 
#

# A Sliver of Light

# BY

# Jamie J. Buchanan
Copyright 2013 Jamie J Buchanan

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All characters in this ebook are entirely fictitious and any resemblance to any person (living or dead) is purely coincidental.

# CHAPTERS

Round One

Nothingness

Game On

Ambidextrous

Spoils of War

Invisible

Round 2

Man Made Monster

Snail Trails

Welcome

Genetic Disposition

Mince

Corp Talk

Straight A's

Tuning Out

Virgin

Surprise! You're Dead!

Pathetic

Decisive Action

The Most Selfish Room in the World

Trough Monkey

Blind Man

Bucket List

Metal Gulag

Death Match

On The Verge

Perpetual Guilt

Unfinished Business

Kindred Spirits

Moment of Clarity

Basic Instinct

End of the Road

The Point of No Return

The Show Must Go On

Catharsis

Timing

One Last Time

A Matter of Time

Countdown

A Sliver of Light

About the Author

#  Round One

The circle was finally complete and Stephen could feel the weight of the revolver pressed against the back of his head. He wondered why the guy behind him was pressing it so hard – it wouldn't make the bullet go any faster. Instantly he knew why. The guy behind him was just as scared as he was.

They were down to twelve players, which appeared to be the number that this sadistic group had planned on anyway. At least, that was how it appeared to Stephen. Once the true nature of the game was revealed, it was inevitable that some participants would rebel – and rebel they did.

Stephen was not surprised to see the swift solution to any recalcitrant behaviour. He had an inkling early on that resistance was futile. Their destiny was pre-ordained from the moment they joined the game. In fact, the past was totally irrelevant. Whatever had happened in the past to get them where they were was of no consequence to where they would be in the future. Everything he had done until this point in his life was irrelevant, unnecessary and futile.

He thought of the words: "The past is prologue". Where had he heard that before? Stephen couldn't remember but it seemed relevant here.

Tonight, in one way or another, he would die.

There was a smell in the room that Stephen couldn't fathom. Was it fear? Excitement? Or maybe a combination of both? He could certainly smell the sweat and the urine in the room. Stephen's own body betrayed his relatively cool exterior. He perspired profusely; the underarms of his T-shirt were drenched in his own wetness.

The guy in front of him smelt the worst – he felt sure that the man had shit himself, the funk was that bad. Stephen had to use both hands to steady his own revolver, respectfully keeping it two inches from the back of the man's head. He felt sure that if he pressed it against the guy's skull (like the one pressed to his own), his potential victim would either faint or simply die from the shock.

"Ten seconds," droned the monotonous icy voice from somewhere above the room – the MC of this depraved activity. Of all the sounds and voices (grunts/cries/moans...) in this hellhole, this was the only one devoid of any emotion.

The longest ten seconds of Stephen's life played out in front of him. Tension in the room was palpable and clearly rising. His eyes were focussed on the end of the revolver in his hands. It wavered slightly but there was no danger of him missing the target – if that's the way it played out. His breathing was shallow and fast; he only noticed it now that the moment had come. The moment of truth.

Life and death.

Life or death.

Remember me?

Yes

Good – make sure you don't forget me pal

How could I forget, thought Stephen to himself hoping that the demon would not hear him. Stephen compartmentalised himself, his thoughts, as best he could to try and function – concentrate on the events going on around him. Like, for instance, someone poised to blow his head off.

But, even then, the Demon could intrude upon his thoughts.

Out of the corner of his right eye he could see most of the players in this intimate circle, each one poised in the same position and ready to pop. Each of them had a different approach, a different reason, and different reaction. Would they all have a different result?

Beyond the circle the orgy continued. There were people in various stages of sexual gratification and satiation; each of them indulging in the pleasures of fantasy. To Stephen, a fantasy attained is a fantasy lost – but to these people, their ritualistic hedonism was a regular goal that was achieved. Before this game of life and death began, most of the people in this room were indulging in some aspect of the orgy; but now all eyes were upon their group, this circle of players. The game had begun and there were only a few seconds left until round one was complete.

Stephen guessed that the number of rounds depended upon the results – he was right. This could go on all night or be over in one round.

The MC counted backwards: "Three...Two...One."

A slight pause, then: "Fire!"

There was no hesitation from Stephen – he squeezed the trigger even as the last remnants of that single syllable word hung in the air. As he did this, he felt increased pressure on the back of his head and the gun behind him pressed harder, forcing his head down.

His gun clicked with a relieving resonance that the guy in front would never forget. Just as this happened, Stephen felt sure that a subsonic boom behind him would finish it all. But all he heard was another very similar click behind his ears – a sound that seemed to echo and reverberate inside his head over and over.

Similar clicks were heard almost simultaneously around the circle. Sobs of relief followed, a small squeaky cry was heard coming from one of them but Stephen couldn't tell if it was male or female.

Cheers rang out, boos were also heard. An uproar broke out as the orgy reacted to the result of round one – it's bloodlust not sated. Twelve started – twelve finished.

"Wait!" One voice was louder than the others – the one Stephen knew as Zoran. This nutcase held the room in awe – his physical presence was enough to invoke fear. At well over 6 feet tall and a very solid muscular build, he was someone you instantly obeyed – unless you had a death wish. Which, at this point in his life, Stephen did. However he wasn't keen to explore the alternative methods of despatch that Zoran was capable of. Stephen wasn't sure who was really in charge – Zoran or the MC of this game.

"Hold all bets!" Zoran shouted, gaining the room's attention immediately.

Money had started changing hands as the results were clear to all. This wasn't like the horse-racing track – there's no protests, no photo finishes. However Zoran had spotted something awry.

"Contestant 6 hasn't fired his weapon!"

Stephen turned to his right to see #6 still holding his gun to the head of contestant #7.

"You fucker!" Yelled #7.

#6 was crying, his pistol wavering wildly in his hands as he struggled to retain control. He sobbed/spluttered "I can't, I can't" over and over.

Zoran's voice commanded, "Fire your weapon #6!"

#6 knew that other weapons were drawn upon him – he had seen what happened to the rebels so he knew the consequences of non-compliance. "I can't do it," he wailed again.

"You son of a bitch!" #7 spat the words out with venom, spittle hanging from his lips towards the ground. He must have thought he was okay after all the clicks in the room – only to have his relief cruelly taken away.

"Two seconds #6 or it's over for you." Zoran took a few steps toward #6.

Menacing.

"Kill him now Zoran," yelled #7. "Get it over with!"

Just as #6 was about to say he couldn't do it, his eyes shut tight, crow's feet lines splayed out across his temple. His hands went dead still for a second and he squeezed the trigger.

The boom filled the room instantly. It sent a high pitched squeal through Stephen's ears. It also sent a lead projectile through #7's head, an explosion of brain, skull and blood spraying outward as the body fell limply to the floor.

The orgy yelled/screamed/hollered as one organism. The hellhole erupted in euphoria – people fucked harder, money changed hands and the festivities picked up the pace.

As Stephen sat down, Zoran announced: "End of round One."

#  Nothingness

Derek Giles sat in the room over-looking the motley bunch of deviates enter his little den of iniquity – his own personal Sodom and Gomorrah. He recognized most of the faces straight away but some took a little bit longer than expected – some of them he didn't really know at all which concerned him somewhat. Gate crashers were certainly not welcome at this sort of gathering.

When Brian Something entered, Derek barely recognized him – and then he realized that it had been several months since Brian was last here. Derek checked his files and, sure enough, they showed that Brian had been travelling for the last 4 months throughout North and South America. He'd lost weight, his hair was longer and he was deeply tanned.

Derek wondered if he had been to similar functions overseas – doubtful.

It's not like this is anything unique though – it's just that these types of gatherings are certainly much more underground than your average orgy. Anyone can find a good swinger's party through adverts in the paper, swinger's magazines or websites and so on. But to find one so extreme, so depraved...well, that was a little more difficult.

This was an exclusive club, membership not easily given.

You had to know where to look, the right people to ask.

Derek was one of those "right people".

Oliver Miles was an associate of Derek's who worked in a porn store not too far from here. He had been approached by customers asking him about snuff orgies – where people are killed for fun. As expected, that kind of enquiry was going to raise a few eyebrows. Ollie informed Derek straight away and arranged for him to meet with these chaps. Derek gathered their details from Ollie and performed his usual checks through the labyrinth of contacts he had in various agencies. He needed to make sure that these guys weren't cops. How they knew to contact Ollie was beyond him – maybe it was sheer luck? Maybe they asked at every shop hoping to finally get the right person?

Either way, they did manage to get the right contact in Ollie and once Derek learned that these two were simply your average "run-of-the-mill" perverts, he arranged to meet them to discuss the matter.

The meet was at an industrial estate at 1AM – the warehouse Derek chose had been vacant for some time as the owner of the furniture company that was based there suddenly developed an urgent need to disappear from the face of the earth. At 1AM, on ground foreign to them, these two guys were sitting ducks – it was a bit like shooting fish in a barrel for someone like Derek Giles.

Someone with his training, his background...his proclivities.

As they stood there waiting for Derek to show up, he was already in the shadows watching them. He'd been there for an hour anyway, making sure he wasn't followed and that no-one else was staking it out as well. These guys were amateurs, but even amateurs can read books and arrange some form of ambush. Derek needed to be sure that he wasn't going to be outnumbered or caught unawares by these guys – that would be so embarrassing.

They stood there, cold, waiting for their clandestine initiation into the underworld of sex and violence. The tall skinny one turned his back to Derek's position and wandered away a little.

Derek's cue.

The next thing the tall skinny one knew, warm liquid squirted onto the back of his neck and he heard a soft gargling sound followed by a dull thud. He turned to see his companion face down on the gravel, the head barely connected to his neck. The knife Derek had slashed through his throat with had all but severed the head, the vertebrae was the only way his head stayed on.

Even in the dark the skinny guy could see the blood pouring out and he felt it's warm caress down his spine as it flowed below his collar. He touched the back of his head and his hand came away red – his companion's blood.

Panic!

It always sets in on occasions like this – Derek had seen it so many times. It was still amusing to him and he still got a real buzz out of being invisible whilst his prey wildly thrashed and panicked, not actually knowing where the attack would come from.

The skinny guy turned around, frightened, terrified; eyes wide and staring into the night. His feet scuffed the gravelly ground, small pockets of dust rose as he stumbled off. It was like his body had started running before telling his feet and he tripped over, sliding on the gravel.

He was face down and easy prey. Derek pounced quietly, cat-like, professional, and thrust the foot long blade into the base of his quarry's skull. The long slender steel shaft arced upwards into his brain and Derek twisted it left and right quickly, mashing the cerebellum and the brain stem. This stopped him breathing instantly and he was dead.

Derek stood over the two bodies and realized that he still had one more to go – Ollie. Oliver was a liability and Derek couldn't risk leaving him out there to be approached by people at random – he could be exposed at any moment if this continued. These two guys had quick and relatively painless deaths – but Ollie would be a different matter.

When Derek called Ollie to help him dispose of the bodies, Ollie obeyed – he knew not to say "No" to Derek. They took them out to Derek's boat and, just before dawn, launched off to the other side of the islands. At this time of year, there was little chance of anyone even being on the water at all, let along close enough to see what they were doing. They handcuffed the two victims together and then to an engine block Derek had stowed away earlier in the evening – and over the side of the boat it went.

Once that was sinking into the depths of the ocean, Derek coldly stuck the knife into Ollie's back, severing his spinal cord between L3 and L4.

Ollie's legs gave way and he fell to the deck of the boat. It didn't even hurt him all that much and whilst he tried to scream, Derek kicked Ollie hard in the stomach, taking the wind out of his lungs and rendering him silent. Then Derek threw him overboard.

Ollie splashed around with his arms for a little while and Derek noticed, with cold indifference, the look of horror on Ollie's face when he realized that not only would his legs no longer work, but he was going to drown out here as the sun rose.

Derek had seen this look before, although it had been a while and he wasn't sure what saddened him more – the fact that he could so routinely dispatch three people so easily, or the fact that he didn't care one way or the other about it.

"She" knew the answer to that. That was another thing Derek would have to confront when he returned to her. But, for now, he couldn't concern himself with the thoughts of Sonja – he had to make sure that he was safe.

That was the way it needed to be for him – he could not afford to have this get out. Each person who comes in had to be vetted and checked to make sure that the group wasn't being infiltrated or compromised. Each participant knew the inherent dangers in participating – they had made their deal with the devil.

If they had known the price they would pay for getting involved in this group, then maybe some of them would have thought twice and not joined in. Derek could not advertise the consequences for a breach of trust – that's a sure-fire way to get caught. But they had seen, first hand, what happened to those who betrayed the group, those who didn't have the stomach for it.

Fear can be a very good motivator indeed.

He knew it was really just a matter of time before they actually did get found out – eventually someone would talk and expose the whole group. Maybe, in some perverted way, Derek wanted to be caught? It was starting to get a bit passé for him anyway. The first time it was like:

"Can we actually DO this?"

Then it was like:

"I can't believe we're actually DOING this!"

And now it's a bit like:

"Oh, you wanna do THIS again?"

The sex and the sado-masochistic stuff was one thing and, Derek felt that frankly, amongst consenting adults, there's certainly no crime in it. The drugs did add an illegal element but it was never enough to instil any real feeling that what they were doing was any more extreme that anything you'd find in most other cities of the world. But the Russian Roulette...well, that was what tipped this over the edge. It's what made them elite, extreme and evil.

The Extreme Team. The method of disposal was quick, easy and more than most of these wastes of skin deserved anyway, Derek rationalised. Not that he considered anything that they did to be a form of vigilante-ism...but they all felt it was a form of trash disposal in some way.

But Derek knew that this had a limited life span, an expiry date close to completion. He thought of Sonja, he thought of the time away from her that they both needed. And he thought how appalled she would be at this. That, in itself, was enough for him to think that this was the last night.

# Game on

Stephen was # 2 and he handed back his gun to the guards. Stephen could see #3 was now crying again, wallowing in self-pity and faecal matter. The track pants #3 wore showed a distinct wet skid-mark down the crack of his overweight butt – the top one-inch of butt crack seemed to allow the stench to escape.

Slimy flabby arse cheeks rubbing together, lubricated by faeces...just what Stephen wanted a vision of as he sat with his fellow competitors.

"You fucking stink," he said to #3 as the large man finally reached the floor. Stephen now had a vision of the shit spreading across the expanse of arse as he sat and squirmed on the concrete.

In an instant Stephen's humanity kicked in and he felt sorry for the guy...actually, not sorry. Pity. There is a difference and it was certainly pity. Pity has a sense of inevitability about it – like the bad stuff that had happened and would continue to happen had been pre-ordained and there was nothing #3, nor Stephen, could do about it.

Between sobs, Stephen made out: "Sorry", "I'm going to die", and "I don't deserve this".

"None of us deserve this, but it's where we have ended up," replied Stephen, as he took in the rest of the competitors in this sick game.

There were 11 of them left; #7's lifeless corpse had been dragged away by one of the gun-toting nutcases who brought them there. 11 people, 7 men and 4 women left. And there were various different reactions to the game so far. #3 next to Stephen was the only one who had soiled himself and seemed beyond repair – for him the only solution now was death. One of the women and two of the men were clearly drug addicts, they shifted around and were even more jumpy than you'd expect after round one of Russian Roulette. One guy, #11, had the tell-tale track marks on both arms and legs of a long time IV drug user.

#9 was pleading with one of the guards to let him go.

"Come on man, this is stupid! I don't deserve to be here."

His protests were met by stony silence

"Listen, I have money. Just give me blanks, bet on me and whatever you make, I'll double it when I get out." #9 grinned wildly now, thinking to himself that this was a pretty good plan – not realising that the type of bullets in his gun had no bearing on whether he would live or die tonight.

As he smiled, his thin lips revealed long discoloured teeth from years of smoking. Thin lips and large teeth made his face look predatory, like he was a shark going in for the kill. However he was certainly no predator – he was pleading for his life.

The guard broke his silence: "No."

#9 could tell the conversation (what there was of one) was over and he sat down, the smile gone and his face turning greyer than Stephen thought possible.

Some of them were quiet, some of them cried. Only Stephen and one of the women seemed to still have their wits about them. She was #10 and Stephen had noticed her several hours ago when this all began. In any other forum, Stephen would have had no other option but to approach her and talk to her – she was, physically, exactly his type. All of his girlfriends had similar characteristics and this #10 was fitted into that category perfectly.

She wore a plain T-shirt and a pair of jeans – both tight fitting which showed of her lean figure. Stephen was, like all hetero men, drawn to her breasts which showed no sign of being affected by gravity. They looked firm, full and he would love to hold them, cup them with both hands as he held her from behind. Her shoulder length blonde hair was tousled, messy, a stray strand straddled her face, obscuring her dark brown eyes. Stephen was transfixed, mesmerised.

This didn't happen to him? Well, at least, not for a long time anyway. Not since...

He waited for the demon to interject, but it was silent. Stephen knew that it understood he was waiting for it...the demon prolonged the torment by staying silent.

But there must be something wrong with her – otherwise why would she be there? Then the demon piped up.

Don't you think you have more pressing things to worry about?

Leave me alone will you

No! I will NOT leave you alone. You are mine – I own you, I'm IN you! And this woman's issues are none of your concern. She certainly doesn't give a shit about a wretch like you

You don't know her

I know her type – and I know that you are not worthy of her that's for sure. But that's not the first time is it?

Once again, the demon had come into Stephen's head and burrowed into his consciousness. He felt sure that someone else must have heard this as plain as day – as clear as he did. But everyone seemed oblivious to it.

And now _she_ sat there, just like he did, taking in the whole scene and those around her. But her eyes did not meet his, as if she were avoiding looking at him. This intrigued him more and he made to go over there and talk to her about this when he felt someone's hand grab him on the arm.

"Where are you going?" It was #3. "Don't leave me – you're all I have here"

"What do you mean?

"I don't know anyone else here. Don't leave me with these bastards."

"They're not going to let me leave. I was just going to talk to someone else. You're sitting there crying, feeling sorry for yourself and covered in your own shit – though I'd leave you alone for a while."

"You can't leave me. I know you're my killer, but you're all I have."

Stephen looked into the eyes of #3 and saw the fear that the guy felt – he was hiding nothing.

"What's your name?" Stephen asked, knowing he was breaking the rules.

"Franklin." The man's eyes were still glazed with tears but now there was some sliver of hope in them.

"Franklin what?"

"Franklin Bletch," and Franklin held out a soft puffy hand for Stephen to shake.

"Stephen Sharp." Stephen shook hands with Franklin. The man gave him the handshake he expected – soft, pudgy, no power or strength in it whatsoever. "Wish we could have met under different conditions, Franklin."

"Outside of here, I probably wouldn't have even looked at you." Franklin was deadly serious and he began crying again, occasionally emitting phrases like: "I'm not a nice guy", "I wish I could have a second chance", and "I promise to be better."

Watch this prick, he's an evil bastard. He's trouble. He deserves

everything he gets

He's been tricked, he's being tortured, he's suffering

That's nothing compared to what he's done to be here. Retribution

is a bitch

The omniscient, all-knowing demon again – invading and pervading. The demon's insight confused Stephen, muddled his mind. But it was rarely wrong.

As Franklin continued to feel sorry for himself, Stephen looked again towards #10. She was now standing, looking towards the orgy that continued on in the adjoining room. From side on, Stephen could see the her curves and a longing to simply hold her close to him whilst she sat in his lap overwhelmed him. The desire for intimacy drowned out the monotonous melancholia that emanated from Franklin beside him.

The orgy continued.

Groans of pleasure, laughter and giggling, whispered gratification and screams of delight. They all rang out and Stephen turned around to watch what was going on. As he caught sight of naked flesh, he felt a sharp crack on the back of his head and paid seared through his skull.

"Turn around and wait for your weapon!" The tall blonde guard had smacked him with the butt of his 9mm pistol.

Derek's controlling voice filled the room again: "Round 2 begins – place your bets."

#  Ambidextrous

As the tenth member of a surreal team of players, Carly Wilson sat and watched as the body of #7 was dragged away – a sanguine trail the only evidence of what was once life.

In this room, this little den of iniquity, there was such a bizarre pocket of humanity that her fascination was sated ten-fold. She saw all shapes. She saw all sizes. She saw it all.

Carly could see so many square metres of skin that she didn't bother to try and estimate it. The nudity and the shamelessness was not what piqued her attention – but the folds. The way the skin folds over upon itself, gravity performing a natural stretch, like Papa Giulio making a perfect pizza. When she was a kid, she stood at the counter of Papa's Pizzeria and watched those fat stumpy fingers push into the dough, flipping it over, spinning and tossing it into the air. The counter had a soft white covering of flour which fell like light snow when the pizza dough spun in the air. The dough fell back onto those dumpy hands and stretched out, sometimes so thin that she could see through it – a doughy veil as it spun in the air, Papa's animated face angled upward following the track of the UFO shaped pie.

The skin in front of her in this room had that same stretched out feel to it, a saggy bag of fatty tissue hanging downward as the person it was attached to indulged in a fantasy attained. The fat beneath the skin, its mass dragged downward adding to the weight stretch. Skin had no muscles, so it stretched. Like an elastic band, the more you stretch it, the longer it got. Each time the pressure was taken off the elastic, the band sprung back – but it was always a little bit longer each time.

The skin – a bag full of meat.

Stretch – release. A half inch longer.

Stretch – release...another inch.

Year after year, stretch and release...sag and bag. The skin, a bag full of fat, muscle and blood. Each year that bag stretches and gets longer, further from its origin.

The man the saggy stomach belonged to was indulging in sexual gratification at a level Carly wasn't interested in anymore. She used to be, up until recently, but now her pain was such that all sexual feelings that she had have paled into insignificance. How could she desire an orgasm when her bowel felt like it was splitting? How could she desire the feeling of complete oneness with another human being when her bones wanted to shatter inside her skin and fly outwards, shredding her?

After tonight, she'll never have another orgasm.

Due to her condition, Carly Wilson didn't desire these things anyway – but she sure used to. For her, sex was an escape. It was a goal that she sought and achieved on every occasion. She knew that there were deeper psychological reasons for her behaviour; there is a reason behind everything we do.

What we do and where we end up – if we knew the answers to this when we were, say, 21, would we still do what we do? Is that what they call fate? That, even if you knew where you'd be when you were, say, 50 years old, would you still do the same things?

And, if you didn't do those same things, would you still end up at the same destination, just via a different route?

In Carly's case, she knew the answer. Her fate was pre-ordained. Organically implanted in her via inheritance. Carly's destiny sealed with a kiss from her mother when she was plucked from her womb and placed upon her inflated belly, bloody, cold and completely disoriented.

Birth stress causes ambidexterity – maybe that's why Carly could write with both hands. She was equally good with the left as the right, although she choose to write with her right hand because she got ink all over her hand if she used her left. Those who decided English should be read from the left-right weren't left handed that's for sure. Carly could do most things with either hand – writing, apply make-up, anything really.

After tonight, she'll never apply mascara again.

The left hand – the devil's hand. Biasness towards the right hand goes back to ancient days, but the Christians perfected it. The Right Hand of God, the Devil was Left handed. Evil spirits and angels always portrayed over the left shoulder. Carly's ambidexterity was an inner conflict between good and evil – a conflict that probably was within most people to a certain level.

Carly's body fought its parasitic invader, constant turmoil between good and evil, left and right. The pain this war produced, its war pollution, had taken a hold of her every-day and it denied her the pleasures and the gratuities that she once took for granted. This had been a long time coming, Carly knew, but she didn't want to know about it in the past. Carly used to think that maybe this wouldn't happen, that it might skip a generation...but she was only fooling herself.

She can't fool her cancer.

It was a devious bastard.

After tonight, she'd never need a pap smear again.

And as it microscopically ate its way through her cells, mutating and deforming/reforming, she sat in a room full of misfits and losers waiting to see who will blow each other's head off first – all the while surrounded by groans/grunts/wails/shrieks of pleasure and pain.

A man had his back to her, the bald spot he had painted with Fabulan Spray. His activity made him sweat and the black goo ran down the back of his neck.

A woman performed fellatio on a young man. Her mascara ran as she forced her mouth further down the shaft, spittle formed a swinging vine towards the floor. Her cheeks went dark rouge/red.

Hair matted on the chest of an hirsute swinger, sweat clumped the hairs together – salty smells emanated from him from somewhere.

Those were the little things that interested Carly, always had. Things that made others uncomfortable, unsaid things.

A woman bent over and, in the matted hair in her arse, Carly could see a hint of shit, one small dag. The man (her lover) saw it too – he ignored it and penetrated her anyway.

A hand slapped an arse, not always accurate. The dom-guy hit the sub's thigh, his finger snapped hard on the bone. Carly saw him withdraw his hand, the pain evident on his face. Unwanted pain, un-sexual pain.

Carly smiled again.

These are the things she'll miss when she's dead.

But after tonight, she'll not miss having her period. Or nursing a hangover. Or listening to some lame guy's lame pick-up lines in some lame club.

After tonight, the things she'll miss and the things she won't miss won't matter at all anyway.

After tonight, Carly won't miss her cancer.

#  Spoils of War

Earlier, when the room started to fill up and the music was playing, drinks were being drunk and people were getting drunk. It was Zoran who suggested they introduce the drugs in to the party and Derek was glad he did. Drugs such as cocaine and speed add a new dimension to people, what they wanted to do and what they could tolerate. Derek was never going to touch the stuff, but he did get pleasure out seeing how the drugs affected others, transformed them.

The orgy had kicked off as usual, a variety of mini porn dramas played out below before him. Derek saw one woman who was the centre of attention with three guys. She was on her back and had a cock in her mouth, the guy above here forcefully fucking her face and, even from his vantage point hidden in the ceiling of the warehouse, Derek could see her gagging on the penis. Her left hand was wrapped tightly around another guy's member, tugging on it harshly whilst he pinched and tweaked her nipples. The third guy was on his knees and fucking her, her legs over his shoulders and he squeezed her neck, depriving her of even more oxygen as she struggled with the cock in her face.

And she loved it!

Scene after scene played out below Derek and, after a while, he tuned out of it. The sight of all that flesh, all that sex...it no longer stimulated him. His motivation to be here had gone. The motivation was never the sex, it had always been Sonja. He knew she needed time and that was what he gave her.

Now he was jaded, finished with it all. He knew, after this time away, that it was her that he wanted all along.

That, and to bury the past as best he could.

Derek had seen his first few games of Russian roulette back in Bosnia in 1992. He had been in the SAS for 6 years and, after a variety of "assignments" all over the world, he'd left the army to go freelance. He still enjoyed the thrill of the battle and the chase, still enjoyed the feeling of domination and victory – but he couldn't abide the hierarchy of an organized military. Derek knew that he would either be a part of the system, broken back into a part of the machine – a cog in the giant wheel of the military – or he'd be kicked out for belting some bastard who desperately deserved it.

So he left to pursue other options, a life where the rules were his own.

And then he met Zoran.

When Derek first met him, Zoran was a skinny nut-case running around Bosnia with the newly formed Croatian army – rounding up and killing as many non-Croatians as he could find. Derek had just started up with the Serbian Army – the "Army of Republika Srpska". As a freelance contractor, he was able to infiltrate into any part of the army that he needed to – but mostly they gave him advance patrol duties and "special missions" which invariably meant undercover assassinations and terrorism acts.

Then Zoran came Derek's way. He managed to capture him as Derek needed a Croatian vehicle to get through to a local mayor that the Croatians had set up in a small town outside Novi Travnik. The mission was to kill the mayor and get out – the idea being to let the Croatians think that the Bosnians did it and keep the local Croat guys occupied for a while.

