoscope, made more magnificent by the capering flames.

“Earlier, you mentioned liking nurses. Well… you probably remember my wife then. The woman you so callously groped? That one? The one who everyone thinks is lying about what you did? You shot her credibility and reputation to shit. I don’t know who you paid off, whose palms you greased, but… they didn’t believe her. Or if they believed her… they didn’t do shit about it. She came home that night, tears streaming down her face, sobs wracking her body. We got to talking about you… if you did that to her, without a second thought, what else have you done? What other women have you assaulted? And probably in far worse ways than my wife was.”

Only drops remained in the decanter. I shook them loose and then dropped the crystal just to the left of Mr. Lowe’s head. It shattered, sending glass shards flying.

“So, after we talked, we decided… why not do some vigilante shit? You’d never get what was coming to you otherwise. You’re too powerful, too rich. No… we decided it was high time to teach you a lesson.” I laughed again.

“A terminal lesson, you might say.”

“It wasn’t difficult. Some online searching and I found the name of one of your best friends, Chuck Thorne. Easy enough to say he booked a massage for you and, like a sucker, you figured you’d get your dick sucked at the end. Well… you had your massage, no funny business, and afterwards, had a drink. Except… no one knew about your proclivities, about your enjoyment of boofing. You did that, then poured yourself a drink. Then… oopsy poopsy! You got too drunk from your boofing, and you tripped! Fell right into the fireplace. Who knows? Maybe you knocked yourself out.” I looked at the robe, gazing at the cotton that would soon alight. “And wouldn’t you know it? You dropped your whisky as you fell. RIGHT NEAR THE FIREPLACE! How tragic. Your robe caught fire, you caught on fire. Burnt to death… man, that sounds pretty awful, doesn’t it? Suffocation sounds much better, if I’m being honest.”

I nudged the robe with my shoe, and its hem began smoldering. Black smoke curled upwards, and the flame caught, guttering slowly up the fabric. Cotton was remarkably combustible and with the aid of the whisky accelerant, he’d have no problem catching fire.

Part of me was sad though…

With all that Rocuronium on board, I wouldn’t be able to hear him scream.

Author's Note: Recently I got a massage and the whole time I was thinking how easy it would be to chloroform someone during... except chloroform takes way too long. So... I wrote about what I know...