I stare at the tall figure standing in front of me. White male, mid thirties, already balding, and a crazy look in his blue eyes. The veins in his neck are bulging, his hands hold the hatchet so tightly they’re shaking.

I’m tied to a chair, hands shackled in my back, ankles bound to the feet. It’s easy to guess what drives him. _Power_. Too bad for him though, I happen to know the script for that one. I’ve heard the speech so much I’ve come to know it by heart. I muster all the water in my body, gather it to my eyes. Crying like someone just gutted my poodle in front of my eyes, I give the performance of a lifetime. Oscar deserving for the expression of raw fear I manage to perfectly express. That should get him off long enough to give me the extra seconds I need.

“Please,” I beg, “you don’t have to do this! I promise, if you let me go, I’ll never tell anyone what happened.”

“Do you think I’m dumb?”

Eh, a little.

“I don’t wanna die,” I sob, snot running down my nose, “You don’t want to kill me!”

The man bends down, bracing himself on my knees, so he can spit whatever garbage he has to say right in my face. It takes me tremendous effort to not crinkle my nose, dude should’ve kidnapped a toothbrush. The smell… it’s truly rancid.

“I am going to chop you off in tiny—“

A small _pop_ sound bounces against the empty walls of the basement. Awkward. Next thing to glimmer in his eyes is surprise. Then he’s dead.

See, in the leather bracelets I have around my wrists are hidden shaving blades, another one in the buckle of my belt, I also have a knife in each of my boots, and many more trinkets here and there. In case an occasion presents itself, you know.

All I had to do after I woke up from my drug induced nap was to buy enough time to discreetly dislocate my thumb.

What was this idiot thinking? Ten years I’ve been doing this, a classless newbie hooked to adrenaline wasn’t going to be the death of me. That would have been embarrassing.

As I pull on my thumb to put it back in place, I can’t contain my annoyance.

“_Argh! _Fuck, now _I _have to clean up._”_

What a pain… And my poor dog will be served its dinner late. I wipe the blood from my face, then kick him in the ribs. Serves him right. Picking up the hatchet from the floor, I play with it a bit to relax my sore wrists.

“_You_ rest in pieces, prick. Me, I got stuff to do.”