Getting the jeep was easy but as he was about to kill Zoran, something made Derek stop. He could see that Zoran was scared but he didn't scream or cry, nor beg for mercy. He gave Derek a look that told him that even if he died this day, he would still find a way to get him. It was a look Derek never forgot and, against the instincts of his training, Derek decided to keep Zoran alive.

Zoran was still a kid back then, only 19 years old – but he had seen and done far too much for a young man of his years. Derek was quite a few years older and they talked – sharing stories and ideas. As soon as he realized Derek wasn't Serbian – hell, Derek wasn't even from Europe! – Zoran was smitten with him. Derek held Zoran's attention and captivated his imagination. Up until then, he'd rarely met anyone who wasn't from the old Yugoslavia. And now, here Zoran was, spending time with a career soldier from Australia.

That war was extreme in all sense of the word. The ethnic cleansing, rape as a weapon of war – it was disgusting. Derek knew that some people felt that he had a twisted view of morality – after all, he was a trained and practicing killer. However, that was always done for a reason. He had never killed anyone who either wasn't trying to kill him, or hadn't done something that deserved him being there to kill them. If Derek was there to kill you, there's a very good chance you did something to deserve that.

Being a contractor, he could refuse a job if he felt it wasn't right – not that he refused too many. Derek wouldn't kill children and wouldn't rape anyone. Even a trained killer has limits. Derek didn't have standards, but he did have some morals.

As a result of meeting Zoran, that Croatian mayor was the last person he killed for Serbia. The Croatians paid just as well as the Serbs did and Derek had no allegiance one way or the other – at that stage in life it was all about the money and the glory. He and Zoran formed a formidable team.

The first time he saw Russian roulette was not long after this. It was in a Croatian camp in central Bosnia. Derek couldn't even remember the name of the town, they all rolled into one after a while. Zoran had a few friends of his from the Croatian army and Derek had managed to con two French guys (that he had met in Rwanda when he was there with the UN) to form an advance team for the Croatians to gain control of areas that they felt was historically theirs.

The whole history of the war was so long, complicated and pointless that it was no surprise to him that no one really knew why he or she were fighting or what they hoped to ultimately gain. All they knew was WHO they were fighting and that it would be over when only one of them was left.

Their troupe entered this town and realized that it was a camp for the Serbs that had been captured. Zoran and his countrymen wanted to see the prisoners – their hatred was clear to Derek. They had heard stories about how the Serbian forces used torture and rape games as methods of terrorism but, even in Derek's time with them, he'd never seen any of that. Mostly he worked alone or in very small teams, so was never privy to that sort of stuff.

Derek tried to explain to Zoran that those stories were mostly legend, myth... war stories to scare the population and galvanise national fervour. But Zoran and his men wouldn't listen – they wanted payback.

These prisoners were housed in appalling conditions – they were weak, malnourished and defeated – you could see it in their faces. But Zoran wanted that final humiliation, the degrading nail in their coffin that would take the last essence of humanity out of them.

Derek saw Zoran beat one of the prisoners with the butt of his rifle, the man's head spouted bright red blood as he hit the ground. Zoran stood over him and urinated on the man, the prisoner's flimsy clothing soaked it up as he tried to crawl away from his tormentor. Other prisoners tried to come over to help but that sparked an orgy of violence that was like something from a Hieronymus Bosch painting. Bashings, slashed bodies, parts cut off.

Derek saw cleavers used, knives, metal poles. One prisoner was impaled upon a black metal star picket, then his head was stamped into the ground by several steel capped boots.

Zoran dropped to his knees, undid his trousers and raped the bleeding prisoner. He didn't even ejaculate – to him the penetration and the humiliation was enough. Zoran changed that day and Derek knew that he was a dangerous and deranged individual – but he also knew that _he_ was the only one who could control him.

All the anger and the hatred that he and these other Croatians felt boiled over into a blood lust that Derek had never seen before. He stood back and watched it all happen – Derek and the two French guys were voyeurs to a sickening frenzy. Zoran was rushing about with no pants on, his erection flapping about with blood and faeces on it as he raped and penetrated as many living guys as he could find. He would slash the throats of the men he was raping – and then, once they stopped moving, pull out and find the next victim.

There were six living prisoners left after an hour of the most obscene acts of torture, rape and humiliation Derek ever wanted to witness. Zoran then took six 9mm revolvers, emptied them, and placed one round in each. The Russian Roulette began and so too did their fascination with it. There was a psychological, almost anthropological element to it that fascinated Derek – how people reacted in these types of extreme conditions; especially when they had time to think about it.

He saw it back then in Bosnia in 1992; and he saw it as he watched the participants of his own private death camp arrive onto the arena all those years later.

Zoran was more reserved nowadays, much more calculated. That day in central Bosnia not only changed him forever, but it allowed him to release some of the hatred and the pain in his past. The dark hole within him still gaped, still yearned to be filled with whatever pain and suffering he felt could satiate it, fulfil it, nourish it. But he worked for Derek now and Derek controlled him – used him for his own ends.

That was part of the thrill for Derek too, to have power over someone like Zoran – like a lion-tamer controlling the great cats, a snake charmer transfixing the cobra.

Over time, that thrill faded, tired. Other factors came into people's lives and, for Derek, that factor was Sonja and all that she represented.

A life away from "the life".

A chance at normality once and for all.

One body down and more to come tonight. Zoran had done a great job in keeping the numbers of participants to a manageable level for tonight's game. Derek was always fascinated to find out how it ended.

This time, that end couldn't come soon enough.

#  Invisible

Judith Scruth knew that they couldn't see her – no-one ever did. She was the invisible woman, the ghost that took up space or got in the way. Her skin, betraying her, surrounded a non-person in the eyes of the world. Not just the world that had congregated in this little den of iniquity, but in society in general.

She was involuntarily hiding in plain sight, invisibly placed in the circle of death – a bizarre yet thrilling end to her life. Even here though, even here she had no existence, no being. She has filled a gap, a space, yet no-one seemed to notice.

They couldn't see Judith and they didn't want to. Judith felt that people generally only saw what they wanted to see. What they didn't want to see was an old lady like her fumbling for change in the line at the supermarket express line.

Don't hold me up, they think.

Just my luck, some lonely old tart wanting to have a chat, they think.

Come on, I'm in a bloody hurry, they think.

Just because they are young, it didn't give them a mortgage of being in a hurry, thought Judith. She was closer to the end of her life than the beginning – if anyone should be in a hurry, it should be her. She just didn't move like she used to.

Judith couldn't believe how light the gun was. She was expecting it to be a really heavy thing where she'd struggle to hold it steady, let alone shoot it straight. She honestly didn't know what to expect actually. It was a little more confronting than she thought it might be, but the initial shock of the scenes had dissipated somewhat and she was a bit more relaxed now. Barely anyone had seen her, let alone spoken to her. Maybe they were used to people in their 60's playing this game?

And what a game it is. When she found out about this, Judith was shocked to learn that there might finally be a way out for her, an opportunity to leave this world with a relatively clear conscience and an opportunity to round things off. Meeting Alex was a major turning point in her life.

After tonight, she'd never be invisible again.

The last turning point – exactly what she needed.

In life there were momentous occasions, times where we could look back and realize that this person, this act, that event, or that decision changed the course of our lives and propelled it into a new direction. It certainly has happened to Judith a few times and she didn't like to think how boring her life would have been if they hadn't occurred. With her, it had always been men.

Asif.

Alan.

Alex.

All A's and all three of them had taken her life where it needed to go. And, hopefully, where it will come full circle and finally end.

After tonight, she'd never feel pain/anguish again.

She wasn't totally invisible of course. The man in front of her and the sick looking woman behind her were both acutely aware of Judith's existence; especially the man in front. He looked like a soul of the damned, his skin literally a bag of bones. When she saw him earlier, his eyes had dark raccoon rings and the pupils were almost black. His bloodshot eyes told the story of addiction, abuse and rough times. She wondered what his story might be – how it is that someone so young could end up in such a state.

Was it his fault? Or an abusive/neglectful family? Addictive personality? Blah blah blah...

It seemed to Judith that nobody took responsibility for their own actions anymore. If people spent less time blaming others for their problems and more time looking within themselves to find the source of their problems then they'd sort themselves out. But it was easier for them to blame others rather than admit to themselves that they were too weak to give up drugs, or that they enjoyed shooting up so much they can't stop.

Judith was convinced this was the case – that responsibility had gone the way of the dodo.

In he life, Judith too had been through hard times – times when life itself was difficult and almost impossible. There had been times when she could have blamed someone else – but she was of a generation that didn't do that. You don't live over 60 years in a bubble letting the world and life pass you by. Well, maybe some people do – but she certainly didn't. And now, here she was, aiming a gun at the head of some twenty-something about to snuff out his meaningless and pathetic life.

After tonight, she'd never feel this way again.

She'd not feel the pain of the past come back to haunt her – the ghosts of history wander into her subconscious to remind her of the times she had. They were memories, mental seraphim that reminded her that she was old. Old and alone.

Their presence turned the screws just one more notch, increasing the lament and hardening her resolve that this was her "out" – her salvation. One quick snap of the trigger and her pain and suffering would be over in less than an instant. She only hoped that the pathetic creature behind her had the wherewithal to actually pull the trigger. She was clearly here under duress, which made Judith nervous that she might actually miss Judith's head altogether.

Stress can be good. It's amazing what you can achieve under pressure. Sometimes that's where you do your best work. Judith hoped that was the case here.

To see that man's head explode in the red mist was a relief as much as it was a shock for Judith Scruth. It was a relief that this was real – it was serious and it was what she had wanted for the last 12 months. Alex was true to his word – not that she doubted him anyway, but it was nice to know that her gut instinct with him was spot on. He had brought her comfort and assistance when she needed it most.

And now he brought her release.

Seeing the first one happen showed Judith how unfair this was too. Unfair that some of these people had either chosen this way out (or they'd given up resisting). Maybe some of them thought they'd actually survive this thing – walk out of here a multiple murderer and then get on with their lives.

Alex told her that there would be other volunteers here, people like Judith who had lucked upon this little soiree. There would also be the unwilling, those who thought that they'd come for an orgy only to find that they were the main course. Some of the drug-addled would be here under the pretence that they were to perform whatever sexual or depraved acts the group wanted in return of money and/or drugs. Both were of equal value to them and interchangeable.

And so it turned out to be. As she looked around the group, she could see several people who clearly didn't want to be there. They weren't like the others from earlier who tried to leave. The ones left behind were the gutless, the weak, the dismal excuses for humanity that roamed our streets, filled our work places and hid in any nook-n-cranny they could find. These people hid in plain view, keeping their nefarious activities to themselves (or a select few), waiting to pounce when the opportunity arose. They were the ones who were now crying, feeling sorry for themselves and trying to bargain or barter their ways out of a situation of their making.

These people do not blame themselves for where they are or for why they have ended up where they have. These are the people that blame others for their predicament – the duplicitous bastard who brought them here under false pretences, the evil Zoran who used violence and threats to make them do these things.

But there were a few others in here that Judith couldn't classify – they were there voluntarily, like she was. She wondered what their reasons might be?

Suicide.

Euthanasia.

Assisted Death.

The rhetoric would remain but it's all the same thing. Even Judith, brought up in a Catholic school, raised by Catholic parents, knew that this was still suicide by proxy. She had voluntarily entered into a game where the very point of it is your death. That's suicide by Judith's count, no matter how much she justified it or dressed it up as a game, an experience...a means to an end.

Judith looked over Stephen and Carly, noticing how young they were in comparison to herself. She made some assumptions about Stephen but she had learnt over the years that assumptions can be dangerous. There was certainly a black cloud over him though, he had that aura of doom that was hard to pin-point. A troubled soul indeed.

Carly looked totally out of place here to Judith. Maybe she should be in the orgy – most of the men would love to hold her naked body for their pleasure. She was a pretty young thing, petite, gorgeous. She reminded Judith of someone from the past – a memory that instantly made her gloomy with regret. She reminded Judith of herself.

Judith was sure Carly had her reasons for being there – for participating in this sick game of chance. But did she want to find out?

Well, did she?

The sad thing was, she didn't. She didn't care.

Judith Scruth was there for her own reasons, purely selfish and the rest of these people can go to hell. They're all going there anyway after this night.

# Round 2

Franklin was dragged into position by one of the armed guards, his howls of protest fell upon deaf ears. Stephen noticed how lifeless the guard seemed – he was neither enjoying his tasks nor disgusted by it. To him it was as mundane as putting out the trash.

There were several in their circle who were pleading for their reprieve. Now that the game was most certainly real, they all knew the risks and the dangers. The offer of money was made again by #9. Didn't he realise that doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result was the very definition of madness? Stephen noticed that she (#10) was stony silent, as compliant as he was in being led into position.

Those that didn't want to be there, who knew that they had been duped, were about to enter a stage of anger. All it would take was one of them to crack and the rest would follow. The guards knew it –Zoran knew it; and Derek knew it. Although Stephen couldn't see the body to whom the voice of the Derek belonged, he could sense that he was in the room somewhere. He knew that the controlling Derek was acutely aware of every action, every thought.

That Zoran nutcase can see right through you. He knows who you are, what you are...and what you've done.

Shut up – please!

The demon waited/bided.

Bets began to be made as those who weren't involved in the orgy began to wager amongst themselves. Each person bet against another one on the outcome for a particular competitor. Some had left the orgy to see the game – place a bet and therefore dive deeper into the mire of evil in which they had chosen to partake. A naked man stood to Stephen's left, his erection started to flag as he made a wager with someone on the other side of the room that Stephen would get his head blown off.

"Number 2 here get's his head blown clean off - $500.00!" He yelled out to his colleague. He grabbed his flaccid member, squeezing it to pump blood back in. He shook it in front of Stephen. "And if I win, I get the little head here blown as well!"

The other man (who was dressed in an expensive woollen three piece suit, crocodile skin shoes, tailored shirt with French cuffs and links and wore a gold Rolex on his left wrist, the face on the inside) took the bet with a guttural grunt. The cash was on the floor in front of them waiting for the round to begin.

Stephen noticed the naked man's legs, grotesque varicose veins snaked their way under the skin – swollen calves and pale blotchy skin. The man's pot belly folded over his waist; the "man-boobs" with enlarged areola wobbled slightly as he laughed. It was a deep chesty laugh that provoked a coughing fit, spraying Stephen with creepy wetness.

Good, thought Stephen. At least cancer or heart disease will get you soon you bastard. And that will be a lot more painful death than mine!

Stephen then felt the demon's presence within him. Its irregular visits were annoying but it always announced its imminent arrival and Stephen knew he was coming again.

Over the intercom, Stephen heard Derek speak: "You know the rules here people so let's do this orderly and –

You worthless toad; are you really serious with this little plan of yours?

Shut up, just fucking shut up please.

You can't shut me up – you need me. I'm the only thing you can rely upon, you pointless excuse; you're a disgrace; you're a waste of skin...

– so that we can end this properly," finished Derek.

Stephen had no idea what had been said – the demon blocked it all out. How could he concentrate with that thing in his head? Surely someone else must have heard it too? But no-one was looking at him – everyone concerned with themselves only.

See? No-one loves you like I do Stephen.

You don't love me.

Of course I do – I am the only one who tells you the truth, tells you who you are and what you're capable of.

I KNOW what I'm capable of, thought Stephen and instantly wondered if he said that out loud just then. He looked around to see if anyone was looking at him funny – if he said it, no-one heard it.

He felt the demon leave for a moment, but he knew he'd be back

The bets continued to be placed and Franklin had stopped protesting. He was beginning to accept the futility of his situation.

"Hey Franklin," Stephen began...

"What?"

"It's okay. If the gun goes off, you won't feel a thing."

"How do you know?"

Good question, thought Stephen. He didn't _really_ know.

"Death will be instant – that's it."

"Not always," Franklin said. "Sometimes people survive being shot."

"What? In the head?"

"Yeah!"

Stephen did, of course, know this but some small part of him wanted to convince Franklin otherwise – offer him some consolation and some reassurance.

"I don't know about that Franklin. I don't think I'll miss from here."

"You don't have to miss. The bullet can ricochet around my skull. I could end up in a coma or something..." Franklin was getting worked up again, thinking about being a vegetable in a coma which, to him, was worse than being dead.

"A coma? Well, you won't feel anything then either will you?"

"You sure?" Franklin's voice lifted, spurred by the small twisted version of hope Stephen offered.

Oh yeah I'm sure, Stephen thought. Before he could reply to Franklin, Derek's voice resounded again

"Gentlemen – hand out the weapons!"

After Round 1 the guards had collected the guns and they were taken from the room – along with the dead body of #7. They were now re-primed with a single bullet and sent back in – total random chance. They were all the same revolver – a Smith & Wesson M&P340 .357 Magnum, matte black and great for close contact. For what they were playing, contact doesn't get much closer.

Each gun was pulled from the box by one of the naked slave girls – this skinny redhead wore no clothing except for a blindfold (if a blindfold can actually be called an article of clothing) which now hung low around her neck. She handed the weapons to a guard who passed them around the group in numerical order, starting at #4 this time.

The slave was interesting to Stephen. She was certainly voluntary and was there for the amusement of the patrons. Men and women toyed with her at their whim – some spanking, nipple twists and the like. One of the women, wearing a man's tuxedo, held an electric prod – like a small cattle prod – that emitted a small spark at the end when a button was pressed. She used it on the slave's ass, vagina and breasts. There was slight smell of burnt hair each time and the slave squealed – then came back for more. She was fucked, choked, gagged with violent oral sex and double penetrated. She protested that it hurt and, when it stopped, she begged for more – a grin of demonic pleasure upon her face.

Stephen wondered how her night would end.

She could be you.

Go away!

She could be Sarah.

Oh you bastard, that's below the belt! How dare you?

How dare I? Oh, I dare alright...I'll fucking dare and dare and dare until you can't stand it any more...Sarah, Sarah, SARAH!!! See?!

He knew how to hit the right spots. The slave looked vaguely like Sarah too – well, like she used to look anyway.

The guns were being handed out as Franklin continued to mumble to himself. Stephen heard a few others doing similar – one of the druggies was pleading with a guard for a fix.

"Come on man, I know you've got it somewhere."

Silence was the reply.

"I'll suck your cock. You can fuck me, piss on me, shit on me I don't care!" Increasingly desperate. "Hell man, I don't care what you do, just get me some gear!"

Some of the punters started to laugh at him.

"Look at that pathetic wretch," said a young guy in his early 20's with slicked back hair in a ponytail. He wore only a pair of braces over his shoulders and tight bicycle shorts. Next to him sat a woman aged around 40, her long dark hair tied up in a tight pony tail as well. Her thick-rimmed designer glasses were fashionably perched upon her nose and she draped herself across her younger companion, gently playing with his nipple. On the ground between them, a boy of about 16 was giving the man oral sex.

"I know," she said, her educated private school background evident in every syllable she uttered. "As if pleading like that will make any difference. They never cease to amaze me."

"What sort of worthless, pointless life does this wretch live? How does it survive? And why?" The man's boredom and curiosity towards the addict was evident – like a languid courtesan devoid of entertainment.

"I don't care," she said as she stroked the boy's hair. "There has been a certain lowering of the calibre of participants in recent times. I do hope this isn't the shape of things to come. Feeding upon destitute addicts and society's outcasts!"

"$500 he survives," wagered the man.

"No bet." And she pushed the boy's head down firmly on her man's cock.

"You're no fun." He smiled, his teeth fang-like and decadent.

She pushes herself up to him and they kissed deeply. When they broke apart, she said, "O.K. – it's a bet! I hope his fucking head explodes!"

"If it does," he said, "I'll come straight down this boy's throat," and they kiss again.

Stephen stopped concentrating on this grotesque ménage a trois and tried to hear other conversations. The music and the groans of pleasure in the orgy drowned out most of it, along with the cries of the competitors.

"Last bets," Derek called, signalling only a minute to go.

The orgy quietened a little as the tension mounted in the room. Stephen was given his gun and levelled it at Franklin. He concentrated on the swirl of hair on the crown of Franklin's head, trying to convince himself that it wasn't human. The more he looked at the whirlpool of sprouting hair, the less human it looked – good. That made things a bit easier.

He closed his eyes briefly and as he did so the demon filled his vision, the same as it had done many times in the past. His whole world went red as the face of the demon filled him, it's long jagged teeth looked like shards of broken glass in its mouth. Blood poured out from the base of the two horns on its head, the eyes were flames that licked out towards him, trying to reach and sear him. A low guttural howl emanated from its throat as it opened its mouth to devour him. His eyes snapped open to rid himself of this vision – one that had begun to haunt him again.

He felt the gun behind him bump his head and then retreat. His potential assassin wasn't as nervous now and didn't press it so hard.

"Ten seconds," came the call and Stephen waited.

BANG!

A gun went off behind him and the whole room paused for what seemed like an hour. Then Stephen felt the gun behind him drop onto his shoulder and then the floor – followed by the unmistakable sound of a body slumping onto concrete. The back of his head was wet with blood and brain, his hands shook and he struggled to hold his own weapon. His killer was dead – prematurely.

"Wait for it!" Yelled Zoran but he was too late. Everyone took this false start to be the real thing and squeezed their triggers – clicks reverberated around the room followed by a second loud bang.

Someone yelled: "two for one!" and the crowd was in uproar, money changed hands. They drank. They took their drugs – lines of cocaine on the tables, bowls of various pills.

Stephen's gun clicked again, sparing Franklin the release that he didn't realise he needed. The back of Stephen's head, neck and shoulders were sticky with the remnants of his killer.

"End of Round 2!"

#  Man Made Monster

What do the soldiers do when the war is over?

That was the question Zoran asked Derek when the Balkans war was finished. For a career soldier like him, Derek Giles simply moved onto the next conflict, the next employer. His years of SAS and contract work left him with some influential and well-resourced contacts – he knew he'd never be without work.

But Zoran was different – he was fuelled by hate and driven by anger. His hate was a hole that could never be filled, no matter how much pain and anguish he caused. But he couldn't continue that after the war; he'd end up in jail or dead.

Even back then, right after the war finished, Derek knew that there would certainly be war crimes prosecuted. He had been around long enough to know that conflicts like this, especially ones so well publicized, always end up with the losers being tried for war crimes. He didn't know the full extent of the massacres, the ethnic cleansing, the genocide. But, in his own small way, he had helped in some of that. Derek was also very confident that all he needed to do was leave and that would be the end of it for him. He knew had committed acts that would be classed as terrorism, or murder – but it all depended upon perspective. The losers are terrorists, the winners are war heroes.

But for the likes of Zoran, this was his country. He didn't want to leave – however if he stayed, he'd certainly be tried and found guilty of horrendous crimes.

"I fucking cut the throat of anyone who speak of me!" he spat at Derek once. Derek knew him well enough to know that he wasn't speaking about Derek, threatening him. Zoran knew Derek was staunch, but he was serious on his threat.

"Easy Zoran," Derek said, "You can't do that anymore."

"Why not?"

"There is no war – you can't simply kill someone because they are against you, or want to prosecute you, or want to arrest you."

"War or no fucking war – it is life and death. If I go to jail, I die – that is life and death. In life and death, I kill before some man, he kill me."

For five years, almost a quarter of his life, Zoran had lived like this. He simply did not know any other way – or he couldn't remember it. For him it was very black-and-white.

Kill/Be Killed

Live/Die

There were no grey areas and there was no way that a monster like Zoran could ever function in any peaceful democratic society – which was what these beautiful countries were hoping to be. That is one thing Derek never got to terms with over there, just how strikingly gorgeous the landscape was. From spectacular mountains with ski resorts and alpine wonder, to the Mediterranean coastline with sub-tropical islands that left the Greek ones for dead – this was a land worth fighting for. He could understand people fighting to defend such a breathtakingly wonderful place.

But that wasn't what the war was all about. These things were about who did what to whom in World War 2, World War 1, and long before that. It went back so far that no one really knew why they hated each other – just that they _did_ hate each other, always had and always would.

But then it was all over and Zoran was a war-monger in need of something to fight. A warrior without a battle.

He needed an outlet to unleash his endless retribution upon. From the skinny, hard-nosed kid to a seasoned killer/torturer/rapist, Derek had seen him change. He knew how to control Zoran – but it was a challenge.

Zoran respected Derek.

Zoran feared Derek.

Derek did things he was not proud of – things that any soldier would be ashamed of. The dichotomy between what Derek did out of a sense of duty to his employer and what Zoran did never passed Derek by. But there was bifurcation – Derek knew he wasn't like Zoran at all.

He had been taught the art of killing. It was a career – a lifestyle. There were literally thousands of ways to kill another human being and Derek was taught by his own government many of those ways. The SAS was a breeding ground for killers and the majority of guys in there won't admit to just how much they enjoy taking life from something – or someone. If they did admit it, or even inadvertently indicated this in any psych testing, they would be out of the regiment.

The thrill of the kill was a drug that, once taken, was hard to give up. Derek knew that and used that as justification to assuage his feelings – his innate human ability to know right from wrong.

In Croatia/Bosnia/Serbia, Derek mutilated people, tortured prisoners for information, shot people. He shot a number of people through their front windows, sitting down to dinner with their families. He didn't shoot children, but he didn't care either that a child just saw his father's life end at the dinner table either. It was all justified –

"This man is a bad man, he did this (some description of an atrocity against the Serbs)"

Or

"This evil bastard has done this (some description of an atrocity against the Croats)"

It didn't matter – the excuses all ran into one and in the end Derek didn't even want to hear the justifications anymore. After some time in this war he came to the conclusion that anyone left alive in this shit-hole had done some bad and evil shit to stay alive. Therefore if he was sent in to kill someone, they were guilty just by being alive.

Derek taught Zoran the skills he needed to become effective. As Dr. Frankenstein, Derek created the monster and held control over it.

Zoran learned from him. He taught him restraint, taught him how to be precise and clinical.

Zoran ran on emotion – hate, vengeance, lust and all of those emotions were what gave him the impetus and drove him on. A little later he discovered the chemicals that would help sustain and highlight those emotions (such as cocaine, ecstasy, speed), but before then Derek taught him how to harness these emotions and direct them into improving his efficiency and effectiveness.

And that was why, after the war ended, they had to get the hell out of Europe and do something else. Zoran would never function in the real world, he simply wasn't programmed that way. Zoran was still young enough to want to continue this forever.

And there was a killing to be made in the business of killing.

Especially so for two morally corrupted individuals like Zoran Vlasic and Derek Giles. Their travels took them to numerous places in most continents in the world. They saved each other's life on more than a few occasions and continued the march towards hell with no signs of abating.

Derek always knew that eventually he'd end up either dead or so sick and jaded that he'd probably take his own life. This was a fate he had accepted over the years and it seemed inevitable that, one day, that would be how it would all end.

But, as time grew on, Derek realized just how much he actually appreciated life, that he relished every day and wanted more of it. Sonja helped him realise that – she showed him that there was love in the world and that even a damaged old warhorse like him still had the capacity for love. And to be loved.

The work he did started to take a back seat and he left a lot of the strong-arm stuff to Zoran.

It was in Namibia that Derek came to the conclusion that he needed to retire. By the late 1990's, Zoran and Derek were working for a large diamond firm based out of Windhoek. They would help the firm locate and efficiently operate mines in and around Namibia.

"Locate and efficiently operate mines in and around Namibia" Derek said to Zoran one day – relishing in the rhetoric. They both knew what that really meant.

Basically they were employed to make sure no-one stole diamonds and to ensure that there were enough workers available.

They kept out any other "traders" by all and any means necessary.

They used press gangs.

They hunted and shot deserters and thieves.

There were several instances where outside gangs infiltrated the workforce to extort the company and/or steal as many diamonds as they could. The thing about diamonds is that their value is not due to the rarity of them – nor is it due to the demand for them. The value is determined by supply.

There were plenty of diamonds out there and, if the truth was known, there were stockpiles of thousands and thousands of them. Derek knew because he'd seen them – he'd even been paid in some of them. By keeping out poachers, thieves and other criminals, it kept diamonds out of the markets (black or otherwise) and maintained a high price. If the world was flooded with more diamonds than it needed, then the prices would fall and the companies would not make the profits they want. It swas by controlling the supply parts of the Keynesian economic model of supply/demand that these firms made so much money.

Zoran and Derek regularly ran insurgency raids into Angola. With Angola in civil war, it was easy for them to raid across the border and set up make shift mines in areas that the company's geologists knew were packed with diamonds. It didn't matter to them that the lands were occupied by people – those people were more concerned about living and dying than some white guys mining for rocks. The diamonds might be valuable to the company, but to the local people with no means of selling them, they were simply rocks.

For a few years or so this was simply a well-paid job and one of the easiest ones Derek had ever had. There was very little, if any, resistance and he knew that Zoran started to get bored. In the first few months or so, as they established the mines and their reputation, there was a lot of action for Zoran. They quickly developed a fearsome name and that worked in Derek's favour – but not Zoran's. Derek enjoyed the reputation of fear – of getting subservience and co-operation by simply being who he was. But Zoran needed action – his soul needed the nourishment of blood and pain, of humiliation and destruction.

Derek knew there were times when Zoran teamed up with the NDF (Namibian Defence Force) to quell and uprising here and there – tales of his merciless slaughter in the Caprivi region during the uprisings there spread all through northern Namibia and into Angola. His love for Russian Roulette continued as well, often unloading a revolver and then re-loading with one bullet, pointing it at prisoners and taking bets on the outcome.

But, after a while, he too slowed down, got bored...he needed something else. Derek was reluctant to leave – he could make more money there than he had ever dreamed of before. He couldn't spend it all and Derek had set up offshore bank accounts to look after it. He had a reputation that was never challenged, he simply demanded what he wanted and no-one ever challenged it.

In the early days, those that stood in his way suffered horribly – you only need to do that once or twice and then let the bush telegraph take care of the rest. Over time your deeds get exaggerated distorted and blown out of all proportion. After only a few kills, Derek was known as the "White Demon". To him, that notoriety was a vindication of his past and the work he had done.

The locals called Zoran "Pale Death" and they were even more afraid of him. Zoran's irrationality, his psychosis... that scared them more than anything. But to Zoran, it meant that he couldn't sate his needs.

Derek's needs, however, changed when he met someone Sonja– the woman that could ultimately take him away from his old life and escort him into the light. She would be take him from the darkness and the carnage that he caused and perpetrated and show him a world which was beautiful.

Zoran could never survive in a world like that – he fed upon the ravaging and the destruction. But Derek knew that he could, now that he had someone to light the way.

It killed Derek to be apart from Sonja – especially because it was her that insisted it. If he knew that the reason she needed them to be apart was because of Zoran, he would have put several bullets in Zoran's head without question. He had been with Zoran a lot longer than he had with Sonja – 17 years versus seven, but the future was with her...not with him.

And now, as Zoran and one of their former ex-NDF colleagues dragged the bodies from the arena, Derek thought again of the diamond mines in Namibia and all over Southern Africa and how far away from them he was. And from her.

His heart wasn't in this anymore. He saw Zoran operate as a killing automaton, desperately trying to fill a bottomless pit with the anguish of others.

Derek wondered if it was worth it.

He thought about futility, about destiny, about pointlessness.

#  Snail Trails

Carly watched the guards drag away the bodies of the other dead competitors. # 1 literally had no head left. His killer (#12) was still in a stupor, transfixed by the deed he had performed. The empty gun was pried from his frozen fingers, the knuckles white as he gripped the piece tightly – as if holding on for dear life. The man's face was a deathly grey colour and devoid of emotion – almost robot-like. He was clearly in shock at the sight of blowing another human being's head to smithereens. He remained standing.

#12's fingers were shaking, bony knuckles that look arthritic and painful. He was stunned, petrified. He held his position yet for him these moments felt like a second. His brain would not remember this; it would protect its owner by hiding most of this away in an unbreachable vault. The brain tricked us, jumbled up our memories, merging one into another, splicing some pieces into others. The man would always remember killing someone, but the aftermath will be a blur for him. He would know that he was here, that there actually _was_ an aftermath, but it would seem like a fraction of a second.

He wouldn't have long to deal with this anyway; it's likely his death would snap him out of it.

Carly dropped her weapon to the floor, looking at the back of #11 in front of her. Carly couldn't tell if this person was crying or laughing, and she didn't much care anyway. Carly had her own reasons for being in here – reasons that superseded any emotion or empathy for other players – involuntary or not.

She could see that people are looking at her, wanting to know why she was there. Carly knew that they were thinking:

"Why is _she_ playing?"

"She's gorgeous! Great body, love those tits, firm arse – she's too good to be playing this."

And more like it – gross assumptions and even more gross thought about what they like to do with her.

They didn't know the half of it, she thought to herself.

She knew what people thought when they saw her – especially in a place like this. They see the exterior, the curves, the sensuality that they envisage they will achieve if they have sex with her. If they only knew the reason she was there, then maybe they'd understand why she was doing this.

On cue the pain sears through Carly again, burrowing a fiery tunnel through her flesh – she felt like she was being eviscerated. She held it all together, kept the pain internalised, within. Blocked it out by concentrating on the scene around her.

The other body was that of the female drug addict. Flaps of skin and bone hung open at the temple, a red bloodied mess was falling out as she was dragged away by the feet. Carly noticed the bruise marks behind her knees as her skirt rode up – pale blotched skin betrayed her poor diet and health. Her heels were cracked (AKA Xerosis on the hardened skin of the heels), whitened hardened skin cracked open through poor diet, weight, lack of nutrients etc...

Carly watched as the guards grabbed the woman's ankles, blind to her previous health problem. Not that it mattered much now as her bloodied head left a snail trail behind the victim as she was dragged away. The two bodies painted swervy red tracks leading to the double doors out of the room as they were bundled away.

"I wonder what they do with the bodies?" Stephen remarked – more as a question than an observation. It's the guy Carly noticed earlier that day, when they first arrived. It seemed obvious to Carly why Stephen was here but looks can be deceiving. He now had his would-be killer's blood all over the back of his head.

"Huh?" Sniffed Franklin, his watery eyes and running nose made him look like he had the 'flu. Carly know this guy's name. She knew he'd be here – and she knew that he deserved to be here too.

"The bodies...I wonder what they do with them."

"I don't care," said Franklin as he sat back down in his own cooling filth, seemingly content to wallow in self-pity. "Who gives a fuck anyway?"

"I was just curious..." Stephen's voice dropped away. He was genuinely curious about it. "They must have some way of disposing of the people. They can't simply dump 14 bodies on the street in one night; even the cops in this city would be alerted that something was up. I'm sure it was expected that when they brought 15 people in here, 14 of them wouldn't be walking out so they must have some plan."

"They cut them up and mince them for food," Carly said, butting into their conversation.

"How do you know that?" Stephen asked.

"Because I have been here before."

Carly had been here before, though not as a competitor. She felt like unloading on him, telling him everything and all the thoughts that had led her there. She wanted to tell someone her story, her past – even if it's only someone who would be dead in an hour or so anyway.

But not yet. Carly's gut feeling told her that he would be okay with her reasoning and he looked like someone she could talk to, but you never know. He might just laugh at her. He might deride her. She doubted, she hesitated.

He might tell her that she was a weak shit for doing this.

He might tell her that that he had it worse than she did.

He might tell Carly that she was wrong.

She felt the pain inside start to stab at her again, it came and went in waves. It had been worse over the last month or so, more regular and more severe. Carly started to take some pretty strong pain relief but even Panadol Forte (procured through one of the contacts she knew in this little twisted playgroup) was starting to have little effect.

The party continued around her, people in various stages of disrobing. One guy walked away from where Carly stood and dropped his towel to the floor. There were two folded indentations on his waist, one on each side, where the flab of his out-of-shape torso folded down over his hips. He had psoriasis on his back, his arse and the back of his legs. Red blotchy scaly patches mapped out across the expanse of his blubbery back, like pink islands on a map.

Carly knew that this would increase his likelihood of a stroke.

She closed her eyes briefly and saw pictures in her mind, like flicking through a photo album.

Carly saw him in a hospital bed, tubes sticking out of him, a wife and three bored teenage kids sitting by his bed.

Carly saw him in a lounge chair, his mouth lop-sided, his wife wiped spittle from his chin with her left hand whilst, in her right, she held a bowl of soup.

Carly saw him lying in a coffin, banging on the inside of it, mumbling "I'm not dead, I'm not dead!" through a lopsided grimace

Carly had to open her eyes.

I don't want to see that, she thought. Carly bore no ill-will to anyone here, except herself. Her reasons for being here were her own.

Carly's days of independence are almost over, she knew it.

That's why she was there.

# Welcome

"She" was there when Stephen arrived at the warehouse earlier in the evening. By the time Stephen had shown up, a small group was gathered in the underground car-park of the building – about 10 or so decrepit looking miscreants assembled under the misapprehension of a night filled with orgiastic pleasures. The truth would destroy them.

"The truth will set you free." Hmm... a catch-phrase he heard somewhere but could not remember where it was from. Does it set you free? In Stephen's experience it could set you free – but more often the truth confined him, restricted him. And depressed him.

He wondered how many of these people were here of their own volition – to play the game that would end their lives. It was very quiet in the basement – the scuffing of shoes against the cold concrete echoed around the grey tableau. Some of them looked like complete wasters; drug addicts who, in dire need of a fix, would perform whatever acts they were asked to get the money to score – or simply get the drugs in lieu of payment. These people had sold their souls long before entering into this agreement.

After tonight, Stephen won't have to perform the mundane tasks of life.

Then Stephen noticed Carly standing in the corner talking with a monster of a man. The guy was huge, well over six feet tall, probably closer to seven feet. His broad shoulders betrayed the muscle-bound physique hiding beneath the fabric of his expensively cut suit. As tall and impressive as he was, she was diminutive and petite by comparison. They chatted very quietly and he could only hear a few whispers and mumbles, no actual words.

The demon drowned it out anyway.

So, you're actually going to try and go through with this are you?

Yes, leave me alone will you, I need to concentrate.

Like fuck, I'll leave you alone. This is just another of your bullshit plans that will go nowhere.

No it's not.

Yes it is! You'll either chicken out or they'll reject you when they realise what a pathetic waste of skin you really are.

"Shut up," came out like a whisper and one drugged out looking weirdo turned around. The look on his face was one of "Did I hear that?" Stephen was experienced enough to put on a blank expression as if nothing happened, leaving the other person thinking that they simply imagined it.

Two more people arrived and one of them then departed, leaving his companion alone in a room full of strangers. Strangers they may be, but in a few hours time those that were left would be bound by a seal that could only be broken by one thing.

After tonight, Stephen will never have to wait for a taxi again. Never brush his teeth again. Never repair a puncture again.

As the minutes ticked by a few conversations started to spring up amongst the more desperate of the gathered. Stephen could tell that a few of the men were wondering where and when this so-called "Extreme Orgy" would be taking place and, if this was it and this gathering of misfits was all there was, then there was a serious case of inaccuracy in advertising going on here. Stephen had heard the stories of swingers' parties and private orgies and the like but had never had the inclination to indulge. In the past he'd been strictly a solo man – monogamy was his thing. The tenderness and security of spending time alone with only one other person was what he enjoyed. That closeness, the unity felt when he entered a woman's body and the pleasure gained by giving as well as receiving was what turned him on.

This "Extreme Orgy" was the stuff of urban myth – parties where everything and anything goes. Sadism, B&D, slave training, as much sex as you can ever handle – even more! Viagra now made these things last a lot longer than they used to – combine that with alcohol and cocaine (plus any other drug of choice) and you have a chemical cocktail for prolonged sexual adventure.

The gathering had now become a crowd and Stephen noticed that there were about 15 or so of them, maybe a few more. This was more than he had expected and more than he was lead to believe participated in the game. He hadn't been told much about the game but he knew enough to realise that this was what he needed to do. With his life, or rather what he felt was left of it, this was the best and only option for him.

After tonight, Stephen will never have to shave again. Never wear another tie. Never get stuck in traffic. Ever again.

What about these other people? Sure some were about to be very disappointed when they find out they were not here for an orgy, but rather a twisted game of roulette – to be live human chess pieces in a sick gambling house. And others were clearly here simply to hope to survive and earn some extra dollars – hell, some of them probably don't even know what they're doing here anyway. For a hard-core addict, you could lure them anywhere if you promise them enough cash.

But there must be a few of them who, like him, are volunteering for this gig. He tried to guess who they were but found that difficult. Could "she" be one of them?

She fucking HATES you – she knows what you are!

What about her enormous friend in the $5000 suit?

Just as he formed that thought, the man-mountain spoke.

"Ladies and Gentlemen – thank you for coming." His English was heavily laden with a European accent, not German but certainly middle-Europe. Maybe Croatia or Romania? He spoke well, educated and refined.

"My name is Zoran. Welcome to the night of nights –

Blah fucking blah fucking blah...this scum's full of it!

Shhh!

Don't you Sshhh me!

– "If you will be so kind as to follow me into the adjoining room, we will outline the evening's festivities and get ourselves ready."

Don't you EVER SSHHH me!

He walked away towards a single metal PA door in the concrete wall – a blue rectangular escape hatch from this concrete bunker. Shoes clip-clopped across the concrete and tapped out echoes through the empty room, sound bouncing off the solid columns.

Remember what happened last time you SSHHH'd me?

Yes, Stephen did.

The blonde woman followed right behind the man who soon filled the doorway with his bulk as he stooped slightly to enter the room. Maybe she was with him and not part of the group? Thought Stephen.

From the car-park he could see the other room was dark and the large man disappeared into the black fog as each person after him followed like sheep.

Lambs to the slaughter, thought Stephen as he followed the last person into the room that would define them all.

After tonight, Stephen would never wake up screaming again.

#  Genetic Disposition

Carly's reasons for being in this sick and twisted game of suicide continued to eat away at her as tangibly as the cancer that mutated its way through her system. The more she thought about it, the more she felt like it was happening to someone else.

Someone else's loves.

Someone else's life.

Someone else's death.

That detachment helped Carly organise her thoughts and put them into something closely resembling coherent sequence. If only she could pluck up the courage to tell Stephen – or tell everyone in this room – the reason why she was there this evening. If only she could pluck up the courage to survive.

This was her way out, she was convinced of that. Her story, her reason, her justification.

Carly Wilson was twenty-eight years old and was fairly positive she wouldn't see twenty-nine. Although, against all her best intentions, she was rapidly approaching that milestone.

And it certainly was a milestone for her. Carly's mother, Carol, died from an early onset of cervical cancer one day before her twenty-ninth birthday. The disease had been detected two years before this in a routine pap smear test but the rapid declination over the last three months of her life took everyone by surprise – especially seven year old Carly.

The seven year old couldn't understand why her mother was gone, why she couldn't see her any more. Seven year old Carly didn't understand why the love had been taken away from her – that security that a mother's arms provided had been ripped away never to return. Seven year old Carly couldn't understand it at all – she needed her father at this time.

But, once her mother was gone, Carly's father was never the same and he eventually crashed his car into an oncoming semi-trailer at 100 km/h. Officially it was a drink driving accident – he had immersed himself in a bottle after Carol's death and stayed there for three years – but even ten year old Carly knew it was suicide.

Despite these tragedies and the years of darkness, Carly was remarkably upbeat about life and she was lucky enough to find a foster a family that helped her through school and early adulthood. University and an early career in scientific research for a large pharmaceutical company followed, although like most graduates, she went from job to job until she found one that fit.

Men, too, came and went. Carly liked men and they certainly liked her. She had been blessed with a figure most women would die for and most men wanted to hold. A psychologist might surmise that Carly's bed-hopping from partner to partner was a constant quest to find the close love taken away from her as a child. Or maybe her non-commitment was a defence mechanism to avoid being hurt emotionally.

Or maybe both.

To Carly it was simply sex – a basic animal need and she loved it. Some of the guys were good enough to warrant a second or third date, but most were selfish, inexperienced boys who just wanted to act like porn stars. They'd seen porn, knew the faces to pull and the moves to make. But it was soulless and unsatisfying to her.

That was until she met Kelly Kane. Kelly was almost 40 when they met and had dark wavy hair that he didn't bother to keep under control – it was wild, greying slightly, and she loved it. He was tall and a fit athlete who had played sport and been active his whole life. He would run, swim and keep fit – and he also played drums. He had played in bands for over fifteen years – part-time work on the weekends but was considered good enough to have taken it professionally if he'd wanted. However Kelly was a successful business man, owning and running two funeral parlours – an odd choice in some ways but very astute. As he often said: "Even in hard economic times, people still die. It's recession-proof."

He was handsome, fit, intelligent, creative...oh, and he was fantastic in bed with Carly. He was attentive to her needs, always managing to sense how far along the orgasm path she was. She never needed to tell him when to slow down or speed up, stop, go or anything! He was intense and passionate and Carly knew that Kelly was "the one". But...

Kelly got married nine years before. He had two kids and a third one on the way. Carly knew that he'd never get a divorce. Although he never actually said he would leave his wife, Carly still lived in hope. They rarely talked about it and Kelly never revealed why he actually was with Carly.

Then, after two years of seeing Kelly, Carly received the news that drove her away from him forever. The demon that ate her mother was within her too. Cancer was forming inside Carly at the same age that her mother found out – twenty-seven.

The cycle was trying to end. The bastard cancer was determined to dominate her life and snuff it out once and for all. She shunned treatment, she eschewed knowledge and assistance. It was a foregone conclusion that she would die from the cancer and anything that resembled treatment was only delaying the inevitable.

Carly knew it was inevitable – a death sentence awaited. A destiny decided – declination and deterioration determined.

Operations, biopsies, tests, therapies. These all failed her mother and they would all fail her too. These things gave a seven year old girl hope that her mum would survive. The seven year old imagined her mother happy and healthy, playing in the backyard with her, swimming at the beach, attending school plays. The hope that was killed when her mother died broke Carly's heart and she couldn't go through that again.

She thought of suicide but she knew that she was stronger than her father. Besides she had no family except for some distant second cousins so no-one would mourn her – miss her. Except Kelly.

When she broke it off with him he was devastated. He said that he would leave his wife for Carly but inside she knew that was a promise he couldn't keep. They both cried and she offered no reason for leaving other than she needed to move on. She never told him about the cancer.

The following eighteen months or so were a blur of increasingly risky pursuits and hedonistic pleasures. Activities such as the usual rush of extreme and adrenaline sports got old quickly – how many times can you get the same buzz jumping from a bridge? She travelled, saw the world, and then ended up back in the city she grew up in.

Her sexual adventures continued – in fact she ramped up the fun. She tried men, women, multiples of both. She loved the swingers' orgies when as a single woman, always was the centre of attention for the men and the women! She had been with bisexual guys (together), and played with lesbian domination. She enjoyed the pain of being dominated. It was an instant turn on and the orgasms were almost as intense as those Kelly gave. She got a few tattoos – floral inks on her right thigh, lower back and a Celtic dragon on her left arm from the shoulder to the elbow.

Pain and pleasure became her goals – her distraction from the growing mutation within her body. She felt no worse than the day she was diagnosed and began to think – irrationally – that it had simply "gone away".

After a visit to a new doctor on the other side of town, it was confirmed that it certainly hadn't "gone away". Her killer had metastasised and grown – time was running out. She cried often but still refused treatment. The pain started to come in small doses but increased over time. It was hard to describe but, at first, it was like a stomach cramp.

Then indigestion.

Then a pulled muscle.

Each month brought a new level. Her time was coming to an end – as she knew it always would. Like an expiry date on a birth certificate.

Like a doomsday clock, winding down.

Like she was two minutes to midnight.

At an orgy she met a couple of "bull-dykes". Their monikers of "Candy" and "Randy" belied their natures as a contrasting mix of sadism and gentleness. They told her about the most extreme orgy in town – probably the whole country. The Extreme Team. She not only swore to secrecy – they also took her to meet Zoran.

Zoran was the scariest man Carly had ever seen. His eyes were zombie dead – simply devoid of emotion and feeling. He was huge too – at least 6' 10" and his hands were like massive mitts. Her petite fingers were engulfed in his massive vice-like grip and, when the women explained who he was and what he did, she believed every word of it. Zoran was a Croatian ex-paramilitary nutcase. He was a psychopathic homosexual who raped anyone (mostly men) for the sheer dominatory/predatory thrill of it. When he killed, he got an erection – often he'd orgasm. He placed his strong hands on the sides of Carly's head and squeezed. For him it was gentle, but Carly felt her head start to buckle before he let go. That was his show of strength – a warning.

She would keep her mouth shut.

Her first night was in the orgy – which was what she was there for. At first it was no more outlandish than many of the other swingers' parties she'd been too – maybe a bit more emphasis on bondage and discipline, but still much the same. Then the 12 players walked into the adjacent room.

After that first time, Carly knew what she wanted. With the beast inside her ever consuming and beyond control or regression, it was a natural progression for her to play.

Carly wondered if anyone would really understand this? Carly knew this was her only option, her one salvation – it was pre-ordained, pre-determined, pre-decided.

The pain that Carly felt inside her was very real, tangible. It's like she could feel the cancer growing every day, each time it flexed its muscle shafts of pain shoot through her entire body. She was crippled by them, immobilised. They'd come and go when they pleased and she could feel her muscles tense every minute of the day, waiting for the next attack.

They were coming more regular now – Carly even had one as she held the gun to the back of the man's head in front of her. She was worried that she might squeeze the trigger too early; Carly did not want to upset Zoran. She could tell that it didn't take much to set him off and she was not there to have her head caved in or the life squeezed out of her. She came there to end it all and avoid the increasing pain, the absolute loneliness of wasting away in a hospital with no-one to love her.

Maybe someone would understand that, but Carly wasn't sure she could take that chance – even now so close to the end of her life.

# Mince

"What do you mean you've been here before?" Stephen asked Carly. He couldn't believe it – she had actually been here before. Maybe she played and won? Maybe she was some sort of adrenaline junkie that enjoyed the near death experience – random chance determining life.

He couldn't believe his ears – maybe the ringing in them from the nearby gunshot had scrambled his brain somewhat and he didn't hear her correctly.

"I was here a month or so ago – when the last game was on." Carly was calm, "matter-of-fact".

She was "no-big-deal".

She was "Yeah-So-What".

"So you won then?" Franklin had been listening in too and was now very interested in talking. To him the thought of a survivor, someone who could actually live through this thing, was a new level of hope that he had just about given up on.

"No," said Carly, a wry grin curled up the corners of her gorgeous red lips. "I didn't play last time. I was in there." She indicated the orgy which was continuing on with gusto. The orgy room was basically the same sized room as the one the competitors played out their sick game. Approximately 30 metres by 20 metres, it contained a few mattresses, chairs and a couple of leather swings suspended from the rafters. The whole area was simply an ex-warehouse type of building with a thin internal wall separating the two rooms.

Inside the orgy room, the numerous people alternated between watching and participating in the activities. The ages ranged from early twenties to about sixty – body shapes of all sizes and configurations. It was a genuine swinger's night but there were numerous single men and women who were indulging in the games as well. Stephen had always thought that the men would out-number the women at one of these gatherings by ten to one, but the reality was closer to even numbers. There were women with two or three men, some guys with two women. Women with women and men with men.

Bondage and some discipline was a big part of the proceedings too – especially where the slaves were concerned. Stephen could see that there were some people who purely wanted sex but most were keen to be on one or the other side of the bondage element as well. And now this beautiful young woman has just told Stephen that she has been in this before.

"Why aren't you there now?" Stephen asked.

I told you, she fucking hates you. Why do you persist with this? It's inevitable she will pity you, laugh at you. Is that what you want? Pity? Sympathy? That's not love you know...only I love you.

"I can't tell you that," she replied coyly. "I don't know you well enough to tell you all my secrets."

See? If she really wanted you, she would have told you. You're a joke, laughable, pathetic.

"Well, you may not get a chance to know me better – our time is running out here." He tried to shut out the demon, concentrating in Carly's deep brown eyes, the dark mascara accentuating the sensuality.

"That's true. Pretty soon one or both of us will be dragged off into that room and turned into pet's mince, or mince beef or whatever they flog it off as."

"How do you know they do that?"

"It's what I was told last time I came – that they cart it off and mince it up somewhere. It could be bullshit, I don't know, but they obviously must do something like that to get rid of them."

"Who is in charge here?" Stephen asked, thinking to himself that this woman actually might know more about what is happening here.

"They don't use real names here," she replied. "Except for the players of course. I don't think anyone really knows who is in charge. I assume it's that Zoran guy." It doesn't really matter though, you'll all be dead soon anyway."

"You too remember," Franklin threw in.

YOU won't Stephen – you'll screw it up like most of the other things you screw up

"Well maybe, but knowing my luck...." and she let the sentence drift away. But Stephen heard it and stored that up – there was something else going on with her.

Carly continued: "They only tell you not to mingle to stop you all rising up. Not that there is much you can do anyway as there's only ever one bullet in the gun you have."

Stephen thought of the "uprising", such that it was, earlier on. It was a slaughter really, culling out the numbers to some degree. There's no way any of them would be "rising up" in here. Stephen couldn't think of a more futile act.

I know what's futile – your stupid little plan here – this won't work.

Yes it will.

NO IT WON'T! You're shit and you won't finish this

"What did you do?" Franklin had been silent but spoke up now – his voice soft/light, frail in the thickened air of the orgies of sex and violence.

"Huh?" Carly looked disgusted with Franklin, like she was going to be sick just talking to him.

"What did you do wrong to be sent in here with us?"

Fair question too, thought Stephen. She must have done some really bad shit to be punished in this way.

"Oh nothing", she replied. "I volunteered"

Franklin was incredulous – astounded. Why the hell would anyone want to volunteer for something like Russian Roulette whilst these sick weirdos take bets on the outcome? No matter how crap your life is, this is not something any rational person could conceive.

"You...you volunteered?" Franklin spluttered the words out between gasps, but once he got started he couldn't shut up. "Why would you do something like that? You could be over there fucking and sucking and spanking till your heart's content – instead you're over here waiting for some arsehole to blow your head off? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me?" Carly turned to face Franklin, disgusted as the sight of him. "What about you? Wallowing in your own shit you pathetic arsehole! I know why you are here and I know what you've been up to you sick prick!"

Stephen watched on in amazement.

How could she? Thought Franklin –.

"Wh-what do you know?" Franklin stuttered, the strength starting to seep away.

"I know you travel overseas for work a lot and I know what you've done over there too. I know that whatever happens to you in here is nowhere near as nasty as what you deserve." She spat out the last few words at Franklin's lowered head, small balls of spittle raining down upon the man as he buried his head in his hands – again indulging in the privilege of self-pity.

"What do you mean?" Asked Stephen – curious as to how she knew this stuff which, judging by Franklin's reaction, was clearly true.

You're wasting your time here.

What? With her?

Yes, I told you she hates you!

No, I don't think so.

Well I know so. It's a waste of time – everything you do is a waste of time.

"I think you should let Franklin tell you Stephen."

"You know our names?" Stephen's turn to be shocked.

"Of course I do. I'm Carly."

She stuck out her hand as if she were at a barbecue and had just met the new fiancé of her girlfriend. Stephen shook it and instantly fell in love with the most intriguing and fascinating woman he'd ever met.

#  Corp Talk

In choosing those people to participate in the Russian Roulette, it was always a matter of making sure Derek and Zoran obtained someone deserving. There were a few dregs of society that they managed to drag in each time they held the game, thereby doing society a favour by eliminating them.

Improving the gene pool – that was the rationale.

One such person is Franklin.

Franklin Bletch was, by most accounts, not a very nice chap. There were not many people he worked with who could say things like:

"Franklin's a really decent guy." Or:

"Franklin Bletch? Yeah I know him – great bloke." Or:

"Franklin's fair, honourable and hard-working. A real pleasure to have as a colleague."

In most cases the unanimous adjective to describe him was simply: scum.

Here's one story from someone who met Franklin in the Philippines. Jason Jenas never knew Franklin before this night:

I remember meeting Franklin in 2007 in a bar in the Philippines called "The Crystal Ball". This was the sort of sexy shithole that only large Asian cities can produce and, quite frankly, I was more than a little uncomfortable in it. I mean, I like a sexy woman as much as the next guy. But Asian women just don't do it for me.

I know that sounds terribly racist but is it racist to explain a preference? I just don't find them all that attractive. However, after having been away for a couple of weeks or so, my standards were beginning to waiver a little bit and I was starting to come around to them more. Sure they had great bodies and, as the time wore on (and the beers took effect), I could feel myself going down the road of "Oh fuck it, why not?"

And Franklin was my chauffer! In this place, all the girls knew him. But, most importantly, the boss knew him.

"That's Manuel . He owns the place," Franklin explained to me as the little slimy man hugged Franklin's wobbly body, his tiny hands slapping the fat roll on Franklin's back, below his shoulder blades. I could see Franklin's fat shudder under the impact and even through the haze of beer, smoke and sex, I wondered what his life expectancy would be lugging that fat around year upon year.

Manuel showed me and Franklin a few local girls and we each picked two of them. Well, Franklin picked all four as I was still new and shy to this whole Asian prostitute thing. Franklin knew his stuff – the girls he picked were young but not virgins. I am too embarrassed to tell you what happened next in any detail. I will say, though, that Franklin did fuck all four of the girls and I had a crack at two of them. I was so pent up with sexual energy that I came in no time at all. I've never been one to "back-up" with a second round so I simply lay back and watched the girls have fun together.

But Franklin was in his element and he was in for the long haul. He offered me some ecstasy (I declined), some Coke (I declined) and some Valium (I needed). After a while, this look came over his face and it scared the shit out of me. I wanted to leave but through the valium hit, I was just too zonked to be bothered moving. It was hazy for me and alcohol, valium and the general sex in the air did confuse me a bit.

But I do remember Franklin fingering one of the girls. Then two fingers, then more, then his whole fist was in there. It wasn't sexy at all, it was violent – like he wanted to punch her womb! She was making noises but I couldn't tell if it was pleasure or pain. One girl left only to be thrown back in again by Manuel who was outside the door. Franklin grabbed the escapee, flipped her onto her stomach and then entered her from behind. No lube, no preparation – straight in her ass. I didn't mistake that scream for anything but pain. Within seconds he had come, pulling out of her ass as he did so. One of the other girl's head was close by so he forced his cock down her throat, choking her with it. He finished coming down her throat, blood and shit from the other girl's arse now staining the sheets.

I was speechless and still out of it. Franklin turned to me, his erect cock slowly starting to recede into the fat rolls of his stomach (I always wondered whether fat people actually had small cocks or was it simply their fat that make the cock look small?). He grabbed the side of my head with his sweaty smelly hands and looked me in the eye.

I nearly shit myself – I'd never been so scared in my life. The look on his face made me feel like a scared little kid on his first day of school all over again.

"Fuck off!" he said "Fuck off, and I never want to see you again!"

So I did. I never went back to the Philippines and I wish I'd never met Franklin Bletch.

Franklin had no issues with back-stabbing a colleague in order to gain the upper hand or simply been seen in a better light.

Franklin thought nothing of planting marijuana in the locker of a co-worker and then anonymously notifying his manager that one of the lockers had dope in it. His colleague was caught, Franklin was the only one to replace him as supervisor and he was promoted accordingly.

He was currently the national procurement manager for Steelco – a national steel distribution company that imported long steel products (beams, tubes, pipe and plate) from overseas. Most of this came from countries like China, Taiwan, Japan, Korea, Malaysia and Thailand. Franklin has risen to this position through the incompetence of others – mainly his own managers that had taken the fall for Franklin's inability to do a decent day's work. He was known as Teflon – "nothing sticks" – and that was certainly true. He managed to consistently talk his way out of why the company lost money on this deal or that, always managing to clear his own name by slinging enough mud that stuck to the name of his manager.

How did Derek know all of this? It was his job to know. His contacts and sources are thorough and it's important to him that anyone who plays this game deserves to be here.

No-one is innocent.

Eventually Franklin rose to a position where he was virtually self-employed. As National Procurement Manager (NPM) he worked his own hours, travelled where and when he wanted, and enjoyed life to the full. Each trip away was spent at nothing less than 5-star accommodation. He ate three massive meals a day, thought nothing of racking up bottles of Moet & Chandon on the corporate credit card when out with suppliers to add a "value proposition" to the "customer relationship management".

Frankly Franklin had no idea what either of those two corporate phrases meant. Franklin was fluent in "Corp-talk" – a method of incorporating somewhere between two and four words that, when connected in a phrase, actually don't mean anything at all. But they sound like they should. Using terms such as "Synthetic Relationship Synergies" or "Achieving Collaborative Co-Operative Outcomes" actually don't mean anything at all. But when these words are put together, they can be interpreted as whatever the reader wants – and used to justify why Franklin has spent $3000.00 on dinner for 6 and a night out in Bangkok.

His deceptive and near-on fraudulent abuse of his fringe benefits paled into insignificance in comparison to his extra-curricular nocturnal activities. An example of which was a recent trip to China where he visited the north eastern city of Dalian. He stayed at the Kerren Hotel which was one of the few decent hotels in Dalian and just down the road was the infamous Five Colour City.

During the day, Five Colour City was very quiet and simply looked like closed shops and bars. But once the sun set, the area opened up into a seedy array of back street bars, gambling houses and whatever else you wanted to find. Franklin knew that every Asian city was like this and if you were looking for a certain activity, you would be guaranteed to find it in a place like Five Colour City. Bars were owned and run by women and he hardly ever saw a Chinese man in them. They were small, no more than maybe 200 square metres and staffed by women. Technically the girls were "hostesses" but it didn't take Franklin long to realise that whilst prostitution was illegal in China, the girls only earned decent money from guys like Franklin.

In China, like most Asian countries, the dollar can go a long way and the lure of Western riches makes this lifestyle addictive for quite a lot of Chinese women. Their prospects of decent money and wages in most Chinese professions are pretty low, especially when they are not educated, and Franklin knew this as well as anyone else. They were ripe for exploitation and exploit them he did.

In Dalian, he was there for four nights and he had two girls every night, all night. He stopped short of general debasement when it came to sexual activities and it wasn't entirely rape – but it was pretty damned close.

Franklin never asked for their ages and consequently he was never told any lies. He knew that the older they were, the more they'd been around so he preferred them young anyway. To him that meant less chance of catching any sexually transmitted diseases The fact that their under-developed bodies still showed the signs of drug abuse escaped his detection, but he did use condoms. Narrow hips, small breasts, soft and unblemished skin all pointed to the girls being under-age but Franklin fucked, teased, pinched and slapped them all the same.

As he aged he became more adventurous and specific about what he wanted. Simply fucking one or two different young Asian girls each night didn't excite him anymore – he needed the thrill of non-compliance, even if it was simply a game-play. He could always find someone in his network of nefarious associates that would provide him with someone who would be willing to play the victim for the extra cash.

In China it was Mr Lim.

In the Philippines it was Manuel Aroya.

And in Thailand he could always call upon Joey Chop.

Joey Chop's real name was a mystery to Franklin and he would never have been able to pronounce it anyway. Joey could always get him girls that he said liked to be hurt a bit, slapped, tied up, tortured. Joey's girls always made it seem very real; they acted like they didn't want to be there and that what Franklin did to/with them was not what they wanted. But, at the end of the evening, they always collected his money and that was enough for Franklin to assume it had been totally consensual.

In Taiwan, Albert Chee knew Franklin:

Unky Frank, he a hard man. He very special man to please but he know what he want. All the girl here call him Unky Frank – he like a uncle who always give you the money. But Unky Frank not a very nice man. He make my girls sore and the cannot work for a few days, maybe a week sometime.

One of my new girl, Anna, she go with Unky Frank for escort. Escort here means that she spend time with him and make sure he has a good time. All mens have good time with my escorts. Anna come back the next day with marks on her back, her ass. I check her out and her pussy very sore, bleeding from the inside. I think maybe she have a miscarriage and I get very mad at her. I tell all my girls to take the pill.

But Anna say she take pill – this what Unky Frank do to her. I say What he do? And she tell me. Oh, I cannot say here to you now – it makes me sick to even think of it. But Unky Frank he do some bad things. After dat one time with Anna, I tell him no more girls from me. I can't afford to have them out of action. I need the moneys!

I don't know where he get the girls from now and I no care either. He not welcome here anymore, but I'm sure he welcome somewhere.

This went on for years and this was why Franklin now sat in a room full of deviates as sick as he was whilst he waited for his turn to die.

He'd been found out and it was only a matter of time before his secrets got out. The more he got away with it, the more lax he became in hiding it. Now, as Franklin sat in his own soiled underwear, Derek could see that he rued the day he took Phil Phillips with him on a business trip to Bangkok.

Derek had met Phil through an "associate" and he had supplied a few players in the past twelve months. Derek was a little curious about the company Phil kept and the people he knew judging by the quality of reprobate he dragged in. Franklin was certainly the most deserving he had seen in a while though.

But, right now, Phil's location was so far from Franklin's mind he could care less. Derek could hear him tell Stephen some of the facts, leaving out the details of some of the torture and rape fantasies that he had acted out. Franklin didn't know how Stephen would react if he knew that big fat Franklin Bletch had forced a 13 year old Philippino girl to give him a rim-job whilst he raped her with a champagne bottle.

"And that's about it really...I may have done some bad shit, but I don't deserve to die for it surely?" Franklin pleaded.

From his vantage point above the ceiling lights, Derek could see and hear them clearly – the suspended fluorescent lighting obscuring their view of the glass windows looking down on them.

"Come on Franklin," said Carly, "There's more to that bullshit story than you've told your new best friend here. You know it!"

"No! I'm not saying anymore. How do you know this stuff anyway?"

"I told you, I have been here before. I have spoken with Zoran – I am prepared for this."

Derek watched their interaction, captured their sounds. He liked the fact that they thought Zoran was in charge. Power by proxy is an addiction hard to kick.

"What do you mean?" Asked Stephen.

"Look, I'll tell you more after the next round. I don't want to spoil you just yet," she said coyly as she gave Stephen a little wink that was about the sexiest thing Derek had seen in a long time – not since he'd left Africa.

Not since he said goodbye to Sonja.

The last time he saw her was at the airport on the day he and Zoran left. He watched her walk away, that graceful stride that made it seem like she was walking on air. The way her hips swayed, so sexy, so sensual – it put him in a trance. He knew she needed some time, he needed it too. These feelings, this pain he felt in his chest – this was like nothing he'd ever had before.

The thought of her made him ache and gave him even more conviction in knowing that this would be the last night.

"You're assuming I survive the next round," Derek heard Stephen say.

"I'm assuming I will." Carly replied and moved back into her position.

#  Straight A's

The men in Judith Scruth's life were:

Asif.

Alan.

Alex.

She loved each of them in very different ways and each of them had had such profound effect upon Judith's life – from her first love, hopefully, the last one she would ever have.

Judith met Asif el-Masri when she was in Egypt. She was sailing to England on a working holiday and stopped in Egypt for a week sight-seeing. Nowadays going to Europe for a few months or a year to work was almost a rite of passage for any young Australian. But, back in 1965, it was almost unheard of for a young woman to travel to the other side of the world by herself to seek adventure and experience. Judith got as far as Egypt before she fell in love – and if she could have stayed she would have.

Egypt was not a safe place but Judith had always been fascinated with Egyptology and there was no way that she was getting that close to the Pyramids and the Valley of the Kings without visiting. Asif ran a tour company out of Cairo, with several buses taking tourists to all the main sites. She had never met anyone like him in her life, he filled every sense she had with wonder and excitement. Her skin tingled whenever those deep brown eyes stared into hers. There was more than a passing resemblance to Omar Sharif's character from "Lawrence of Arabia" (Sherif Ali), olive skin, intense brooding looks, and an air of calm when all around seemed like chaos.

This was less than 10 years after the Suez crisis and those wounds were still visible in the people and the city. Tourists were encouraged but it still didn't feel safe at all – except when Asif was near. With him Judith felt safe/comfortable/secure – it seemed like no-one would even dared to try anything whilst he was with her. She fell for him so hard because of the differences and the similarities he had with father.

Here was a man the polar opposite to the conservative man that brought her up – a wild, entrepreneurial Arab who was passionate, emotional and powerful. When he held her, Judith could feel the warmth from his hands shoot through every bone and muscle in her body – like a shot of life into her soul.

She was supposed to stay for a week but overstayed her visa by two months. Eventually the police caught up with her and Judith was kicked out of the country, sent on a ship to Italy. She kept in touch with Asif for a short while but he knew he could never leave either. His family and his duty was to stay in Egypt and he eventually married a local girl. After 1967 she had no idea what happened to him.

To Judith, it was a far away land, a whirlwind romance. It was such a wonderful time, in a world that seemed new and for her, so young and wide-eyed, anything seemed possible. And anything possible that could happen, did happen. All other romances would pale into insignificance in comparison to this – although she didn't know that at the time. In Europe, for the three months she stayed (having never reached London), she knew several men. Whilst the sex was okay with most of them, the "romance" was never there. They seemed so cold, distant, dispassionate compared to Asif whose fires raged so hot and fierce that Judith was consumed in them every moment she was in his presence.

Even now, looking back, Judith felt the familiar tingle within her body – warm at the romance, sexual at the physical memory.

Alan Scruth could never match that level of excitement, but he didn't need to. If Asif was everything a young woman needed at the age of 20, then Alan was the same for a woman of 27 who had seen her share of the world and was ready to settle down. Alan was safe, loving and tender – he had some of the conservatism Judith's father had, but he was also more open minded. She fell in love with him at a wedding they were both invited to – Alan was the cousin of the groom and Judith worked with the bride in a typing pool.

He held a good job selling real estate and, at 29, already owned his own home. Alan was very open and passionate when he was with her – but he would never show that to anyone else. He was a firm believer in "behind closed doors". He always said that he had a reputation to uphold and needed to be seen to the leader and the head of the family.

But, behind those closed doors, he was years ahead of his time. His tenderness and openness with Judith was a wonderful compromise between the passion and fever of Asif and the rigidity of her upbringing. He talked about how he felt, about his work and how things affected him. He was the original "SNAG" but he never knew it at the time. Judith was really worried that, at first, he simply wanted a "mother substitute" – someone female to look after him, tell him everything would be alright, bring him soup when he was sick.

But what he really needed was a partner in life – someone he could share his inner most thoughts and feelings without fear of judgment or ridicule.

They had two beautiful children – twins – born in 1973. Judith struggled with memories of the birth of her children because of what happened afterward.

"It" happened.

She and Alan always referred to it as "it".

When they referred to "it" at all.

"It" was the death of her two babies – Charlotte and Isabel.

They were only 4 months old and Judith was struggling badly with Post Natal Depression (although they told her, back then, it was called the "Baby Blues"). Everyone was around to help her in the first month or so which was a great help even though, after a while, she just wanted to be alone with her family.

The truth of the matter was that she didn't want to have children anyway. Judith knew that Alan did and she loved him even more for the fact that he never pushed her or urged her in anyway. The getting pregnant part was a sheer accident. But she knew that having the baby (which turned out to be twins) would change her life considerably. She knew that Alan would split his affections and love between her and the babies. And Judith knew that she would do the same to him.

And then they had the car accident. It was like some demon knew her inner most feelings, things she would never admit to Alan and then conspired to make it happen. A truck ran straight through a "STOP" sign. With no child restraints in cars in those days, the girls stood no chance and died almost instantly. Alan never walked properly again and Judith got out of the wreck with barely a scratch on her.

After this, she knew she never wanted to get pregnant again and Alan always said: "we can never replace the girls, but we could try again".

But Judith couldn't do it. She took the pill without letting him know and never got pregnant again – after a few years, Alan realized that it was never going to happen. They'd had their shot at the happy nuclear family and a sleepy truck driver took all that away from them. It took her many years to realize that she never wanted the babies anyway – if she really did, she would have become pregnant earlier.

Then, the guilt set in.

Other people thought Judith was heartbroken or depressed at losing her babies and she genuinely was both of those things for a while – but the reality of her feelings (which she could never admit to Alan) was that she felt guilty because secretly, deep down, she was glad they were gone. Judith never consciously wished them dead, or away, but when fate intervened, she felt relief.

Then guilt – and that had never gone away.

Ever.

But her and Alan never stopped loving each other and, in 2007, Alan was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Men of his generation had to be forced to get it checked and, by the time he did, it was basically beyond hope. He did have a brief period of remission for a few years but Judith knew that the evil parasite within him would eventually consume him and eat up the man she loved from the inside out.

They only had each other – there were no kids or grandkids to help out, or look forward to spending their autumn days with. Judith watched Alan slowly have the life sucked out of him – like some sort of organic, multiplying vampire was sucking him dry from within.

His sharp wit, his sense of humour, his dry outlook on life – that was the last thing to die. Even when his body had starting giving out and the care he was getting was purely palliative, he'd still joke with her. She recalled that once she dropped a cup of water off the edge of the table and onto the side of his bed about 5 minutes after the nursing staff had changed the sheets.

"Oh fucking hell!" Judith cried out in frustration.

Quick as a flash he said :"I hope they do, coz that's where I'm going!"

Judith laughed and then, almost immediately burst into tears. The end was so close and they both knew it. He was more accepting of this than she was, probably because of the sheer inevitability of the situation and the fact that there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

But Judith had to live on. She was losing the one person that she could always rely upon and the one she had chosen (and who had chosen her) to live with forever. And, then, very soon, he would be gone and she'd be alone.

There was nothing wrong with her at all – NOTHING! She'd had mammary exams, pap smears...you name it. All came back with a clean bill of health. She had barely had a scratch in her life – even the accident that she subconsciously willed to take her babies away left her with only the slightest cut on one arm. She knew she had many years left – probably 20 or 30 really. She was fit as a Mallee bull.

Judith didn't want to live on without her man – her life.

Alex Trevayne was the Occupational Therapist at the hospital. In the initial stages of Alan's stay (which Judith thought was temporary and ended up being his last ever move), Alex provided Alan with exercises and therapy to assist with the treatments he was having. Judith struck up a real friendship with the young man who could easily be the right age to be her son. He was a shoulder to lean on when she needed it and genuinely cared about Alan – and Judith. She had never seen another man so gentle and patient with Alan, his tenderness with treating him was very touching.

When Alan finally passed, Alex came to the funeral and they talked at the wake. He said that if she ever needed to talk – even just to let off steam about how she felt – then to simply call him or see him. He could easily have given her the name of any number of counsellors or shrinks that he knew, but he asked her to see him.

Judith didn't have the courage to call him straight away. For quite some time she tried to live on without Alan, achieving some things she never thought she ever would. She started up a "bucket list" – things she wanted to tick off before she died. As she was progressing through the list, she came across Alex's card – some nine months after Alan passed.

This was at a stage where she had never felt so low in her life – the grief she felt was so much stronger than when her own parents passed away. It multiplied as time went on – time made it worse. She was torn into pieces, her heart felt like it had been ripped from her. She couldn't breathe at all, her throat constricted and she felt like the weight of the entire world was on her and crushing the life out of her. She lost weight, couldn't eat...Judith was going downhill.

Alex saw this when she went to see him and they talked. Judith was there for three hours and she just opened up to him like she had never done to anyone – ever. Not Alan, not Asif...no-one. She told him all about Asif and Egypt – she didn't skimp on the personal details either. Judith told him how the sex made her feel and how she had never felt so alive.

Judith told him about finding love again with Alan and she told him about their babies.

Judith told him how much she loved Alan – her husband and her reason for living.

Judith told him how much she loved Alan and how much she missed him.

Judith told him how she had cried more in five days than in her entire life. She told him how her very life was crushing around her and emotionally (and mentally) she was falling apart at the seams.

She told Alex that she knew her body would outlive her mind and she feared being an Alzheimers' vegetable for 20 years in some nursing home, wasting away without even knowing. A burden on society and a shell of her former self.

Judith told him she wanted to die.

And she told him she meant it.

And that is why she was in this twisted game of chance. Alex knew someone who "knew someone" and she ended up there. She knew that they were a little taken back by her willingness to be included but Alex knew that, for Judith, this was her best way out.

She owed him a debt she could never repay – but he didn't want payment anyway. He was a humanist and his reasons for helping her were truly altruistic, she knew that.

That's love – and that was why she loved him so.

#  Tuning Out

Stephen's handshake was firm, but Carly expected that it would be. She very nearly told him all her secrets right there and then, but she wouldn't say anything with that lecherous slime-bag Franklin Bletch hanging around like a bad smell. Which was an oddly appropriate simile given his current scatological condition.

Carly wasn't completely sure how accurate Franklin's story was, but the crux of it was about right from what she was told. One of Zoran's contacts, a nefarious sleaze called Phil something, knew about Franklin and his reprehensible activities throughout South East Asia. Carly met Phil the last time she was there – her skin crawled at the thought of his presence as she recalled their brief meeting. He was sitting in a leather reclining chair and furiously masturbating whilst watching the show go on around him.

He wasn't pleasuring himself watching the orgy, he was doing it watching the Russian Roulette.

His eyes were too close together, like the holes of a bowling ball. His long pointed nose and chinless jaw-line created rat-like features that, combined with his too-close eyes, gave him an evil, nasty appearance. That was Carly's first impression, his thin, scrawny arms pumping away at an unusually large member – it was like he had someone else's penis, it didn't match him. Carly wasn't tempted in the least by Phil – his appearance and overall sliminess was so off-putting that Carly's stomach churned at the thought.

Phil's arms (and his whole body) were emaciated, skin hung off the bones showing little evidence of any muscle beneath. As he jacked off, the skin under his upper arms flapped like the arms of an overweight Grandmother waving to her grandkids. His little black eyes, pinched together at the bridge of his nose, were accentuated by the furrows of lines that crept up his forehead – he looked even more intense as he flapped away at himself.

Carly wondered what the policy of Phil and Franklin's employer was with regards to hiring staff – did they specifically target persons of ill-repute and sick proclivities? Or did those traits develop as a result of working there?

She can't think about them anymore – they both made her bilious.

And then she felt it again, stabbing through the very heart of her insides. The pain, the growth, the expansion.

Her cancer consumed more healthy tissue, eating its way to oblivion. If it had a brain it would stop growing, realizing that its own ambitious growth will lead to its ultimate demise. But it had no brain, no concept of self. It cannot perceive of rational thought.

It just does what it does.

Eats...and kills.

The wave of pain was cresting over Carly and even though she felt the swell of this thing was getting larger with every day (and the waves getting bigger and stronger as a result), she could tell when she was at the crest and the subsiding pain allowed her to function again. As this happened, she realized that Stephen was talking to her again. At least she thought he was talking to her. It was hard to tell sometimes as he seemed to be having several conversations at once.

"- just intense huh?" He finished and Carly had no idea what he was referring to.

"Yeah," she said in a very non-committal way. Stephen noticed this and was very polite about it.

"You weren't listening were you? I understand – this is a very stressful situation we're in here. Sometimes I tune out a bit too."

That must be it for him – he just tuned out from a conversation when things all get a bit too much for him. God, Carly wished she had that ability! To tune out from all around you. In some way Carly did that as her cancer attacked her – but it was an involuntary silence and she could not predict when it will happen. Sometimes it was at the most inopportune moment, like when she rode the bus and just before her stop comes, she sat riveted to the seat for two more stops until she had the energy and where-with-all to get off the bus and walk back the way it came.

Tuning out – that's why she was there.

Carly wanted to tune out of life.

Her cancer was the white noise between radio stations, a fuzzy all empowering sshhhhh that she could not escape. More and more stations were disappearing, the white noise section of the band is getting larger – the distances between the sanctuary of easy-listening stations and underground hip-hop were getting farther apart.

My cancer...what a term! Carly thought.

"Oh Cancer, my Cancer!"

Carly had a sense of ownership when she called it "mine"– because no-one else had a cancer like it.

Carly thought: This is my cancer. There are many others like it, but this one is mine. My cancer is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. Without me, my cancer is useless. Without my cancer, I am useless. I must kill him before he eats me.

She could not give the cancer a name – even though she had heard that some people do. By killing herself she would kill the cancer – she couldn't do that if she had named it. It would be like killing a pet. In a twisted kind of way, this _was_ her pet; one that was consuming her slowly from within. A relentless parasitic pet.

Carly realised that Stephen was waiting for an answer, or a reply of some sort. She felt like she should just blurt it all out to him, tell him why she was there, what was going on with her. Compared to most of the other players in this game, there was no obvious outward sign of anything physically wrong with her. But that was all a façade and she wanted to scream to someone: "I HAVE CANCER!!! I AM DYING AND THAT IS WHY I'M TAKING CONTROL OF THIS FUCKING THING ONCE AND FOR ALL.

"I WILL NOT LET IT BEAT ME!

"I WILL KILL IT BEFORE IT GETS IT"S CLAWS IN TOO DEEP!"

She was too late of course, because it had her to the bone, but she still had the power (and the will) to end its growth prematurely and save herself a lot of anguish and pain along the way.

She wanted to tell these things to Stephen. Carly had noticed him looking all "doe-eyed" at her and she thought that he had fallen for her in some way, even though they barely knew each other. But, in extreme circumstances (and their current predicament would certainly count as one of those), feelings and emotions were heightened and Carly felt that Stephen was falling in love.

Carly didn't know what was going on inside his head and she didn't really want to either – his lips moved involuntarily again as if on cue, to illustrate her point that there is certainly some sort of inner monologue happening that she was not privy to.

But the feeling was not mutual for Carly. Not that Stephen's unlovable because that's not true. He had a charm and presence that was quite likeable and, outside of this situation, she could see herself with him.

The way his loosely curled hair fell across his face was very endearing, he brushed it back nonchalantly and hooked some longer strands behind his ears. Carly had never liked long hair on a guy but, on him, it looked great. He reminded her of a young Chris Cornell – from the days of Soundgarden in the early 1990's. Carly's neighbour would play their music incessantly when she was a kid, grunge being the "Next Big Thing". Stephen had that same intense stare and dark eyes that leave you in no doubt that there was a lot more going on within that head of his than what you hear come out of it.

Carly felt awful at leaving Stephen hanging, promising to tell him and Franklin some sort of conspiratorial secret or information after the next round. That fact was there really wasn't anything to tell. What you see is what you get in this room. But, what most people in the orgy didn't realize, was that this only has a limited life-span. Carly could see that and she knew Zoran did too.

This gathering was like her cancer – it grew and fed upon itself until it reached a point of critical mass. And implosion (or explosion) was inevitable. Carly didn't intend for her implosion to ever happen – she was releasing the pressure early and killing it stone dead.

Carly felt that Zoran might have plans along those lines for this gathering too.

# Virgin

After the previous round in which two lifeless corpses of the damned were dragged from the room, more people wandered into the Roulette room to watch Round 3. The words "Round 3" were barely out of the Derek's mouth when bets started flying about and the tension in the room began again to mount.

By this time Franklin had stopped his blubbering and had resigned himself to yet another bout of intensity. The relief of hearing the click almost made the sheer tortuous agony of waiting for it worthwhile. It seemed almost worth going through that to experience the adrenaline rush of relief at the end. However, what Franklin knew, was that eventually that rush of relief wouldn't come at all.

Franklin shuffled into position – his spot on the floor marked by the soiled stain that he has previously left there. Like an actor returning dutifully to his mark, Franklin returned to the perfect spot as instructed.

Stephen was not so keen to continue now though. There was unfinished business with Carly and his interest was sparked by her. His previously nihilistic approach to this had been spoiled by this beautiful creature and he wanted to know more about her. She took a few steps and took her position whilst Stephen sat there transfixed by her.

Just bloody typical, he thought. Why is it that I should meet someone that I want to get to know better in the most unlikely of places? I'm involved in a game that I have no real chance of surviving – only to meet someone in the same game that I want to spend more time with! Unbelievable!

This thought conflicted strongly with his previously unwavering belief that he was doing the right thing. Unknown to Franklin (but maybe known to Carly) Stephen, too, was here voluntarily. And now that there was no turning back, he was having second thoughts? Well, not second thoughts per se – the reasons for being here still existed and he still knew that this was the correct course of action for him – but he certainly wasn't ready to die in this round. He closed his eyes again, knowing full well that this would drown out the thoughts of Carly as the demon came to him.

Sure enough, the redness began as his eyes shut. The noises from the orgy and the other protesting contestants were not enough to drown out the roaring of the fire demon that consumed his thoughts.

Well HELLO again – nice of you to drop by; I wonder why you're here – hahaha!

The beast that visited him nightly was now able to come and go as he pleased – flashing on and off even as Stephen blinked. He could hear the demon screaming at him from inside, convinced that everyone else could hear it too – so realistic were the demon's calls. But when he closed his eyes, the aural assault because visual too and he saw the demon filling his head.

He knew better than to answer it's questions, but sometimes he couldn't help it. He tried to block it out, but it read his mind – it knew what he was blocking out.

Her? Ah-ha, you're trying to block her out by visiting me! Having second thoughts are you?

Ignore it – Ignore it - Ignore it - Ignore it - Ignore it –

It doesn't work that way and you know it; you're pitiful; woeful!

Stephen felt that he was burning up from within, that the fire from his tormentor was licking the inside of his skin and threatening to split it like a raw sausage on a BBQ. The vision of the demon burning him with his eyes, tongue and breath drove away the thoughts of Carly and reminded him of the necessity of his actions.

When he opened his eyes he was, as if by magic, in position and holding the Smith & Wesson gun once again aiming it at the back of Franklin's fat sweaty cranium. The bets continued in the room even though there were less of them to bet upon. Stephen wondered if the Extreme Team ever got tired of this game but, judging by the intensity of the room, that didn't seem to be the case.

The countdown to zero began and as they reached the final moment, the guns clicked away.

Click.

Click...click...click

And so on.

PAUSE!

The pause was as quiet yet as tangible as a gunshot ringing out and within a second it was apparent to everyone that they had gone a round without a death.

"Virgin round!" Someone yelled and that sparked off a pandemonium of yelling and re-betting. Stephen knew that their respite was only temporary – the rules for just such an eventuality were spelt out to them all earlier in the day. But the feeling of relief was mixed with one of disbelief when it happened. Stephen thought that, like round 1, someone had refused to fire – delaying the unavoidable. But this was genuine and he almost smiled thinking that he had dodged a bullet and will have some more time with Carly.

It was statistically possible that they could go round after round of dud shots – or virgin rounds as they seemed to be called in here. There's a one in six chance of being a killer (or getting killed), so therefore a five in six chance of surviving. As the numbers fell, the odds increased that they'd all survive the round. That was why the Derek announced:

"Round 4 to commence immediately – hold all bets!"

The guns were taken off the contestants and they were instructed to remain where they were. Franklin's shoulders moved slowly up and down and Stephen could tell that he was again crying to himself – quiet though, but sobbing none the less.

"Franklin – just relax will you. It will be over soon. You knew the rules."

"Yes..." he sobbed, sniffling back a nose full of snot. "But I didn't agree to play!"

"Well it's too late now – you have to go through to the end." Stephen was getting a little tired of Franklin's self pity.

Just fucking shoot the fat bastard – put him out of our misery!

He wasn't the only one tricked into this game and he wasn't the only one complaining about it. Those that tried to get out of it earlier felt the full wrath of Zoran and his team but at least they had the balls to try and do something about it. Franklin cried and whinged, but he didn't have the guts to try and rebel.

The guns came back into the room after only a short period – obviously a quick re-load and then Round 4 would begin. Although they had been told that the guns would only ever hold one round, Stephen wasn't so sure about that. After the virgin round 3, it seemed likely that extra bullets would used to guarantee at least one head shot in this round – otherwise this could go on indefinitely. In the make believe world of movies etc... extending the game long into the night would set up for a great finale. But everyone here had jobs to go to tomorrow, things to do.

The contestants were handed their weapons again and this provoked #9 into action. Up until now he'd been a bit like Franklin – crying, pleading, trying to buy his way out whatever way he can. But now he stood away from the ring of contestants, taking his aim from the back of Carly's head, and waived his weapon about in front of him. He wasn't really aiming at anyone in particular, just everyone.

"I've fucking had enough of this you sick bastards!"

"#9 – return to your position," Derek commanded from out of sight.

"No – anyone who comes near me will take pot luck with this gun!" He waved the gun around in front of him, wildly pointing it at the various guards who had started to close in upon him.

Carly, who had been in front of him, ducked out of the way as one of the guards sprung at #9, knocking him down and landing on top of him. The gun was still in #9's hand and the guard went to reach for it but #9 raised it to his own forehead. The guard stopped just as the barrel touched #9's forehead, a bead of sweat running from his skin into the eye of the barrel.

"One more move and I'll blow my own fucking head off! What odds will you pricks give me for that hey?"

"5 to 1!" Came the call from the back of the room and laughter came out of the audience who were turned on beyond pleasure to see this. It didn't often happen like this in their games, where one person would try to kill themselves, but when it did, it was always fun to see. To most in here, the best part was look of sheer helplessness and defeat when they actually squeezed the trigger to blow their own head off, only to find that the chamber was empty and the gun is ripped out of their hands.

"Come on #9, don't be stupid," the Derek was more conciliatory, he didn't want a suicide in here, not like this anyway – it was not what they were here for.

The guard was still on top of #9, his face mere inches from the desperate man. His hands were within easy reach of the gun but he'd never be able to move fast enough to stop the hammer coming down and releasing the projectile – if there was one in the chamber.

#9 looked into the eyes of the guard, so close they were almost out of focus. The guard moved his head ever so slightly to see if there was a bullet in the chamber – if not, he'd rip the gun out of this dickhead's hands and belt him to a pulp with it!

As he moved, #9 saw what he was doing.

"No you don't!"

The guard, in a split instant, noticed that the chamber was loaded but he didn't have time to register that. #9 pulled the trigger and the world exploded in the guard's face. #9's head heaved and tore apart in a mass of blood, bone and flesh. Some of it ripped into the face of the guard. The bullet actually ricocheted off #9's skull and changed direction slightly, burying itself into the guard's neck, tearing his aorta open.

As he rolled off the dead body, the guard flapped at his own pulsing wound. Another guard came over to assist but even Stephen could tell that this guy was going to bleed out in front of them all. There was more blood coming from the guard than from any of the other victims. He tried to cry out but it was all gurgles and bubbles coming from his mouth.

Mayhem was taking control of the crowd now and the contestants didn't really know what to do. Then Stephen heard a "click" behind him and realized that #12 had fired.

"Hang on!" he yelled as he swivelled around. Just as he did, more clicks were heard and he realized that they'd all fired so he casually squeezed his trigger as well without even looking to see if he was still aiming at Franklin.

When the gun went off it was such a surprise to Stephen that he dropped it and it clattered to the ground so loud he was surprised he heard it above the din within the room. The bullet missed Franklin altogether and hit one of the spectators in the balls. The man was standing in front of Franklin waving cash around. He was totally naked and wore a cock-ring at the base of his penis. The bullet bounced off that and deflected downward, and tore through his scrotum.

Bulls-eye! You've actually done something worthwhile you twat! BRILLIANT!

The man fell to the floor in a screaming heap, his one testicle still barely attached, the other one gone for good. He too was losing blood at a rapid rate, but his screams were terrifying, high-pitched wails that filled the room and silenced quite a few of the spectators. One of their own was down and that certainly wasn't part of the game.

"Everyone calm down", came the call from Derek, but mayhem was starting to take over. The guards were trying to keep their fallen comrade alive but they were only succeeding in pumping more blood out of him. Some of the crowd were helping the fallen voyeur but his screams had panicked a few and even the orgy had stopped. The contestants were getting very nervous and order needed to be restored – and fast.

And then, from the side door the dead bodies disappeared through, entered Zoran.

#  Surprise! You're Dead!

Officially they started with 16 people in the room after meeting Zoran for the first time. At first Stephen thought there were more than that but it soon turned out that several of the others turned out to be guards/henchmen/thugs charged with the duty of keeping order by any means.

Zoran started, his accent was strong, Eastern European, but the message was clear.

"Ladies and gentlemen...welcome. Some of you I meet before, some of you this is first time. For some of you, this will be most difficult of things to understand but I will do my best. As you can tell, my English is not so good...but I think is better than your Croatian – yes?"

There were a few nervous titters as if they were all listening to the CEO giving an address as a corporate conference.

"Come on, people...you can relax a bit more than that? Let's get straight to the point shall we? We all know why you are here. You have been told of most extreme and fantastical orgy in the country...hell, maybe the whole world! Well, I can confirm to you for now...this is a fact. Tonight's festivities will be debauched, depraved and disgusting as anything you have ever done before. And each of you will have starring role!"

Zoran extended his huge arms outward, encompassing them all. Stephen noticed the size of his hands and he could sense the power that they held as well. This guy was intimidating just to look at but he was trying to be casual...it wasn't working.

As Stephen looked around the room, some of the people standing there were almost salivating at the thought of participating in this extreme orgy. Stephen knew the real story here – it was why he was here. What interested him more than anything was how the others would take the news when they heard it. He wondered how many of them were here by choice like he was. He tried to pick them from the group but it was hard – Zoran held everyone's attention.

Almost everyone – I'm still here with you remember; you're not going to go through with this – I know you.

Yes I am. I need this.

You're a pussy – you'll shit yourself and pull out; like you always do.

Zoran continued:

"Now tonight there will be fucking...lots of fucking. There will be spanking, whipping, slave play. Whatever you want to fulfil your sexual fantasy – so long as is consensual – this will be here for you all to see. But here is catch."

The room's atmosphere paused – suspending breath. The unsuspecting were about to experience a double-cross – a cruel twist of fate that sealed them with a covenant.

A covenant of death.

"Tonight, only one of you will be lucky – the rest of you will die."

The last few words echoed around the empty room, bouncing off the solid walls. They looked amongst themselves before a voice from the back asked: "What the fuck do you mean?"

Blind-sided.

Zoran's face set – hard. "What do you think I mean? Tonight, all of you except one will be dead. And you will do it to yourselves."

There were a few small protestations instantly but the rest soaked up the information before responding. Even for Stephen, it was somewhat of a shock to finally hear these words even though he was waiting for them. The moment had finally come for him to help rectify his situation but he still felt scared. Zoran was a lot more intimidating and over-bearing than he had expected – the guy's menacing presence was a sight he wasn't ready for.

Zoran continued:

"People, I know is shock. However, you all know that you are here for reason. Some of you are very lucky we haven't called police in for some of the crimes you have committed. Each one of you here has forfeited your right to life – whether voluntarily or through your deeds."

"You have no right!" Yelled someone.

A woman's voice screamed, "You can't do that!"

A man from the back somewhere, "You're joking right? Just trying to scare us?"

"No," Zoran continued, "I can assure you I am not."

A fat middle aged man, whom Stephen came later to know as Franklin Bletch, at the front then turned to the others: "Yeah, it must be like that Fight Club film. You know 'the first rule of Fight Club is you do not talk about Fight Club'. Shit like that hey?"

Zoran shook his head knowing that he was going to have to show these people that this was for real. Then the opportunity presented itself anyway.

"Well, if I'm not going to get my cock sucked, I'm fucking outta here!" A tall blonde man in his late 30's started to walk away from the group towards the door they came in through.

"Sir, you cannot leave!" Zoran pulled a pistol out of his jacket pocket and levelled it at the would-be escapee. "Once you walked through that door, you sealed a covenant with your life. To break equals death. You cannot leave."

"Fuck you buddy – if I wanna go I'll go. You can't fucking stop m-"

He was stopped before finishing the sentence by two quick blasts from Zoran's 9mm – the bullets hitting him in the head and killing him instantly.

PANIC!

A few people decided to take this as their cue to get out but the doorway in was the only way out. The guards drew out batons – iron clubs that were about two feet long and they swung them towards those trying to flee. The sound of the iron crunching against bone was one that Stephen had never wanted to hear again but here it was. This was a different context, but the results were just as traumatic.

Most of the people simply hit the floor but a few tried to get out. That was when Stephen knew that there were about 10 guards in the room. They mercilessly beat the panic stricken few, bashing them continuously even after they hit the ground. Stephen watched as one woman's head was opened up by an iron bar and the guard continued anyway, only stopping once he saw her brain and he knew then that she was dead.

The firefight lasted all of about 10 seconds but once finished, there were 4 dead bodies on the floor and 12 cowering at Zoran's feet.

"Well," he said, "that was a lot less trouble than I thought. You see, if we have made any mistakes about type of people we have chosen, they usually fight a lot harder than this. But you all are the worthless cowardly scum that I have been led to believe – it looks like we have chosen wisely. This will make for very special evening indeed."

A couple of the people gathered started to cry, including the fat guy who was the fan of Fight Club. Some were in shock (or at least that what Stephen thought – they could have been there under the same pretence as he was), and some simply sat there bewildered.

You really are a waste of good skin aren't you? I knew you'd be too gutless to do anything – sitting there pussying out you wee spineless turd! You're a fucking embarrassment.

Don't please...

Ooohh whinge, moan, complain; sad and pitiful indeed

The demon taunted/mocked.

"Now, before any of you ask me 'WHY?' you ask yourselves this: 'what have I done? What lead me to this point in my life?'

"Think about it long and hard, look deep within yourself and realize what you have do in your past. Be honest – have you done bad things? Illegal things? Immoral things? Things that have hurt others, repeatedly? Ask yourself these things. You can question me; you can challenge me. But you will end up like these people – sooner or later.

"You see, that is your only choice now. The last thing that you have any power over, any chance to determine, is whether you die here and now, or whether you take your chances and die later on."

The room was deadly silent.

"You will enter a game of Russian Roulette. I don't know why it's called Russian, I don't think they invented it but, knowing those bastards, nothing surprises me with them. You will play and gamble your lives. People will watch, some will place bets upon you and whether you will die. Or not. One will survive, the rest will die. It's simple."

A whimper from somewhere..."But..."

"Fucking 'but' nothing! There are no 'buts'. You are nothing – you are not even human. You are lower than shit; you are toys for the amusement of others. You have no rights, no choices, no power. I own you. The only thing undetermined is the random chance of when you die."

He smiled, sharp brilliant and white. His long nose and defined features gave him an other-worldly look about him, almost like a vampire or some undead monster. He didn't yell because he didn't need to. He had created the perfect atmosphere of fear – complete attention was on him and his ominous tone meant that every word was absorbed, every tone felt, and everything believed. They knew he meant it and that this was for real.

"Tonight...you will live to the edge of life and only one will come back."

And with that the mini revolution was over. Zoran spelled out the rules but most of the contestants were not listening – they were watching the guards drag away the corpses of the lucky ones who got off lightly. The contestants did not realise that the lucky ones were dead, but they soon would.

Zoran had a unique way of resolving conflict.

#  Pathetic

Once he entered the orgy room, Zoran commanded the complete attention of all inside. His presence was enough for almost everyone to calm down – right now! His stare met that of the guards who looked fearful and ashamed that they had let proceedings get out of control. Without a word he signalled to them to drag out the dead body of #9. The sound of dead flesh being dragged across the concrete was all Stephen could hear. The room had fallen silent, the orgy had stopped, even the blasting techno music had been shut off momentarily when Zoran entered.

As two guards heaved the body of #9 out the door, Zoran approached the fallen audience member who had, by now, stopped his screaming and reduced it to a whimpering sob.

"Why are you crying like sick dog?" Zoran enquired, though even Stephen could see that it was not because he cared about the man's health – it was because he liked to watch him suffer.

"Uurrmmfff..." came the sound from the man whose testicles had been blasted away by an errant bullet.

Unimpressed, Zoran looked at Stephen – the culprit. His steely gaze would normally have put fear so far into Stephen that he would be turned inside out with terror. But, right now, in his stage of life/death, Stephen wasn't the slightest bit intimidated. There was nothing that Zoran could do to him that would be worse than he had already done to himself.

Zoran was unperturbed by Stephen's lack of fear. He knew why Stephen was there and he knew that his fearlessness was borne from issues within, not from Zoran losing his hold over these people.

"You!" He pointed at Stephen. "You come and help this man."

"What the hell can I do to help him?"

He's going to hurt you

Everyone looked on as if to agree – there was nothing Stephen could do.

"You made this mess – you clean it up." With that, Zoran leant over to Stephen and gave him another revolver. "Finish what you started, or kill yourself. I don't care which it is."

"How many bullets are in this gun?" Stephen asked although he already suspected the answer to be –

"All of them," replied Zoran.

"So maybe I'll shoot you and a few others in this room first, before I shoot myself. What do you think about that?" Stephen felt, for the first time in a year, some level of power and control.

However...

You dickhead! Don't you think he's thought of that? You really are a hopeless case.

Zoran took out some notes of cash and put them at his feet. "I will bet anyone in this room $10,000 that he will not shoot me." He threw his large arms wide, like the wingspan of some massive bird of prey.

The crowd was silent and Zoran leant in towards Stephen and rested his head against the barrel of the gun Stephen held. He looked Stephen dead in the eye, only a few feet apart now.

"You are not a killer and you will not kill me," he said. "But you will do what I say and finish this scum that whimper like sick animal."

Everyone was looking at Stephen waiting to see what he would do.

Blow his fucking head off you weasel, you waster, you shit! DO IT!

So he did the only thing he could do – he dropped the gun on the floor.

Zoran clapped his huge hands together, the large mitts sending echoing sounds around the cavernous room. "I knew it!" He proclaimed out loud. "Even now, you still value life!"

Soft, weak, pah-the-TIK! Soft, weak, pah-the-TIK! Soft, weak, pah-the-TIK! Soft, weak, pah-the-TIK! Soft, weak, pah-the-TIK! Soft, weak, pah-the-TIK! Soft, weak, pah-the-TIK! Soft, weak, pah-the-TIK! Soft, weak, pah-the-TIK! Soft, weak, pah-the-TIK! Soft, weak, pah-the-TIK! Soft, weak, pah-the-TIK!

And with that Zoran took out a foot long hunting knife, turned around and bent over the bleeding patron. He grabbed the man's head, his strong leathery fingers gripping the man's cranium and he slashed the man's throat in front of everyone.

Soft, weak, pah-the-TIK! Soft, weak, pah-the-TIK! Soft, weak, pah-the-TIK! Soft, weak, pah-the-TIK! Soft, weak, pah-the-TIK!

Due to the blood loss already suffered, the neck wound didn't spurt like everyone expected – but the man still choked and slowly bled out in complete surprise at how his night ended up.

"I cannot have anyone talking. That includes I injuries, hospitals, or anything like this." Zoran addressed the crowd who were surprised to see one of their own dispatched with such ruthless efficiency. "You know the rules here and the need for this to be quiet. I have no choice for this man, he could not see doctor. Now, he sees God instead."

Just like that – then he was gone.

#  Decisive Action

When Zoran returned to the viewing room, he looked drained and tired. He didn't look like Zoran anymore. He was a shell – a vessel that contained organic material that was assembled in such a way to as to create a human being in the shape of Zoran, but he didn't seem to be inside it anymore.

"What's the matter?" Derek asked. He hadn't seen Zoran like this in a long time, not since they left Namibia.

"I think I had enough – I want to waste them all!"

"Well obviously you can't do that," Derek replied quickly even though he knew – and Zoran knew – that if he wanted to waste them all out there, he would do it. And he could do it too. The only thing really stopping him from doing so was Derek. The consequences of his actions were no deterrent for Zoran. In coming to Australia, he figured that the worst thing that would happen here would be jail – and jail in Australia versus Croatia, or Namibia, or Columbia, or any other shithole that they had toured in the last 15 years was a lot better prospect to consider.

Jail for Zoran would be a salvation. In some way Derek felt Zoran was only keen to come to Australia so that he _could_ go to jail. He was approaching forty years of age and although he wasn't the smartest guy in the world, even he had started to realize that no matter how much pain and destruction he caused, he would never satisfy his soul. He will never fill the hole that has no boundaries.

Zoran had a closet full of skeletons that rattled incessantly. His mind a melange of malicious memories – history that eventually weighed upon him.

Namibia nearly killed him in the end. With the reputations they had earned, life became pretty easy. There was the occasional skirmish to get hot under the collar about – the odd thief would try his luck, a local bureaucrat played the officiousness card and received a little slap – but, in general, it was a quiet life and Derek was getting used to it.

Normally Derek would have been bored in this type of situation. But, in Namibia, his perspective changed when Sonja changed him forever. There were times in everyone's life when certain people can change the course of one's future without even realizing it; and that was what happened to Derek in the most unlikely of places.

This created a bifurcation for Derek – history with Zoran or a future with Sonja. He knew that Zoran wasn't ready to settle down and change – he was still up to his old tricks and not keen to adjust at all.

He would use drugs to sedate the workforce, amphetamines made them work for 12 hours or longer. By providing them with stimulants and maintaining strict discipline (combined with a fearsome reputation), it's amazing how much work they got done.

Zoran would provide "5-htp" (5-Hydroxytryptophan) as an aid to the speed hangover that inevitably occurred. 5-htp is also an aid to sleep and works as an appetite suppressant as well. It alleviates depression and Zoran's use of both drugs made for a generally subservient workforce.

But amphetamines as a stimulant had its drawbacks and dependence was high. Fights regularly broke out between "employees" mostly due to paranoia because the 5-htp would only work so well. They lost quite a few employees to night-time stabbings and murders. Zoran's "bush justice" of public floggings, torture and capital punishment became regular occurrences and only enhanced their reputation.

Michael Mitongo was a foreman that Derek hired and he had worked well for him for many months. He, too, often took speed and helped with keeping order at the mine. But his paranoia was terrible and he became convinced that Zoran was taking the diamonds that Michael's team mined and was keeping them for himself. Derek knew that Zoran had no need for stealing or financial gain – the concept of it didn't appeal to him.

However Michael was convinced and, being a well-liked leader of the teams, his cancerous rumblings started to take root.

Zoran needed to take decisive action.

Zoran took divisive action.

Zoran had Michael " _getrek en in kwarte gesny_ " – Afrikaans for "drawn and quartered".

Michael's four teams of employees were forced to watch Zoran tie each of Michael's arms and legs to the rear bumper of a jeep. The jeeps were driven by four members of the teams – they knew that if they refused, they'd be the next piece of entertainment. They all knew Zoran was a " _moffie_ " (slang for homosexual) and they knew that his taste for sexual gratification did not include consent. The drivers edged the vehicles slowly forward whilst the ropes tightened around Michael's limbs.

Slowly Mitongo rose from the ground and hovered a few feet above the dusty soil. Stretched out as far as his limbs would take him, Zoran stopped the jeeps and had them idle whilst he went to work on Michael with his hunting knife. He made slight nicking incisions at the stress points of Michael's limbs to assist with separation – what he wanted to see were Michael's limbs ripping off at the same time.

Then, on the count of three, the drivers floored the jeeps.

No one ever accused Zoran of anything again.

But, after a time, this all ceased. The two of them had become too good at keeping the locals in check. Derek was happy with that, life changed for him. His life with Sonja blossomed, his viewpoint, his priorities, his whole outlook on life took a turn in a direction that he never thought possible.

Zoran was a different matter. His sexual assults became more brazen, more random. He would attack men and women, sometimes boys as young as 14. Derek could sense a suicidal futility to him – he was starting to get "jungle fever" and Derek feared that eventually he'd bite the end of a 9mm pistol and put the world to rest.

Fate had a way of throwing a curve ball every now and again – and Sonja provided that for Derek just when he felt that Zoran would finally end his own suffering. She wanted a break – the sort of break that even Derek knew meant an indefinite one. In the past, Derek's relationships were limited, but he still understood what Sonja meant.

She offered no reason other than she needed time apart to assess her life and what she wanted. Derek knew that meant "who" she wanted – that was, did she want Derek?

Derek had never felt hurt like it – the ache deep within his chest throbbed every day but he knew that the only way to keep her was to let her go. She refused to talk about her reasons, which made it hard for him to address them.

Then he received the call from Scott Tilbury back home in Australia. He and Derek served together in the SAS for quite some time and he was now the Sergeant-at-arms of White Trash – a Perth based outlaw motorcycle gang. The 1%ers.

Derek knew Tilbury was trash in the corps as well so he had finally found his calling. His thuggery was what had him discharged from the army so, for someone like Tilbury, joining a bikie gang was not much of a fall from grace. White Trash started out as a neo-Nazi style gang but quickly spread into the typical drug-dealing gang Derek expected they would be – aligned with other gangs for protection and networking.

Tilbury needed someone external to the gang to run this party – someone not associated with the bikies. This was a good money-spinner for them – each participant paid good $ for the privilege of partaking in their particular peculiar proclivities.

A year ago, the group was much smaller then – just your regulation congregation of perverts who enjoyed hurting and pleasing each other in a consensual way. Zoran was robotic at these events – he got no satisfaction from the sex whatsoever. If there was no real resistance, then he simply could not even get an erection.

Derek didn't partake at all – this was business. A means to an end. His heart and soul belonged elsewhere and he looked at this as penitence – a payment to make so that one day he could return to her.

And then....

Zoran found three addicts at the rear of the property – all of them smacked out of their heads on heroin. Despite Zoran's use and abuse of drugs in the past, heroin was the one drug that he could not abide.

"Look, here!" He pronounced. "I have found three wastes – what do I do with these?"

There were only about 15 or so of the group at this stage and, when he came in with these three zombies, the whole room lit up and bayed for blood. Zoran took out an old revolver he had kept, placed a bullet in the chamber and the bets began.

The death created life – the party grew and it had started to get to a dangerous level. Noise was being generated and intruders had to be dispatched. Underground noise is inevitable – urban myth has existed for years about things like snuff movies or Russian Roulette parties. These rumours have to start somewhere. This little gathering had grown and the numbers had become uncontrollable.

Each time a new party was set up more people were present. They had more participants for the Roulette, more "in-volunteers", more to cull out at the welcoming stage.

Tilbury said: "Maybe we could set up franchises?

"Go global?

"Global Roulette?

"A way to thin out the numbers; right wing population control. Fascism is on the rise again, left wing politics is a thing of the past, hippies and tree-huggers looking back through rose coloured glasses at the 60's and 70's. The modern world is spinning back towards right wing politics as the older generations (who knows of the perils of such dogma) start to die out. The younger people don't have that history, that first-hand experience. Nationalism, anti-globalisation...it all helps fuel the rise of the right!"

This was classic Tilbury and Derek knew that it was the beginning of the end. He had contacted Sonja regularly over the past nine months – she rarely returned his calls. But, over time, Derek felt that things were working out between them. Light at the end of the tunnel.

This soiree was doomed. It grew organically from something that was an accident. And now Zoran said that he wants to kill them all.

"It is too much people, it's out of control," his frustration evident.

"You need to keep yourself interested."

A smile came to Zoran's face– a smile of malice. His teeth emerged from beneath thin lips, his nostrils flared and Derek knew what he was thinking. Zoran tapped a finger to his temple for the international symbol for "Great idea!"

This was one of Zoran's favourites. In this one, people took on roles that they never thought they could, achieved things that they never dreamed of before.

It was time for a Death Match.

#  The Most Selfish Room in the World

"I can't believe you shot him," Carly said to Stephen.

"I can't believe there actually was a bullet in the gun!" He replied, incredulous.

"Are you okay?"

"What? With shooting that weirdo in the nuts? Yeah, no problems at all with that!"

"No, I meant...you know...Zoran..." Carly was almost scared to say his name out loud unless he came back into the room – like kids saying "Bloody Mary" 3x over and then the ghost coming back to kill them.

"Oh that..." he looked down at the floor, away from her. "That was nothing – he's just beating his chest for everyone else. He wasn't going to hurt me."

Carly looked at Stephen and she could see that there was something else going on with him. She had noticed him, a few times, sitting there and his lips were moving but nothing was coming out, like he was talking to himself inside his head or something. She could tell he didn't realise he was doing it. She wondered what was actually going on inside that head of his.

But, then again, did she really want to know? There's lots going on within Carly's head and likely the same inside everyone's head in this room – would she really want to know everything that people are thinking? What about Zoran? Carly tried to imagine what was going on inside his head.

PAIN! SCREAMING! FIRE! DEATH!

Or maybe it was simply

..............................Nothing.......................

He could be simply dead on the inside and all the pain and mayhem he caused was his way of filling that void – like dumping all that he wasted into a black hole to fill it. But that hole could never be filled – he just didn't understand that it was futile to try.

And, one day when he did realize this, that was the day he would probably die.

Men like Zoran don't live long and happy retirements, tending their gardens, taking long walks with the dog, maybe the occasional game of golf. Men like Zoran go down in a hail of bullets, a wall of flame.

Carly felt it again as she leaned in to talk to Stephen – the cancerous growth stretched its arms out wide and tore her insides apart. What she felt was her stomach tearing in two, her liver being ripped from its position, her spine being plucked out one vertebrae at a time. She winced at the cramping agony that crippled her and she was forced to turn away from him just as she was going to tell him that Zoran is indeed one scary bastard.

Maybe Stephen knew this and was just putting on a brave face. But, right now, Carly didn't care as she tried to maintain some calmness as the assault within her body raged. The pain lasted longer each time, only by a second or so but that one second felt like an eon when she felt like she was being turned inside out. She held her breath and sat on the floor, waiting for the pain to subside. In a few year-like seconds it started to do so and she slowly let out the breath she was holding – relief palpable.

Carly's eyes had involuntarily closed for a few seconds and, when she opened them, she expected to see half the room looking at her like she was some sort of freak. But there were no accusatory eyes gazing at her at all.

This was the most selfish room in the world. In this room, people were so caught up in themselves that they barely registered anyone else or what was going on with them.

For those in the orgy, they were engulfed by sensory overload, sensual pleasure and sexual tension. Each gratification that they wanted could be achieved and their senses were so heightened that it was almost impossible to see the forest for the trees. The search for pleasure, and the conquest attained when that search surely ended in success, added to the egotistical manner in which they all behaved.

In the Russian Roulette room, they were so caught up in the reasons they were here or the reasons why they shouldn't be here. They were not interested in how others felt, or what they were going through, or whether or not they should be there. They were only concerned with their own arse and whether or not they could save it (if they were there involuntarily). If they were a volunteer, then they simply wanted this to be over and done with as quickly as possible.

Carly couldn't speak for anyone else who had volunteered to be here tonight, but she was quite happy for this to end right now – but on her terms. One shot, back of the head, instant, painless.

Painless = heaven.

Not that anyone else in here noticed anything – no one else saw the agony she was in. No-one understood the need she had to be dead before anymore of them. After Carly was gone, she wouldn't care what happened to any of them.

Some of these scumbags were here for reasons that Carly didn't even want to think about – like that over-weight sleazeball Franklin Bletch. Men like him really turned her stomach. He didn't have a single redeeming feature – his body was a disgrace, he was a horrible person, he didn't have much money (he spent other people's money well though) and she was 99.9% certain he had a tiny dick.

There wasn't one reason why anyone would want to be with him. Those are the big four reasons why any woman would be with a man:

  1. Handsome, fit, strong, security

  2. Great personality, sense of humour, loving, caring

  3. Money – lots of it!

  4. Sex – great sex!

Carly had known girls who would go out with a guy for only one of those reasons. She always maintained that a guy would have to have at least two of them. She did find a guy who had all four...but...well, Kelly was not in her life anymore.

How could she go through life kidding herself that Kelly would leave his wife? Carly knew that he wouldn't and she would never have asked him to neither. She loved him too much to put him in that position. Carly had to live with the fact that whilst he may be her "One", he was someone's else's as well and she got there first.

Besides, Carly was sure that Kelly's wife she wasn't growing a cell-deforming cancerous tumour inside her body that was going to strangle the life out of her before she was 30.

This was her life and she had to deal with that. So, here she was, sitting on the concrete floor slowly catching her breath after another attack by the killer cells. In front of her feet was a small clump of hair attached to some scalp, a furry island in a crimson river that snaked its way out of this hell hole. In the background she could see a man bent over a chair, a gag in his mouth. He was side on to her and he turned his head to face Carly, his eyes locked onto hers. He couldn't say anything, but he was grunting in pleasure as a woman (wife or girlfriend or whoever) wearing a strap-on dildo sodomised him.

The woman held a small whip in her right hand and slapped it against his bare back, her left hand on his hip and she used that to force herself inside him with each thrust. His eyes showed pain, but a pain borne from pleasure not agony. He winked at Carly and she could see him smile through his leather ball-gag.

Carly could see his rapture at achieving a fantasy he looks like he always wanted

And she was jealous.

#  Trough Monkey

"Ladies and Gentlemen," began Derek, "after that little interlude, it's time for a break. I suggest we break for thirty minutes. The next round will commence then."

Carly walked over to speak with Stephen, her footsteps barely making a sound on the concrete floor.

"What happened? Did you miss on purpose?"

"No, I wasn't looking. I didn't realize there'd be a bullet in the gun".

Franklin still sat on the floor, his legs tucked up as close to his body as his overweight belly would allow. His head was buried in between his knees and he sobbed quietly, deeper and even more pathetically than he had done earlier. The futility had hit him once and for all. He knew that the bullet that ripped through the punter's scrotum had his name on it.

"That was meant for me," he said quietly.

Oh, here goes this prick again Stephen. Put it out of its misery.

"What do you mean?" Stephen asked, trying very hard to ignore the demon in his head. It was here to stay now, enjoying itself, feeding upon the emotion and fervour in the room. The chaos, the anarchy, the complete lawlessness of the room fuelled the demon's will.

"I mean that I should be dead. And I would be dead if you hadn't saved me."

"Saved you?"

"You saved my life. I can't thank you enough!" Franklin looked at Stephen, his soft pudgy face smeared with dirty tears, red eyes puffy and teary.

"It was an accident Franklin, pure luck."

"No, it was fate," said Franklin. He shifted his body around to face Stephen, the piss-stained front of his pants tight against his bulging stomach. "I don't know if you meant it, but you did save me with the shot and –

Blah blah fucking blah! This prick is so fucking sad!

Leave him alone – you don't know him.

Yes I do; I know him better than you do. He's a sick, twisted arsehole; that chick Carly knows what he's like – look how disgusted with him she is!

Stephen noticed that Carly couldn't look at Franklin; she did appear like she was going to be sick.

See? She hates him almost as much as she hates you.

She doesn't hate me.

Yes she does; she knows you; she knows what you are like

– "cause I can get out of this and change my life around. I've still got plenty of years left in me to make amends. I know I can!" Franklin sounded like he'd had some sort of epiphany by cheating death that closely.

"Franklin," said Carly, "you're not getting out of this. It's not fate, you just got lucky."

"That's true, I just wasn't watching that's all," said Stephen. "If I'd been paying attention, then I would have blown your head clean off."

And give the rest of us a fucking break!

The demon was right – he did need a break from Franklin. The guy was a moronic whinger who simply wouldn't shut the hell up. Why couldn't he simply accept his fate and deal with it? Maybe it was because Stephen was here on his own accord that he couldn't understand Franklin's reticence at accepting his lot. He had tried with Franklin; tried to be sympathetic, tried to be a comfort to him because he felt sorry that he'd been tricked into the position he was now in. It didn't matter to Stephen what Franklin had done in his life previously – the guy had been tricked into being here and had no say in his fate.

But, then again, who does? Fate was fate – Stephen wasn't sure what choice anyone really had. Sure people made small choices like what shoes to wear, or whether to choose Beef or Chicken at the bistro. But the big turning points in life, the path that life takes...that was fate and pre-determined. Even if some choices or decisions in life delay the journey or deviate it from it's inevitable path – we all got there in the end.

We all get what we deserve.

And now Franklin's whingeing and moaning was just about enough for Stephen.

"I just can't believe it is going to end like this..." Franklin lamented as he stared at the whitewashed concrete walls. In front of him a blood trail disappeared around the corner after the body of the slain voyeur was dragged away – another 150+ pounds of meat to be mince up and served to some unsuspecting punters.

Fucking NOW! DO IT!

"Shut your festering mouth, you whining baby!" It was Stephen spitting this at Franklin even before he knew it was coming out of him. He could hear the words and wondered briefly who was talking like him, in his voice. Then, as those around him all looked at him, he realized that the words came from him.

"Wha-?" Franklin was agog/stunned.

"You've done nothing but cry and bleat and moan about poor you, oh I don't deserve this...yah yah yah since you got in here. I may not know everything you did to deserve being here, but I know it must be some pretty sick shit."

Good stuff!

"You look deep within yourself and have a long hard look – and ask yourself: 'Am I really hard done by in here?' Go on, think about it."

"But I..." Franklin was without words.

"Stephen," Carly started, she could see Franklin was getting destroyed.

"No, you know what he's like," Stephen said. "I see you squirm every time he speaks, each time you're near him. You can't stand being in the same room as the slimy fat bastard and it's written all over you. Didja hear that Franklin – she can't stand you. You make her skin crawl."

I'm so proud of you – maybe there's hope for you yet

Franklin was in tears again, but he had run out of fluid to emit. He just dry-sobbed into his scrunched up knees, a slobbering shell of a man who had just had the final nail driven into his dignity coffin and seen it sent into the oven. Stripped, gone, forever lost in a fiery wall of permanence – Franklin's humanity (what was left of it) had gone the way of the Dodo.

"Stephen – that was pretty cruel." Carly looked at Stephen with a level of disapproval that he only ever saw from his mother. That look that said: "I'm not upset, just disappointed."

"It needed to be said Carly – he's just on my nerves and I can't take his shit anymore."

Carly figured that although Franklin was a cretinous, lecherous fat bastard, the character assassination that Stephen unleashed seemed almost unfair – if it weren't so true. She knew that Franklin's past was one that did explain why he was here and why he had been "chosen" for the role this night held for him. According to the criteria for the group, Franklin's actions in the past provided justification for his qualification for this role. The vigilante attitude of Zoran in that regard was spot on and he'd always been very careful about who was chosen and why. Research was conducted and no stone left unturned so that they could be 100% sure that they'd got it right in selecting candidates.

It was the volunteers that could be unpredictable.

"Stephen – escort me to the toilet will you?" She asked and he started to follow her out. The toilet was in the adjacent room and it was one simple unisex room with a few stalls, a urinal and some basins. It was all grey concrete and filthy smells. In the urinal lay the trough monkey.

The trough monkey was a guy dressed in full PVC suit from head to toe – the mask very much like "the Gimp's" mask from Pulp Fiction. The crotch had been cut out of the suit and his plastic-gloved hand pulled at his cock furiously as one of the punters stood at the urinal and pissed on him. The urine spattered down, hitting the monkey with a loud "patter-patter" sound, splashing over the punter's legs and feet as well as flowing out onto the floor. The trough monkey continued masturbating, the man's warm urine covering the monkey's genitals.

"Jesus Christ," Stephen involuntarily blasphemed with a withering acceptance– wondering how it was that after what he'd seen tonight something new actually still shocked him.

"He's always here," Carly said. "It's his 'thing'."

"I certainly didn't think I'd see that tonight!"

"Look, I know that Franklin's a pain in the arse but he won't be here too long anyway. He won't win this thing; I know Zoran will not allow it. He's finished. But losing it like that in there is not going to help you."

"Help? I don't need any help. I know what I'm doing here."

"Maybe..." and her voice trailed off. He wanted her to say more but she looked as if she didn't see the point.

Carly looked pained, exhausted. It was like she was fed up and knew that further discussion was futile. She looked like she wanted to be sick. Maybe it was Franklin – she certainly had a pained expression on her face whenever he was in her vicinity – or maybe the trough monkey? Or maybe simply the entire sick scenario they found themselves in.

See? She's sick of the sight of you too? Can't you feel the pain she has when she's near you?

Shut up, she's just explaining things.

Yes, but she is so sick of you!

"Are you gunna piss or what?" A guard said, standing at the door, waiting for Carly to do what she came in there to do.

Carly didn't feel like urinating all over the trough monkey – even though she was sure that the freak in the plastic suit would certainly have welcomed it. Instead she chose a stall to maintain some level of modesty – even if the guard wouldn't let her close the door.

After she'd finished, they went back into the main room and the guards had given each of the remaining players a glass of water. Franklin still sat where he had for most of the game so far, wallowing in his filth and continuing to feel sorry for himself. Carly sat on the floor next to Stephen and he wanted to say so much to her, get to know her and her story, figure out what it was that made her tick. But he couldn't find the words. What sort of small talk could he say in a place like this?

"So, you come here often?"

"What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?"

"Do you want to dance?"

HA HA HA! Dance?! That's a good one!

What?

As if she'd dance with you? Dance with YOU? You? Dancing? Bahahaha!!!!

The demon cackled away in Stephen's head, the laughter threatening to explode out of his head and all over the room, exposing the demon.

An old woman walked up to Stephen and stood in front of him. He had barely noticed Judith at first but then remembered her as one of the players in this macabre game – she was # 5. He face was set in stone, harsh and hard. She had beady little piggy eyes that were almost evil and squinty in the corners, like she spent years trying to see through people and figure them out. Her heavily lined face had a furrow between her eyebrows, a deep worry line that carved a canyon through her aged leathery skin. She looked like she'd done a lot of things in her life, lived more than most her age had. Stephen guessed she looked about 75 but figured she was probably younger than that.

Right now, though, she was solely focused upon Stephen. Judith had steeled herself to say something to him and her determination and sincerity took any words he had out of him. He simply looked back up at her as she stood above him.

"I heard what you said to the fat man," she said. "It wasn't nice at all."

"Yeah, well, you don't have to listen to his constant self-pity do you?"

"Maybe not – but someone in your position should be more sympathetic."

"My position?"

She's got you son, she fucking OWNS you.

No she doesn't

Yes she does! She knows...she KNOWS!!!

"What do you mean 'My position'?" Stephen asked.

"I just thought you'd have more important things to worry about. You know, like walking. Or are you faking paraplegia for sympathy?"

BANG! POW! There it is!

The words seemed innocuous but, spoken from this old lady that could be anyone's grandma, they hit home like an arrow through the heart.

Take that you crippled, wheel-chair bound cunt!

#  Blind Man

After the violence that accompanied Zoran's announcement that they were all to play Russian roulette, the welcoming room was in a state of shock; dead bodies littered the floor between cowering ones. Zoran commanded the gathering - fear filled them all now and no one dared move lest that be misinterpreted as an attempt to escape. Zoran raised his arms as he began to address them – he had rules and regulations he had to impart and in their states of shock at the sudden turn of events for them, he knew that he needed their undivided attention.

"Please people," he began, "Relax. Sit if you want. No-one else need to be hurt if you all listen and behave."

Stephen too was scared, mainly because he was worried that he'd be shot before he had a chance to even play the game. There was a macabre side of him that was interested in the game, how it played out and what it would actually be like. He was interested to see if he could actually do it. Not enter the game – he knew he could and would do that – but whether he would have the nerve to shoot someone else in the head.

The hard thing, he thought, was that he wasn't angry or upset at any of these people. If he was, then that emotional conflict would take control of his feelings and his morality and he knew that he would be able to kill someone.

If someone harmed my parents – dead!

If someone harmed my little nephew – dead!

If someone harmed your girlfriend – DEAD!

He knew the demon would bring that up and he struggled hard to keep the words inside his head, words that, if he spoke them out loud, would certainly turn all the attention to himself. And attention, in here, was not what he wanted. They already looked at him funny, like a lot of people do, even though being in a wheelchair isn't exactly uncommon; even for someone as young as him. Most people assume car accident or something anyway, but still...the looks he received here were very similar to those he got every day anyway – he could do without the attention. In here, he felt, attention would get him killed prematurely.

Leave it out! It wasn't my fault

No, of course not, it's NEVER your fault is it you weasley fuck? There's always someone else to blame.

But I...

Stephen knew it was an argument he couldn't and wouldn't win – the demon had all the answers and no matter how much he tried to defend himself, or argue his side of things, he knew that it would not listen to him. It had made its mind up and that's that.

Zoran continued: "Look, there are number of rules I need you to abide by so in small while we will be going through those and you will learn them all. If you forget, or you don't like them...well, take a look around. You don't want to end up like that, do you?"

For the next few minutes, Stephen and the others watched as one body was dragged away after the other.

"Neither did they I suppose," smirked Zoran.

Blood splatters replaced the spaces once occupied by living, breathing people. Stephen was all too aware that those in the room were either here of their own volition – which, to be truthful, was few and far between – or had been lured there against their will because of the things they had done in their lives. Therefore, those that left as corpses were not to be mourned. In most cases they deserved to be dead in the eyes of Zoran and, indeed, most of society. Of course, that didn't make the sight of a woman's head being opened up by an iron bar any less confronting or disturbing, but Stephen could justify it by way of vigilante-ism. Of sorts.

Come on! You CAN'T justify this.

Yes, we have all forfeited our right to being alive – that's why we are here.

Not me! I fucking don't deserve this you selfish little arsehole.

So! That's it! That's why you're so pissy today – you're scared to die!

Silence....

More silence...

Stephen wondered if he had done it – achieved something that he had battled his adult life. Keeping the demon quiet and at bay. He _hoped_ that he had done it anyway but the reality was that although the demon was sometimes quiet, he never went anywhere. He was always in there and always would be. He wasn't going anywhere.

A short while later the room seemed to have lost the tension in the air. The bodies had disappeared, although no one made any attempt to wash away or clean up the blood and mess that was left behind. That served as a deterrent, a constant scar that reminded everyone that non-compliance was dealt with very strictly indeed.

"OK – people," Zoran began, "let me give you brief run-down of the rules in here. Tonight the members of our group will start arriving at –"

Scared to die? There's no death, no relief from this miserable existence that you call 'life". This "life", as you know it as, is only one part of a series of states that you will find yourself in and I will be with you every step of the way.

Stephen can't hear Zoran anymore. The sounds coming from the Croatian's mouth were dulled blurs, audible smudges on his consciousness as the demon was beginning one of its rants. It hasn't done this for quite some time and it now chose this moment to begin.

Then again, it's never really chosen an opportune moment for Stephen. Each time the rants have begun at almost exactly the time that he was glad there wasn't one – usually just when he was starting to think that it was asleep, or tired of haranguing him.

Pride precedes the fall – another saying that flickered into his mind only to be drowned out by:

You pretentious twat! Half the time you make these stupid little sayings up, then pretend to not know where you heard them as if to give them some validation – who are you trying to impress? Surely not me? Maybe you're trying to impress yourself – yes? Is that it? Trying, in vain, to impress the one person you can never fool. How are you going to convince yourself that you are anything more than the worthless, snivelling wretch that I know you are?

I know all your stories, I know all your tricks. You can't fool me and I won't let you fool yourself – I can't have it! It's quite pitiful really – watching your inept display at justifying yourself to yourself, trying to convince yourself that you actually have meaning and substance. You're a blight, a boil that needs lancing – spreading your pent up virulent pus over society so that they can see the noxious soul of your being as well as I can. I can feel you now, wanting to cry, wanting to try and argue the point with me and yet you don't even have the fucking balls to do that either do you? You're such a waste of breathable space that I wonder why it is that you haven't managed to kill yourself before now.

Did you think that you'd be able to "work this through"? Did you actually contemplate the thought that you could drive me out and live happily ever after? I know that you're a deluded fucktard, but that level of naivety I thought was beyond even you. Where do you think I'll go? Haven't you worked this out yet? You really are an oxygen thief.

Remember Morrie Mosby? Of course you do – you spent enough time with the blood sucking wallet emptying con-man to know exactly who I'm talking about. The charlatan who relieved you of about $3000 worth of psycho-analysis – how much good did that do for ya? Hey? FUCK ALL!!! That's how much. All that bleating about how your family was poor, and that you never had the start in life that others get and boo-hoo-fucking hoo!!! He kept you talking and talking and talking – didn't leave a second of room for me to open my gob and expel upon him the true nature of the cunt that sat in his office. Never gave ME the opportunity to tell him about the REAL Stephen Sharp – the cold spineless prick who stole money from the wallet of a blind man –

Now hold on! I never did such a thing.

Yes you did; money from a drunk blind man in a pub.

No I never. Remember – I found the wallet, no one in the vicinity claimed it, no ID in it, so I used the cash to get in a few rounds.

Well, that's stealing in my book – and in the books of most other cunts and they would tell you so if you had the gumption to ask them.

I didn't know it was the blind guy's wallet until an hour later when he came back to the pub with his mates looking for it.

No excuse – you're a low, tea-leafing worm and there's no denying that! I'll not hear another word about it anyway – I told you at the time what I thought of your actions and I'm not going through it again. You have consistently failed to yield to my moral stand against your debauched lifestyle so there's not much chance of that desisting now. That mischief maker Morrie Mosby did NOTHING – BUPKISS! – to make things better. There was no opportunity for me to impart upon him the reality of your time on this here planet we're standing on – oops, sorry wheelie-boy, bad choice of word huh?

In his head Stephen could hear the roar of laughter as the demon seemed quite chuffed at his little joke. Stephen was quite used to it now and, in fact, he was pretty sure he'd heard it all before. He was a little disappointed that he allowed himself to be drawn into arguing the point over that night in the Victoria Hotel where he big-noted himself by shouting a few rounds with the cash he found in the wallet. The truth is, he was about half sure that the wallet belonged to the blind guy who was sitting at the next table, but he felt that if he simply handed the wallet in to the bar staff, they'd pocket the cash anyway.

The demon was right – he was a cunt.

" – under no circumstances are you to leave this room," Zoran continued. Stephen heard the demon's laughter fading into the distance – a soundtrack to his consciousness that, he hoped, had reached the end of the disc and was fading off. No segue into the next track, no prolonged silence before the hidden track at the end of the disc.

What did the Demon mean about "life", and "existence"? Stephen couldn't allow himself to believe that he would never be rid of the cause of all his pain. The concept of eternity is hard enough for a mere mortal to fathom anyway, let alone an eternity with in-built torture. What if death wasn't the release from his prison he'd hoped for? What if he carried this baggage through to another realm? God, he hoped the Atheists were right!

And, just then, he started to snigger. The soundtrack in his mind of the fading demon and his own confused thoughts were unknown to those in the room – their concentration was held in fixated attention by Zoran. Stephen's skull was the earmuffs that prevented those around him an insight into the world that lay within it. He knew that the sounds were totally inappropriate for the setting but he couldn't help himself one little titter at the irony of his predicament.

Zoran did not look amused.

Stephen had his head down, avoiding eye contact whilst he stifled the laughter. He realized that the room was silent and knew then that his sounds were real and he'd made them out loud. Sometimes he didn't know – the only evidence was that everyone around him now looked at him. Some of them nearby had started to shift away and this often happened in public places when he suddenly verbalized some of the stuff that went on in his head. It was as if they were afraid that whatever it was that caused this behaviour might spread to them – that they might catch "nutcase-ness".

In this instance, however, it was more out of self-preservation (futile that it was in reality) than anything else that some near him moved away from him a little bit. They moved because they didn't want to be collateral damage when Zoran unleashed upon Stephen the punishment that they all knew was coming.

But it didn't come. Zoran looked at Stephen and when Stephen lifted his head to notice the stunned looks around him and then focused on Zoran, he saw a glare that immediately extinguished any feelings of jocularity or self-satisfaction with his little internal monologue. The man's gaze could melt the ice caps and Stephen sunk further back into his chair.

This chair....this fucking wheelchair chair, thought Stephen and he waited for the demon to start up again. He knew well enough that the demon did its best work when he was particularly vulnerable. And, in one half-second glance from that psychotic European giant, he was reduced back to the exposed and helpless shell that he knew others felt he was. But, this time there was nothing from the demon.

Was the chair the cause of all his problems? A symptom? Or the result? Stephen asked himself. Maybe all three?

"Anyway," Zoran continued after having dealt with Stephen's inadvertent outburst as efficiently and as ruthlessly as he could, "that's about it. There is about an hour before we begin. You will wait here until we call – you will be guarded. No-one will try to escape or, I will hurt you and make you WANT to die – but you will not die. You try leave now, and I cut off some fingers"

They all got the picture – he needed bodies for the game. Stephen was now able to concentrate, partially at best anyway, on what Zoran was saying and he understood what the beast meant. He would hurt them, badly, if they tried to escape or cause a ruckus but he needed them alive to play the game. Not much point trying to play a game of Russian roulette with a corpse is there? Stephen thought.

The enormous psycho left the room and they all sat on the cold concrete floor (well, all except Stephen who had a nice comfortable wheelchair to rest his weary bones in). Nobody was chatting but there was plenty of noise. Sobs came out of a few of them, the odd muttering from someone about the unfairness of it all, how they were tricked into being here, how someone (or so-and-so) was "going to absolutely fucking get it in such a bad way when I get out of here" – oblivious to the fact that none of them were ever getting out of there.

They waited.

Stephen waited too – not only for the reckoning that was coming but the return of the demon. He would certainly be back soon.

#  Bucket List

Judith saw the shocked look on the faces of both Stephen and Carly – shocked by what she had said and the fact the she actually confronted them. Judith couldn't believe the words were coming out of her too, but she couldn't stand there and do nothing.

Everyone had avoided Stephen's "condition" – no-one wanted to say anything or find out why he was there. Judith had no idea why he was in the wheel-chair, she just wanted them both to stop abusing Franklin. Judith didn't know any of them and she certainly didn't know Franklin's past or the reasons why he was there. But, to her, that didn't matter. What was important was that if someone was about to die, then they should be allowed to do on their own terms...with some sort of dignity.

OK, she thought, maybe Franklin forfeited respect and dignity by crying and weeping – all the while soiling himself. But he was still a human being who deserved some respect – even if he didn't respect himself.

Stephen looked as if he was going to cry – Judith had hit him hard.

"That's out of order," Carly said, realizing that Stephen wasn't going to bother replying or stick up for himself. "You don't have to say that – it's hard enough in here as it is."

"Exactly!" Judith replied. "That's exactly why you shouldn't be saying those things to him". She indicated Franklin who had, finally, shut up.

"He's been a filthy sobbing wreck and Stephen here has just about had enough. This is stressful enough without listening to this guy's slobbering all the time." Carly was starting to get upset now – mainly because, for some reason, she felt some sense of loyalty to Stephen; that she was the only one who defend him in here – even Stephen wasn't capable of defending himself.

"He's not the only one." Judith could see several players now watching this little exchange – she'd blown her invisibility cover. They all saw her now, she was front and centre. Her ability to hide in plain view of the room had gone and she was exposed. "There are plenty of stressed people in here. There's no need for that."

"You don't know the half of what he's done," Carly said.

"And I don't care. It's not important now. What's important is that we don't resort to attacking each other like that. It's not what this is about."

Stephen butted in: "Just leave it", he said to Carly. "She's right."

"What do you mean she's right? You're faking it?" Carly was incredulous! She thought she'd seen some sick shit in her time, but someone faking paralysis? Maybe she was wrong about him?

"No!" He cried. "Of course not! I meant that she's right about what I said. It was out of line."

He turned his chair around and wheeled it a few feet away, Carly following. Judith could hear them talking quietly to each other, occasionally looking in her direction. She knew they were talking about her but hopefully she got through to them as well.

She wondered why they were here.

Mental problems? Almost certainly.

Terminal illness? Possibly.

What annoyed her was that people so young, with their lives ahead of them, would be in this game. If Judith had a terminal illness, she'd be out there living every day like it was her last, living life to the fullest and trying to eke out as much vitality as she could whilst she still could.

Over the last few months that's exactly what she had been doing anyway. She knew that she was physically healthy and would live on for many years, but she created a bucket list of things to do before she died anyway. In some sub-conscious part of her brain she must have felt that, by creating the list, she might create the illness. The illness that would lead her to death and back into her beloved Alan's arms again.

After Alan died, she drew up a list and thought that, maybe, doing these things might help her feel better and give her a sense of purpose in life – something to keep her going without Alan being there. The list was made up on the things that a lot of people want to achieve but never get around to it. She travelled, saw New York, Paris and finally got to London. It was a whirlwind and Judith loved seeing the places she had only previously read about – or seen in movies.

But one word kept repeating itself over and over inside her:

Underwhelmed, underwhelmed, underwhelmed, underwhelmed, underwhelmed.

Judith knew what it was straight away. It was life without Alan. She wanted to see these things, visit these places, experience these things – but she wanted to do them with him. To experience these things without him left her feeling empty inside.

She took photos of famous places and things – but there were no reference points. A photo of the Eiffel Tower is simply a photo of a thing – without someone you know in the photo, it may as well have been ripped out of a travel guide. There was no emotional attachment, no feeling, in the photos and the memories she had. Yes, the places were ticked off the list, but she felt no sense of achievement because she hadn't experienced these things with the man she loved.

And she never would – these were goals that could never be met, never be achieved. The realisation of that hit her like a 50 tonne truck, followed quickly by one word, repeating itself over and over inside her.

Loneliness, Loneliness, Loneliness, Loneliness, Loneliness, Loneliness, Loneliness, Loneliness, Loneliness, Loneliness.

It wasn't just in her head, but it seemed to throb through her very soul itself.

She had completed her list but it left her more depressed and resenting life than when Alan had died. She felt she had wasted the last several months of her life trying to achieve the impossible when she could have been working out a way to be with him again. Judith felt she would live forever when all she wanted was her love back.

And then Alex...

Alex – my saviour, my killer, she thought.

The one saving grace in the last year or so of her life had been Alex. Meeting him and confiding in him was one of the greatest things she had ever done and, after tonight, she would always be indebted to him for the help he has given and the love he has shown her.

Alan was such a strong, confident and supportive man – Judith always felt safe and secure with him. They supported each other through thick and thin. Sometimes the best part of her day was crawling into bed next to him at night, lying with her head on his shoulder/chest, her arms draped across him, her leg over his. She just seemed to fit right into him, melt into one. He'd throw one strong muscular arm around Judith, gently holding her. She could feel the strength and power he had, yet he would be so gentle and precise with his touches – it was tender and wonderful.

And then she saw him wasting away in that hospital bed whilst the cancerous cells chewed him up; sores covering the points on his body where his large bony frame pressed his skin against the harsh white hospital sheets. Bed sores are hideous, horrible things – the dressings were rudimentary and she was sure they must have hurt him more than he ever let on. Towards the end Judith couldn't bear to even be in the room when the nurses changed the dressings. She could see the tears welling in the corner of his eye as they performed the necessary tasks, noticed the state of the old dressings and just wanted to end it all right there and then – for both of them.

When she re-told this to Alex months afterwards, the pain came from so deep within her that Judith thought it was going to tear her in two. Her whole body heaved as she sobbed quietly. She didn't make much noise, no wailing or histrionics – but the deep sobbing hurt so much that she was incapable of making much noise anyway. She couldn't even bring her arms up to cover her face, shielding him from the awkward sight of an old woman crying in the hospital. Tears flowed like streams through the natural waterways Judith's lined face had created, washing away the years of love, honour and companionship she had with Alan. If any word best described the feeling she had it was "watershed". That was what it literally was – the valleys of age carried away the life she had with Alan and she was reborn into a new life.

One that would begin with the end of the one man she would always love – and conclude with the end of her own life. In one moment of complete honesty, Judith knew what the future would hold and she knew that it wouldn't take long to fulfil it – she just needed the means.

And that arrived in the form of Alex. Judith didn't know it at the time, but her salvation – her final solution – arrived with the words: "Are you okay love?"

Judith's reverie was broken by the entrance of Zoran. Every time he entered the room, everyone just froze and waited for him to do or say something. He had such a strong hold over not only the participants in the game (who had seen, first hand, what he was capable of), but also the "free" people in the orgy. They were all scared of him and rightly so – the guy was a lunatic, a sadist and, Judith suspected, a psychopath. She couldn't tell if he was even enjoying it and that was the most worrying part.

"Ok people, "Zoran began, "the next round is different."

The orgy people were excited; all their attention was entirely on Zoran as they awaited his announcement.

"The next round will be...DEATH MATCH!"

The place erupted, cheering, some literally jumped for joy. Judith didn't know what a "Death Match" was but, judging from their reactions, she could tell it was obviously a big deal. She was getting to the stage where she wanted this to end. It had been exciting, but now enough's enough. This whole thing was sick, she knew that, but that's not why she had had enough.

She was bored.

She was tired.

Judith was done.

#  Metal Gulag

Stephen sat in his wheelchair, Carly by his side. What the old lady had said cut him deeply – not because her words were particularly acerbic, but rather because of the sincerity behind them. She meant what she said and Stephen knew it. She hadn't said it to be malicious or cruel, or for her own sadistic amusement. She said it because she felt it needed to be said.

Stephen was still getting used to being in the chair. Wheeled incarceration.

Stephen lost the use of his legs about a year ago, yet he still felt unnatural in the chair – would it ever end?

'Lost the use' – a term he still struggled with. It implied that that the use could be found again and, when it was found, he'd be able to walk again. But spinal damage like his was irreparable – there would be no miraculous discovery of the usefulness of his legs. That "use" hadn't been lost, it had been taken away from him and the saddest thing of all was that, ultimately, when he really thought long and hard about it, it was Stephen himself who took it away.

Carly was saying something to him, words of comfort he assumed, whilst he was taking leave from reality and visiting spectres of the past. Evil ghosts that popped into his day to day reality – even when he should be concentrating upon something very important. Like, for example, a beautiful woman consoling him in the middle of a Russian Roulette game.

Feeling sorry for yourself again? Well? Are you?

Piss off!

No way Jose – I'm here until the end.

Stephen could hear the demon smiling.

Once again, the demon always knew just the right time to return; to resurface just when he didn't think he could get any lower. The bastard would pop into his head to rub his nose in misery.

You were off with fucking fairies again weren't you? Reminiscing about all the bad stuff that has happened to "poor ol' you".

Not now, I need to concentrate on what's going on

It was true that Stephen should have been paying attention. The announcement for a Death Match had just been made and the orgy people were very excited. That reaction did not bode well for the players in the game. Stephen had no idea what the Death Match entailed, but he guessed it was some form of one-on-one shoot-out or something like that.

Those "fairies" you were away with – they work for me. They're evil little seraphim that I command to get inside your head when I am bored with your sick reveries. Your contemplative selfishness makes me bilious and revolted. How dare you? Who the fuck do you think you are? What makes you so fucking special, so wonderfully important that you think you can indulge in such selfish naval-gazing? Hmm?

It was on a roll again – this time it spat out each word with such vitriol, such passion, that surely someone else could here this too? Another tirade of abuse to come.

You know, I'm getting tired of this shit

YOU

ARE

NOTHING

A speck, a blight. A sick affliction on humanity. An acne scar on the face of humankind – reminding them all of the worse kind of worthlessness that humanity can produce. You're the Ying to Einstein's Yang, to Gandhi's Yang, to Mother Theresa's Yang

You know, I'm getting used to this now – I'm a bit over it to be honest

Over it? You're not fuckin' over anything my little lab rat – my experiment! An experiment in excrement – that's what you are! You're not free from me, or my abuse, until I say you are. You will NEVER be free from me – NEVER!

Its voice bellowed in his head, reverberating around and drowning out everything else around him. His skull vibrated.

The demon was angered but that usually meant it would stay quiet for a little while. Although Stephen did not dare to close his eyes for fear of being blinded by the brightest fire of his own personal hell thrown straight back at him, his mind's eye pictured the demon walking off, waving it's arms about and muttering abuse like a homeless drunk at a train station.

"Did you hear anything I said?" It was Carly. She could see that Stephen had drifted off into his own world again.

"No, sorry, I was..." Stephen stammered a bit, briefly contemplating telling Carly all about the Demon, the wheelchair, and the reason why he was there. But he couldn't do that, not yet anyway.

Still not used to that wheelchair – confinement carriage.

"I was just saying that you should ignore what that old woman said – that she won't have long to live anyway." Carly looked over at the old lady who had since sat back into her position as the crowd around her continued with the orgy. This was a tableau that Stephen felt surreal – a woman in her late 60's or so surrounded by a heaving orgy and awaiting her turn to die in a game of Russian Roulette.

"None of us have, do we?" Stephen replied.

"I suppose not – but one of us will."

"Maybe her."

"I hope not – evil old cow."

"She's not evil – she was right," said Stephen.

"I think she was out of order. What's she doing here anyway?"

"Don't _you_ know? I thought you knew about the people here?"

"I only know about those that are not voluntary. People like you and her – I have no idea."

"Well," Stephen speculated, "she's lived her life. Maybe she has more of a right to be here than we do?"

Stephen thought about that for a moment – _did_ she have more right? The old lady had certainly lived longer; the rest of the participants were under 45 years old and this woman looked well over 60, maybe even 70. None of the other players had lived a full life yet. With no future to be had, was it better to waste away or end it quickly?

Quality V Quantity.

"I don't think so," Carly replied, "she has no more or less right to be here than you or me. Or any of the other poor wretches who have ended up here tonight. We all deserve to die."

He will never be used to that chair. Steel Prison.

Again Zoran entered the room. And the crowd of naked (or near naked) onlookers began to fall silent. His mere presence demanded their attention, such was the aura he emanated. It was like a cancer slowly spread through everyone as, one by one, they realized he was there without him saying a word. The cancer of obedience.

He began:

"A Death Match has been called. Two participants will fight to death – the match is over when there is no breath in lungs of one of them. They fight here – in this room." He indicated the blood soaked concrete arena upon which death had already rained. "There are no weapons other than whatever can be found in this room. There are no guns, no knives – this is hand-to-hand combat in its purest form. There is no refusal to fight – punishment for resistance is death. Am I clear?"

His last sentence was more like a school principle than an enforcer of terror. They all nodded like school children too – the rules were clear indeed.

Zoran walked over to Stephen's chair. He leaned forward and put his huge hands on the arms of the chair, pinning Stephen to the steel frame.

Metal Gulag.

"You – I would love to see you fight. Love to see how a cripple could fight!" he leaned in close, his deathly blue eyes only inches from Stephen. Zoran's breath smelt of onions and Stephen noticed the pock-marks of acne scars – signs that there was once a youth in this monster. The golf ball like indentations scattered across his face, punctuated by the stubble of his slowly growing beard. He stared into Stephen, searching for the fear that his presence usually created. But there was none – Stephen was not afraid. Stephen had come to this place to die and Zoran's actions did not scare him.

You'll crack!

No I won't.

Yes you will! He'll see right through you. See you for the worthless, lamentable, pitiful excuse for a human being that you are.

Maybe – but I am not afraid of him

You should be

"Well, will you fight for me? Zoran asked, knowing that he really didn't need to ask Stephen – if he wanted Stephen to fight, he would make him anyway.

I'm not scared because I have already seen the devil.

Yes you have! I AM THAT DEVIL!

The demon raged and in Stephen's mind's eye he could see the demon in a heroic stance, clawed arms reaching upward, head thrown back and flames shooting out like an aura around him, consuming the bestial torso licking at his contorted face. Even with his eyes open and staring deeply into Zoran's face, the demon had managed to put an image into Stephen's vision.

He was invading reality more and more – his sight and now his speech

"No – I am the devil" Stephen said. It was monotonous, calm and sent a chill through Carly. Only Zoran and Carly heard it.

The demon said nothing.

And then Stephen saw it – the weakness that he knew Zoran had. Everyone has a weakness – hell, even Superman had kryptonite! And most people have more than one. These weaknesses, these failings, are usually hidden and are only revealed when people need them the least. Zoran – monster, beast, dominator, killer, rapist, torturer, barbarian, sadist – his weakness showed just when he didn't need it.

No one else saw it – only Stephen. They were face to face, only inches apart, when Stephen saw the weakness.

Doubt.

Zoran had doubt. For a fraction of a second Stephen saw it in Zoran's eyes. Zoran doubted now that he could break Stephen mentally, psychologically. Self doubt was Zoran's weakness. Stephen knew it and Zoran knew that Stephen knew it too.

Zoran backed away and, saving face, announced: "No – the cripple will not fight now. We need a fair fight, an even fight."

The crown anticipated.

The crowd expected.

The crowd held its breath.

"You!" Zoran pointed at #12 – a tall, skinny, filthy mess of a man who was sitting on the floor, his knees pulled up to his chest. His head rested on his knees, face down, like he was asleep or totally oblivious to what was going on around him. "You will fight...."

He scanned the participants, looking for #12's opponent in the Death Match. Then he singled someone out.

"You will fight the fat man!" Zoran pointed straight at Franklin.

#  Death Match

Given the type of game that was played with these pawns, these minions, making them fight to the death one on one was only a matter of progression for Zoran. Derek had seen him orchestrate a similar game in the past for his own amusement – a gladiatorial cock-fight. It sated blood-lust, it perpetuated hope.

It suggested freedom.

Freedom – as if many of these wretches ever had any freedom anyway, Derek thought.

It was usually life's detritus that ended up with in this game anyway; drug addicts, paedophiles, criminals in one form or another. Their lives were a long series of attempts to escape – escaping reality, boredom, or simply trying to escape themselves. The last one is the saddest and the most pathetic – in terms of futility anyway. How can you escape yourself?

Derek wondered why you would want to anyway? To feel so disillusioned or insecure with oneself, to have such low (or lacking) self-esteem that a person would want to escape who they are?

A circle had cleared in the middle of the room, the participants now sat on the edge of it about to watch the death match between two of their own. Franklin was not an easy person to get into this game, Derek's inside man (Philthy Phil) had to gain Franklin's trust. He had appeal to Franklin's sense of extreme debauchery without appearing too eager. These types of people can be paranoid and very skilled at sensing a trap, or a set-up. Fortunately Phil was very adept at luring Franklin in and, coupled with Franklin's arrogance at getting away with things, they were able to get him here to participate.

After years of being paid not to care about who lived and who dies, Derek found it somewhat liberating to allow himself the emotional freedom to care. There was a perverted sense of vigilante-ism that made him feel that eradicating these people from the earth in a humiliating and degrading way was appropriate somehow. Sometimes they tried to fight back, or beg and plead, thinking – even right up until the end – they could still get away with things. They soiled themselves, offered sexual favours, anything at all to avoid suffering a fate similar to that which they have inflicted upon others.

Franklin fell nicely into that category – his demise was something that Derek felt wholly justified about.

The wretch that Franklin was about to fight was one of those that Derek care not one iota for. He didn't even know this drug-addled low-life's name. There's no way this poor soul will be the last survivor, Derek knew that for fact. This type of participant was cannon fodder for the Extreme Team – merely here to make up the numbers.

In a past lifetime, this person had a family, loved-ones, and maybe even a life worth living; one that held potential and promise in some field or another. Derek always felt that everyone had a talent for something – he wondered what this guy's talent was?

Was he skilled at sports? Or some creative endeavour?

The point was, essentially, moot to Derek anyway – the person (barely recognisable as one) was purely an addict beyond return – it held no gender, no identification, no humanity for him anymore. He felt nothing for it now that it is alive and will feel nothing for it when it dies. In Derek's mind he'd rather see this thing batter the life out of Franklin because that, for him, would be more enjoyable. It would then get its head blown off in the next round of Roulette.

"It" was actually a "he" and he had #12 on his back in roughly drawn texta marker. #12 was taller than Franklin, probably just on six feet tall. He was skinny in a wiry, scrawny way – emaciated was probably a better term. There were signs of pain on his body, revealed when Zoran tore off his shirt. Aged bruises on his back and ribs told the tale of homelessness; beatings, abuse, survival.

Number 12 just stood there wearing aged, stained denim that looked like they were almost as old as he was. Everybody could see his hands twitching involuntarily – either through drug withdrawal or some sort of nervous disposition. Probably both.

Zoran tore off Franklin's shirt too and the crowd gasped audibly as they saw the smear of faeces at the small of Franklin's back. It rose up from his cavernous bum crack; matted sweaty hair clumped together with shit. Franklin tried to put his fat fingers in to the belt loops of his trousers to hoist them up, but his bulbous stomach prevented any movement. Derek almost felt some pity for Franklin – that small part of humanity that never seemed to die no matter how much he tried to kill it. It still seemed to come back and haunt him every now and again.

And it did so again as he watched Franklin fumble with his pants. The cynic in Derek reminded him of the things Franklin had done and the reason why he was there. Franklin was humiliated beyond anything that most people had ever seen before and this was accentuated by the laughter, jibes and taunts from the crowd of orgiastic onlookers before the Death Match.

"What a hideous fat cunt!"

"That is simply fucking disgusting!"

"I think I'm going to be sick! That fat swine is making me physically ill."

And so on.....

Money had started to be passed around again and everyone had ceased having sex to watch the Death Match. They could see that the bets were pretty even between #12 and Franklin and there was no clear favourite. It seemed to Derek that Franklin would have #12 in terms of strength and weight, but #12 had more of a survival instinct. Franklin was spent, mentally, whereas #12 was at a point where he didn't really care if he lived or died – a point which he probably reached years before.

Franklin's tiny piggy eyes flicked left and right and all over the place, scanning the crowd for a way out or a sympathetic soul. All he found was sneering and laughing voyeurs, baying for blood and not caring if it was Franklin's or not.

He wasn't focusing on anyone in particular, the tension in him mounted and Derek could tell Franklin was close to cracking. Franklin should, however, have been focusing on #12 who had leaned into the crowd and taken a large black dildo from one of the tables. As Zoran was about to say "Begin", #12 pre-empted this by smacking Franklin in the face with the dildo.

Zoran simply stepped back, a wide grin on his face, and the crowd cheered loudly – the fight was on.

Franklin brought his hands up to his face. Even from his vantage point Derek could see that Franklin's eyes were full of tears as the blood flowed from his clearly broken nose. #12 hit him again with the hard 12" dildo – causing more pain to Franklin's face.

The dildo hit Franklin's hands as they protected his smashed nose, forcing them into his snapped cartilage and causing him to step back a little. Dizziness in his brain made him sway a little on his feet and Derek thought, for a second, that Franklin was going to be knocked out. No-one wanted that – especially Derek. He wanted Franklin to know when he was dying.

The crowd cheered again as their blood lust was sated. #12 moved in again and kicked at Franklin's groin, aiming for his testicles. But he missed as Franklin teetered backwards, his bare toes hitting Franklin's solid, fat-filled stomach. That bent #12's toes downwards, the effect of which was very much like stubbing your toes against a concrete step.

Derek saw #12 recoil his foot as the instant pain shot through his leg. There was a soft crunching sound as #12's big toe broke – the sharp stinging pain sent lightning bolts of pain up his leg and turned #12's stomach. Derek waited for him to throw up.

Franklin must have felt the kick but it certainly didn't harm him, his stomach simply wobbled as it absorbed the impact. He was too pre-occupied with his face to immediately register that his assailant had broken his toe. Franklin took his hands from his face, his vision like looking through opaque tear-filled lenses at his opponent hopping on one foot holding his toes in agony.

Franklin swung a wild, round-house punch with his right hand and collected #12 on the side of his head, just behind the ear. Pain was now sent up Franklin's arm – he'd never hit anything so hard! It did, however, succeed in knocking #12 off balance and he fell to the ground.

Watching people fight who had never fought before, or never had any training in fighting before, always made Zoran laugh. It was the same sadistic pleasure a cat got from toying with its prey, but it still made him laugh to watch people throw ridiculous punches, or scrap like crazy – especially when their lives depended upon it.

Derek had never seen anyone ever give up – people will always fight to the death.

To the crowd, this comical fight was only getting better and better – a homeless drug addict fighting an obese businessman covered in shit. One got his nose broken by a dildo, the other broke his toes kicking the fat guy in the guts!

No-one was looking away – not even the wheelchair bound suicide player Stephen. Like a car accident, this fight drew in everyone's attention even though some of the more humane members of the crew here wouldn't like the end result. There was laughter from quite a few people, amused by the farcical attempts on display.

#12 quickly got up before Franklin could close in on him and he hobbled as he tried to put some weight on his broken toe. He still held the dildo in his right hand and waved it in front of him like a sword, trying to ward off his opponent.

Franklin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing blood up his cheek and into his ear. The coppery taste of blood, it filled his senses at once – sight, taste, and smell. The adrenaline was kicking in now for Franklin and his eyes told everyone in the room that he had the taste for blood – that the primeval act of self-preservation had clicked in for him and his swine-like eyes were wild with the excitement of the fight.

Blood-lust.

Killer instinct.

KILL! KILL! KILL!

Derek could feel it welling up in the room too – he knew that Zoran's blood would be boiling at the thought of killing someone. That familiar welling of adrenaline and tension – yet another drug Zoran could not kick.

Derek hoped Zoran managed to keep himself together.

Franklin roared, like a bear about to chase a hunter. His teeth flashed through a blood-smeared mouth. His saliva and blood sprayed out in front of him like fire from a dragon as he charged at #12. Franklin's bulk took a third blow from the dildo but it barely registered – let alone had any effect.

He was on top of #12 before the skinny addict knew what to do. #12 was thrown backwards with Franklin's blubbery bulk on top of him. The back of #12's head smacked against the concrete, not hard enough to knock him out, but with a crack that stunned him none-the-less. The dildo spilled free and landed at Stephen's useless feet.

#12 flapped his spindly arms in front of him, trying to protect him from the barrage of Franklin's blows. Franklin had no fighting technique at all and this was, in all actuality, the first actual physical fight Franklin had had in his adult life. He simply rained blow after blow upon the prostrate opponent under him. His fists thumped up and down furiously – like a chimpanzee beating on the ground. Very few of the blows connected directly with his target but, when they did, they had an effect – smacking #12's head back into the concrete.

The skinny addict's legs were kicking out furiously as well, trying to twist and wrench himself out from under Franklin's bulk – but it was all to no avail.

Franklin continued to pound away and the crowd's cheers started to reach a crescendo. Franklin was crying, tears running down his face and mixing with the blood and saliva that he was subconsciously spraying everywhere.

There was a guttural, primordial howl coming out of Franklin – almost like one long scream of victory as he took control of his fists, slowing the punching and pounding but becoming more accurate. #12 flapping arms became less effective, slowing, useless. Even from his vantage point above the sick scene, Derek could hear the slapping sound of fist on face, the cracking sound of skull hitting concrete.

Blood seeped out from under #12's head and his legs went still. His hands dropped to his side and Franklin landed one last punch – blood from #12 and blood from Franklin's now split knuckles sprayed out around them.

Franklin sat on top of the man, his head in his hands. Derek could see Franklin's shoulders shrugging up and down in sobs. Zoran moved in and checked #12's pulse to see if he was dead.

"He is not dead! You must finish him!"

The crowd chanted: "FIN-NISH! FIN-NISH! FIN-NISH!" and Franklin looked around. He seemed incredulous that he was being asked to finish the job. He knew the rules – he had to finish the job.

In a half-hearted attempt, he slammed a few punches into #12's head again but they were nowhere near the intensity he showed when he thought he was going to die.

The crowd booed and Zoran stepped in again: "NO! You must finish him properly."

Zoran bent over and Derek saw him whisper something in Franklin's ear. Then Franklin stood up and he put his bare foot on #12's neck. He leaned forward and put all his weight on the man's neck. #12's body arched up slightly with the shift of weight and Franklin stood there for about thirty seconds whilst the life was drained out of his opponent.

Money exchanged hands, the crowd cheered with excitement and Zoran signalled that the Death Match was over.

Franklin raised his bloodied fists into the air in triumphant victory. But there was no referee to award a belt, no crowd to cheer him and enjoy the spoils of war with him. He said to Zoran: "That's it! I won! I'm free – I'm outta here!"

Why or how he got the idea into his head that he was free was beyond everyone. It was never even hinted at. Zoran had seen this before with some people. The look of deflation afterwards was priceless.

"No, no-one goes anywhere," Zoran replied simply.

"But...I won!!!" Franklin was incredulous.

"And your prize is survival. But you go nowhere." He took a small step toward Franklin. "Now SIT!"

And that was the Death Match. It usually ended the same way – one dead and one crying. It usually meant sedation for the remainder of the Roulette players – resigned to their fate, beaten.

No-one expected what followed.

#  On the Verge

For the first time that Stephen can remember, Franklin was quiet. One of the guards dragged him, roughly, from the prostrate corpse of the other combatant, his blood soaked hands and clothing now containing more bodily fluids Stephen could think of. He was deathly quiet, even though the orgy around them was still roaring with excitement, baying for blood. Franklin looked at his hands, crimson and battered. Some of the skin was split and Franklin should have been worried about getting those wounds infected with the dead drug addict's blood.

But he wasn't.

And Stephen knew why – Franklin was finally resolved to the fact that he was going to die. He had it worked up in his mind that winning the fight would lead to his freedom, even though that was never discussed. Stephen wasn't sure what had quietened Franklin down more – the realization that he was, for all intents and purposes, well and truly fucked? Or was it the shock at having killed another human being with his own bare hands?

The #12's face was a battered pulp, broken skin and bone camouflaged under a claret veil. He was still alive when Franklin choked him to finish him off, but he wouldn't have been for long. He would certainly have been badly brain damaged with the pounding his skull took to the concrete. It was actually more humane to kill him as Franklin did than to try and keep him alive via a hospital, life support machines and so on. It was relatively quick and merciful in the end.

"Franklin," Stephen started. He felt that he should make some sort of amends/restitution – at the very least an apology for what he had said before.

"Fuck off!" Franklin snapped. "Just fuck off you crippled gimp!"

Stephen saw the pain, the resignation, the futility all rolled up into one expression.

"You're all bunch of sick arseholes!" Franklin ranted to everyone in the room. "That big Euro nutcase, all you weirdo voyeurs fucking each other's brains out and betting on the outcome of this game – you're all sick! You'll all be damned to hell!"

He turned to Stephen.

"You must have done something really bad to be here, you spastic. I don't give a shit about your legs – I wouldn't have cared a day ago in the outside world and I sure as hell don't care now. At least when your head is blown off its useless body, they'll not have to drag the body away – the pricks could simply just wheel it!"

A few people started to laugh.

Oh YES! You bee-yootee!!! He's got you're number sunshine!

Don't take his side

Well, I sure as hell won't be taking yours will I? He's right – that fat, messy bastard! You're doing them a favour in this wheeled cell of yours.

It's bad enough copping it from the demon, thought Stephen, without Franklin starting on as well.

Franklin continued: "You have an in-built wheelie bin!"

Stephen watched as Franklin regained some level of self-control and dignity through attacking him. Some in the crowd had wandered back into the orgy room to continue their festivities, their fornication. But some stayed to watch Franklin's tirade.

Franklin's acceptance of his fate was voiced in his outburst. He now knew that his time was numbered in this room, in this life, and his didn't care anymore. Even if he wanted to stop berating the crowd that watched him he couldn't. He now provided even more amusement and excitement for them – by regaining some dignity and verbally attacking everyone, he was again providing entertainment for a crowd of onlookers that fed upon this; like a circus animal turning on its trainer. The crowd simply lapped it up and Franklin continued at Stephen.

"I don't care if you're here voluntarily, or have been tricked like I was. I don't care what your story is, I don't care what that little blond slut's story is too – the one you can't stop salivating over. I don't care what that old moll's story is over there, or any of these other cunts either! You're all fucked and you all deserve to go straight back into hell with that sack of shit I just pummelled! None of you," he waved his arms around in front of himself to indicate not only the Roulette players, but everyone within earshot, "are worth the steam off my piss! I wouldn't give you the wreak off my shit!"

Yes! Yes! YES!! Keep going. He's nailing them Stephen – let's see what happens here

He's going to get his head kicked in

Oh I bloody hope so. I LOVE this place now – it's final, violent and inevitable.

He now specifically pointed at the orgy room: "All of you lot are gutless turds as well – voyeurs getting off on our misery. None of you has the guts to do what we do, you're all weak as piss!"

With that goading taunt one of the audience members lashed out at #4 – a washed out looking woman who was also badly affected by years of drug and alcohol abuse. She received a savage blow to the side of her head with a "king hit" from a naked middle aged woman from the audience. The slapping sound of fist on face was quickly followed by a loud deathly shriek by the attacker who started to follow up on the assault with wild erratic punching.

Her arms stayed straight and she flung them like windmills towards her intended victim as the skinny, pale wraith-like contestant #4 tried to stagger to her feet. As she went to stand up, the barrage of wheeling blows started to pound into her.

The assailant wailed like a Banshee, losing control entirely. Urine ran down her naked legs. She wore no clothes except for a bra. Stephen watched from his seated position, level with her hairy mound as the belly above it wobbled with every punch she threw. He could see her eyes white and wide, the pupils black with destruction and orgiastic fury.

Her intended victim was now cowering down in a ball, protecting her head and body as best she could from the blows. No-one moved in to stop it, some actually tried to place bets thinking this was a second "Death Match". Then, from nowhere, Zoran appeared.

He bounded across the room in only a couple of steps and wrapped those enormous mitts around the throat of the would-be killer. Very quickly the lack of oxygen turned her head a horrible purple colour. He held her body upright as he squeezed the life out of her.

His face was tight, his lips taut and turning purple. His eyes were devoid of emotion, like a lion at the kill.

#4 fell to the floor, bruises already starting to show up on her emaciated and bony body. She was crying as well, her mascara running down her cheeks in black rivulets, streaking her with a black/grey wash. From the floor she could see Zoran holding up her would-be killer by the throat – the woman's toes now barely touching the ground.

Zoran continued choking the killer –

Look at that – that choke hold – I want that to happen to you

You'll die if I die

No I won't – I will live forever. I will live forever with you – within you. You are my host and the host cannot be rid of the parasite. I'm that parasite – feeding off you. But you need me too. I keep you on the straight and narrow now don't I? Hmm??? Well, don't I?

I suppose –

You suppose??!! No "suppose"!!! If it weren't for me, you would have been dead a while ago. But I want to see what it's like to be choked, to have that life squeezed from you. I want to feel you slip away, with me holding on to your coat-tails for the ride. You'll take me to somewhere new – maybe somewhere where I'll be appreciated a bit more.

No, you can't –

Yes I can – and I will. I'm with you forever.

The woman's face had gone from purple to blue and Stephen could see that her hands that were clawing at Zoran in a pathetic attempt at self-preservation were now limp at her side and dangled as uselessly as Stephen's legs. He held her dying body in the air, her toes barely brushing ground. His face was set hard like concrete, his lips blue with the exertion of squeezing the life out of her.

Pretty soon, she too was dead.

He threw her lifeless corpse onto the concrete floor with a slapping thud.

"No-one step out of line here!" he roared at the crowd watching. "No-one kill anyone until I fucking say so – OK? You know the rules – you break the rules and, well, you end up like that." He spat on the dead woman's body.

He turned to Franklin: "You started this fat man, you made this happen. I will make you my bitch." He spat the words into Franklin's face, a thin string of spittle fell from his bottom teeth. "By the end of the night, there will either be your blood on my knife, or your shit on my cock. Maybe both!"

He grinned, but did not laugh. It was the menacing smile of a cat about to toy with its prey, oblivious to the pain and suffering his antics would cause. Zoran finally looked like he was enjoying himself, thought Stephen.

Your fat mate's going to get raped by that big psycho –

He's not my mate

and you're going to be too weak and gutless to do anything about it

What can I do? I'm in a bloody wheelchair. He could kill me any moment he wants

There you go again, feeling sorry for yourself, using your chair and your useless legs as an excuse. Like almost every other occasion in your pathetic life you are blaming someone – or something – else for the predicament you're in.

#4 was screaming now, blood was coming out her head somewhere and Stephen thought it was from her ear. Maybe that hit on the head did more damage than he had first thought? Zoran took his attention away from Franklin slightly to see what this deranged woman was screaming about. Even though he now seemed to be enjoying himself, Stephen could see that Zoran was close to losing the plot entirely. His eyes were wild with lust – lust for blood, for domination, for submission. He turned to #4 –

As he did, #6 stepped in front of Zoran and planted a solid right handed punch into the back of #4's head. Her squealing ceased instantly and she fell forwards, nothing broke her fall as she smacked face first into the concrete.

The room went silent – even Zoran stopped and looked at the carnage on the floor.

"Shut up," #6 said softly as he made his way back to where he was seated. He was calm, detached, like he had acted upon auto pilot.

She's "brown-bread" mate

Huh?

Gone the way of the dodo – deceased

You sure?

Course I'm bloody sure! How dare you question me – who do you think you are? The temerity, the gall, to even doubt my judgment. For someone so worthless, so insignificant, I can't believe you even have the confidence to doubt me. When have I even been wrong? Hmm? When have I ever led you astray or sailed you up the garden path? Never! That's when

OK, OK, OK...

Don't shut me up – you can't shut me up. I'm only quiet when I want to be

Zoran moved towards #6 – Stephen could see that another death was imminent

Do you hear me? DO YOU HEAR ME?

Zoran stood in the middle of the crowd – his fury steaming. His nostrils flared, his knuckles creaked.

CAN YOU HEAR ME STEPHEN???

"Yes, I FUCKING HEAR YOU!!!!" Stephen yelled, making even Zoran jump a little. "The whole world hears you and I've had enough. Just leave me alone!"

From the crowd there was some nervous laughter. Stephen looked and saw the shocked look on Carly's face. The old lady was looking towards the floor. All other eyes were on Stephen. Zoran leaned in:

"I'll deal with you in a minute."

He took a step towards #6 and looked like he was about to strangle this man as well. Then the door flew open and in strode a tall lean man, probably 10 years older than Zoran. Stephen saw that everyone in the room noticed the man enter and the atmosphere changed in an instant – it was Derek. Anarchy was near and the violence was almost out of control – instantly that stopped once Derek entered.

He was lean and fit, even through his clothing Stephen noticed Derek's physique and could sense the power that lay beneath. In a second he was next to Zoran – the huge psycho was the only one in the room who hadn't noticed him come in. Derek put his hand on Zoran's shoulder.

"That's enough Zoran," he said. The voice was familiar – he was the man in charge.

Zoran changed instantly – from raving psycho hell-bent on carnage and destruction, to chastised servant. His head bowed and he motioned for the guards to take out the two dead women.

Before leaving, the Derek said: "Next round in 5 minutes."

The demon was quiet, for now. But he would be back – for sure.

#  Perpetual Guilt

When Derek came in to stop that monster Zoran from killing everyone, Judith had an overwhelming sense of relief. Zoran looked like he was going to kill everyone in the room. She just kept her head down and said nothing, trying her best to be as invisible as they knew she was. Then, just as he was going to...well...strangle/rape/torture or just generally humiliate that other player in this game, that other guy, the one they heard on the speaker, he came in and told him to stop.

Simple as that – simply: "Stop it."

Judith didn't know Derek, who he was or what he meant to the game. He didn't yell, he barely touched Zoran – just a hand on his shoulder – but it was enough for Zoran to be put back in his place like a child. When Derek spoke, Judith recognized it as the same voice as the MC they heard on the speakers. He must have been watching on from another room so she started to look about to see if there were windows or cameras. The large warehouse like room had fluorescent lighting which hung down on from the ceiling. Above the lighting it was dark so there she thought there could be a one-way window, or camera or something above the lighting, but it was almost impossible to see any.

Judith watched Derek and Zoran leave the arena. She wondered what the history was between those two – how was it that Derek had such a hold over Zoran? This huge guy could break any of them in two, even Derek (although, she admitted, he looked like a tough cookie too). But what she saw in that brief encounter was respect. Zoran didn't look like he feared Derek, but he respected his authority over him.

Judith was glad Derek came in when he did – Zoran looked like he was about to lash out at everyone. She didn't want that – she didn't come there to be bashed or choked to death.

Judith looked around the room to see if she could see Alex anywhere. She thought she saw him earlier in the orgy, sitting on the edge of a table whilst one of the slaves gave him oral sex. It was a whole group thing with others gathered around so she wasn't 100% sure. She had never thought of Alex in a sexual way at all – he's so young he could be her son. But when she thought she caught a glimpse of him, she could feel that familiar fire rising inside her, low and deep. That feeling that she longed for someone deep inside her and the fulfilment and pleasure that came from that.

Instantly she felt guilty, like she was betraying Alan. She felt shame and disgust that she was cheating upon the oneness and serene completeness she felt when she was intimate with Alan. Judith's loneliness, her isolation, it helped betray her and give her sexual feelings when she didn't want them – at least not with Alex. She loved Alex – but not physically. She loved him for the help and support he gave her only.

Judith tried to refocus back into the twisted euthanasia she had voluntarily entered into – to try and block out the feelings of physical intimacy that she missed and the subsequent guilt at the thought that anything resembling that closeness would not involve the man she loved the most. He was dead and she was there because of that. She went there for the express purpose of reunification – uniting her, once again, with the man she loved in the after-life.

Judith knew that some might think that because she was brought up as a Catholic that she would go to hell for volunteering to be in this room. That guilt, that Catholic guilt, it was still there and always would be. It felt like she should feel guilty about anything that gave her pleasure or freedom. That guilt gave way to the overwhelming need to be with Alan once again.

And now, as the wave of relief hit Judith that Zoran's murderous rampage had been curtailed, she was starting to feel guilty that she was there.

Up until then, she had no feelings of guilt or regret – no indecision or doubt that maybe she shouldn't be doing this. It seemed so right, so appropriate that she would end her life quickly and painlessly so that she could be reunited with the love of her life. But now she was starting to feel like maybe she had made a mistake.

Previously, she had a gun at the back of her head (and her gun pointed at the back of the person in front) and she still felt okay about this path, like this was the best and only option she had. Judith never even felt like her life was in real danger because she had this thought that it would all be over so quick, she wouldn't even know it had happened. But now she had been faced with slower, more painful deaths and Zoran looked like he wouldn't be satisfied until he had departed everyone else in the same manner.

Judith was scared.

She was scared to die like that.

She was scared of the pain.

She had seen enough pain in Alan over the months that he slowly wasted away, a parasitic mutation which ultimately killed its host.

She didn't want to go through that – which was why she was there. She was healthy now, but she knew she wouldn't always be that way. She would get sick and if it wasn't cancer, or heart disease, or Parkinson's, or Alzheimer's or something like that, then she would probably live for another 30 odd years.

30 more years without seeing Alan, without the warmth of his touch, without the soft caress of his large leathery hands.

30 years without looking into those watery blue eyes of his, seeing past his external beauty and into the heart of a man so filled with love for her.

How could Judith go decades without that?

Why should I? She thought. Why can't I determine what I want to do, how I want to live my life? And when I want to die?

It didn't affect anyone else – she had no one else.

That's freedom of choice – in its purest form.

And Judith thought that was about to be ripped away from her after Zoran started to get wound up. She couldn't hear what he said to Franklin, but she could tell by the look on the soiled man's face that it wasn't nice. It would only be a matter of time before Zoran turned his attentions to her, Judith knew it. She could only remain invisible for so long.

Judith saw Stephen rolling toward that Carly. Judith felt another pang of guilt at the thought of the word "rolling" and the fact that she had insulted him earlier. He seemed to get over it pretty quickly though – he obviously was keen on Carly. Now that Judith looked closely at Carly, she did look sick. She was more pale than Judith originally thought and she was not moving freely, it was like she was in constant pain or –

Oh!

The penny dropped for Judith.

She's going to die! Carly was terminal.

Judith imagined that it was some advanced form of cancer. Or maybe it was AIDS? Carly was leaning against the wall, but her legs looked like they would give way at any moment. Carly had been shuffling around too – that same pointed shuffle that Alan did in the months that he could still walk. She was still thrusting those perfectly pointed boobs out though – her shoulders hadn't yet collapsed under the weight of agony and despair. But they would if she lived long enough.

Judith had a mixture of guilt and pity for Carly. Pity for her situation, for what she was obviously going through and the reason why she was in this room, this game. But Judith felt envious too – envious that Carly had found this painless way out when Alan had to suffer with prolonged agony whilst Judith had to watch it.

Carly was there for the same reason as Judith – to avoid the pain. Judith's pain would come from either a slow debilitating illness and subsequent death, or from 30 odd years of heartache and loneliness. Carly's pain was months (or maybe years) of declining health, pain, treatment, more pain and, ultimately, death.

The inevitability of both of their existences – painful, lonely deaths – had drawn them together. They weren't so different after all. Judith resolved that she should talk to Carly before the next round – it could be her last chance.

#  Unfinished Business

In the viewing room Derek sat down with Zoran. He had his head bowed and didn't say a word. Derek wanted to discipline him, berate him, punish him. Just like old times.

He wanted to yell at him...but he knew that there was no point. Not because Zoran was a huge psychotic killer who could not stop killing, who could not fill the void within his soul. But because they both knew that this was over.

"What the fuck was that Zoran?" Derek asked, knowing the answer anyway

"I cannot help it – I fed up. Bored. I am sick of this shit..." his voice trailed off.

Zoran was only happy on the killing field, in the heat of battle; or in the torture chamber. Derek knew the problem – he's angry.

Angry – at his country, the war, the deaths, the pointlessness of it all.

Angry – at people who are happy, or simple, or content, or hedonistic, or worthless.

Angry at everyone.

Angry – because he hadn't been killed yet

Men like Zoran should not survive conflict, they deserve to die on the battle field in one way or another. Even in modern conflict, where the battle field is not as clearly defined as in previous wars, men like Zoran should be fighting their way through insurgent strong-holds, getting dropped behind enemy lines to clear the way for the other troops.

They shouldn't survive these wars because they are not designed to. They can't handle it – they cannot function outside of that arena. They need to go from conflict to conflict, fight to fight, war to war. There's always one on somewhere and they were never happier than when they were faced with life and death.

Derek used to think he was like that, but it was more a case that he enjoyed the adrenaline rush of the conflict – like a bar-room brawler who will fight anyone after 10 beers. In Namibia, with Sonja, he learned that there was more to life and that he didn't want to die on the battlefield. Perhaps he learned that a few years after most normal people. "Normal" people learn this when they meet someone and get married, or have kids, or both. They discover that the thrill of life and the possibility of maybe not making it back wasn't as important to them as those people in their lives – new people like children. It took him longer than most to realize that.

"I have been speaking with Kobus van der Waart," Derek started to explain to the sulking Zoran, "back in Windhoek. He tells me that two of his mines in Sperrgebeit are leaking stones in a major way. He'd like us back there tomorrow if we can get back."

"Sperrgebeit..." Zoran pondered this for a while. He knew that Derek was not asking him, nor was he seeking his opinion or approval. He knew that when Derek mentioned this type of thing it's because the deal has already been done. What he was pondering was the location.

The land on the coast between the Orange River northwards to Luderitz has been a happy hunting ground for them over the years. He knew Zoran was thinking of the lifestyle they made there and the impact they had in this region. He knew that once word of their return got out, the pilfering might cease anyway – such was their reputation.

Derek was thinking of only one person, one thing. Sonja. She represented future, she equalled peace. Sonja was life and that was Derek's sole motivation to get back to Namibia.

"You know I like that country in there – we are kings there." Zoran smiled quietly to himself.

"Yes we are," Derek replied.

"We are like Gods to those people."

"Yes we are," he replied again.

"I very much think this is where we should be."

That smile, the menace behind it, Derek had seen that for so many years. For so long he thought that he had turned a corner when he didn't kill Zoran that day near Novi Travnik in the old Yugoslavia. He thought that he had saved someone that was worth saving, utilizing a previously unknown part of his conscience (namely, realizing he actually had one) and spared a life instead of routinely taking one. It is now, in the viewing room above the orgy and game of Russian Roulette, that he realized he had failed Zoran.

Derek may have turned something in his own life, but he failed Zoran's fate by not killing him when he had the opportunity. Zoran was supposed to die on the battlefield and Derek Giles denied him that pre-ordained rite.

Zoran started to chuckle very quietly, thinking about the camps in the bush south of Luderitz in Namibia and it was then that Derek realized he would kill Zoran there.

Once order has been restored, and he has served the purpose Derek needed him for, then he would quickly put a couple of bullets into the back of Zoran's head from point blank range and give him the soldier's send-off that he deserved. The end of his pain that he was destined for.

Derek had prolonged Zoran's life and all the suffering the big psycho had caused ever since had been Derek's fault.

Derek didn't regret having kept him alive – he needed Zoran's talents and his fury to achieve all that needed to be done. Without him, Derek would have continued to wander the world as a soldier of fortune and, undoubtedly, would have died in some remote part of the world with no-one to mourn him and no burial, just a carcass for insects and scavengers to feast upon.

But the time had come to send him off, finish what he started back in the early 1990's and end Zoran's suffering once and for all.

It sounded like closure.

It sounded like destiny.

The nihilistic path he had been on since the Balkans War began now had a destination. Before now it meandered around the globe, killing, torturing, and generally causing as much carnage as he could get away with for so many years. And now there was an end of the road for Zoran – back in the location that he was probably most at home.

It sounded like the end of his futility.

But, in order to fulfil this destiny, they needed to finish the game tonight.

"Zoran, we have to finish this off tonight. You can't simply go in there and lay siege to everyone."

"You saw what that fat woman did."

"Yes, I did, but the bodies are piling up. No-one's going to try shit from now on...trust me."

Zoran knew this was true – they had seen it before with mob mentality. Once you break them, then you own them. They become your clay to model any which way you want. For Derek, here in this warehouse, he simply want to end this and get the hell out of here – back to Namibia, back to the diamond mines.

Back to his love, his future, his salvation from all of this.

"You are right," Zoran nodded, "always you are right. This will end soon I think – then we can return. I know why you want to go back too – it's for Sonja isn't it?"

The look on his face was one of jealousy and resignation. Derek was disappointed Zoran brought Sonja up; it sullied Derek's memory of Sonja, hearing her name come out of Zoran's mouth.

"Yes...of course..." Derek said finally, after watching Zoran slowly get up and move towards the door. "There is unfinished business there and you know it."

"True – it is not finished for me either."

And he left the room to finish the game.

#  Kindred Spirits

Carly noticed Judith looking at her – a look that she didn't understand. Up until she approached Stephen, Carly hadn't even noticed Judith was there. She was so wrapped up in the tension and excitement in the room, that she hadn't paid much attention to all of the other players. Now that she thought about it, she wondered how she missed a woman clearly well into her 60's playing Russian Roulette in the middle of an orgy.

Stephen was talking to Carly but her mind had drifted away. It wasn't that he was uninteresting or she didn't want to listen, it's just that her little expanding organism within her was, once again, trying to tear her peritoneal lining into shreds, leaving it hanging in tatters like the rainbow coloured plastic of those old fashioned fly screen curtains. Her family had one on the kitchen door when she was a kid. Her mother hung it there...before...

Her mother's death and then her father's suicide – the emotional pain of the recollection drowned out some of the visceral pain of her demonic cancer. Anything as traumatic as that would always leave a deep emotional scar that would never heal on a child – and also on the adult that child became. It was as much a part of Carly and her life story as anything else and, over the years, she had learned to embrace it and understand it for what it was – fate. That was destined to happen to them.

She knew that it was unfair – unfair to her Mum and unfair to Carly. And, now that she was endeavouring to go the same way as her Dad before she went the same way as her Mum, Carly realized that it was unfair on her Dad too. For years she hated him...hated the fact that he chose the easy way out. He left her behind and that was what she hated him for.

Why didn't he take me with him? This was a cry she had for many years afterward. For the best part of a year after he died, she thought she must have upset him so much that he didn't want to take her with him to see her Mum. Or, worse still, she started to think that maybe her Mum didn't want her there either. Both of her parents had left Carly – what did she do to deserve that?

She had to avoid the agony her mother went through and she now understood why her father thought this was his only option. Life with the two of them was sheer misery – for him and for Carly. In the end, this was the best option for both of them. He knew it, which was why he had arranged foster family care for her anyway.

Stephen was talking, but over the top of him, Carly said: "She's staring at me."

"Who is?" He asked and swivelled on his wheels to see who Carly had her eye on.

"That old lady – the one that had a go at you. And me too. She's been staring at me for the last few minutes – ever since Zoran left."

"Maybe she fancies you?" Stephen wasn't serious, he was just trying to make light of it for Carly – he could see she was a little freaked out.

He smiled a cheeky grin, a dimple appeared in his left cheek. Carly also noticed the faint outline of freckles across his nose, remnants of a childhood spent outside playing in the sunshine. He could be right about the old lady, thought Carly, but she was a little repulsed at the thought – no-one likes to picture old people having sex.

Well, okay, maybe some people do. But Carly wasn't one of them.

Carly wouldn't be having sex when she got old. She won't be getting old at all.

If, by being at the end of your lifespan means that you are old, then Carly was clearly a senior citizen well into the autumn years of her life – and she hadn't even reached 30 yet!

"No, that's not it." She paused for a moment and then something dawned on her. "I think she's going to kill me."

"Nah," he said incredulous, "no way. Not her."

"Yes, I think so."

"I don't think she's going to kill you. Even if she tried, you'd be able to take her out. You're much younger, stronger, fitter than her."

You don't know the least of it pal, Carly thought to herself. In her current state, she may look like she was fit and healthy, but she was a façade – like a papier mache statue made of skin, the wire frame was represented by her brittle and decaying bones. There weas no substance behind the body everyone saw – a hollowed shell of human pulp was all that lay within the foldless, smooth, perfectly formed skin.

Her flesh exoskeleton hid the churning black death that grew within her.

The left side of Carly's mouth drew upward in a lopsided sneer, bearing the teeth underneath. She felt her left eye wince as well and sense the pressure between her gritted teeth. She noticed this micro-seconds before she felt the jabbing pain sear through her again. She felt like doubling up on the floor in the foetal position, curling into as small a ball as possible to squeeze the pain out of her pores.

Carly wanted this to stop.

She wanted the pain to go away.

She wanted everything, everyone to GO AWAY!

She wanted her family back.

Carly wanted them back so much right now – someone to hold her and comfort her. Someone to tell her that it was going to be alright and actually mean it – even when they know it's a lost cause and there was no hope left. Mums do that don't they? Carly wondered.

Carly wanted her mother to hold her in her warm comforting arms, cradling Carly's head. Her mother's long fingers would comb through Carly's hair, gently massaging the scalp beneath. She would give her pain relief which, over time, stopped working. But it would be enough to take the edge off and allow Carly to be held without feeling like she was about to shatter into a million shards of skin and bone.

Why can't I have that? She thought.

Why do I NOT get that? Other people have that, she pondered.

Other people have long, happy, prosperous lives, surrounded by their loved ones that care for them all their decades on this planet. And then they die short peaceful deaths in contented happiness, surround by their loved ones.

But Carly didn't have that privilege – she got to die like this:

Wasted away by cancer;

or this:

Shot in the head by someone she had never met before

Some choice huh?

And now, as the pain drew out of her like the slow exhale of smoke, she could see that the old lady was almost upon her. Carly couldn't move.

This is it! She's going to kill me! Thought Carly, transfixed, paralysed.

Stephen wasn't looking at Carly – he was watching Judith. He was watching her speak. Carly couldn't reply, the breath in her lungs was frozen solid in mid-breath – like sleep apnoea but she was wide awake. When the pain got like this, she couldn't breathe so her lungs just froze for a while. But her ears were working and she could hear the Judith's words.

"Don't be afraid love," she said.

"I know what's happening inside you," she said.

"I can see your pain," she said.

Her arms reached out to Carly but she couldn't move. Carly was partially immobilized by fear and partly by pain; and, in some small way, by curiosity. Her mind started to register the words Judith said.

How does she know? Does she have the same problems? Is that why she is here – to beat the pain and despair that dying of cancer will bring?

Judith talked again, this time not waiting for a response. It looked like she knew that Carly was incapable of replying at that moment so she took that opportunity to speak freely, without fear of being interrupted.

"I saw my husband die of cancer – and the illnesses that developed as a result of it. I saw him waste away over the last few months of his life. I know that pain, the look of agony you are trying to hide from everyone. My Alan tried to hide that from me too – walked like you do with those little steps, the stiff gait. I saw him stiffen up, his face twitch with the recognition of the returning demon in his body, kicking the hell out of him from the inside. I never wanted to see that again – and then I noticed it in you just before. I didn't recognize it earlier – I was so caught up in everything else that was going on. But I can see it now in you. It's fading isn't it? It's disappearing and pretty soon you will be able to function again – talk, walk properly, be a human being again."

She waited for Carly's response but Carly was still frozen by emotion.

"Are you sure?" Asked Stephen...then he looked at Carly: "Is she right?"

Carly simply nodded and hung her head, her loose hair falling down around her face. Carly wanted to hide in it, lose herself in the forest of hair so she didn't have to see anyone, or talk to anyone, or be anyone ever again.

"So that's why you're here..."and Stephen's voice trailed away. He leaned back into his chair and, for the first time, Carly noticed that he looked completely exhausted. His clothes were drenched in sweat and he looked beaten.

"Yes...that's why I am here." It was all she could say.

And then Judith put her arms around Carly. This woman Carly didn't know; she reached out to her and held her – firm. Her arms enveloped Carly and pulled her in tighter.

Carly disappeared into Judith's bosom – shrunk into a mini-person and fallen into the fatty folds of her body, like a doll snuggling into a bean bag. Judith's dough-like belly surrounded Carly, warmed her, held her.

Comforted her.

It's what Carly needed – no, what she craved.

Carly threw her arms around Judith as well, holding on tightly/firmly – never letting go. That act of physical embrace – the electricity and comfort that came from it – that filled Carly up at that moment. It gave her what she needed right there and then.

It was a few seconds before she realized that the shuddering she felt was her crying.

#  Moment of Clarity

The room was more subdued now. Stephen noticed that the sex had certainly calmed down a lot since the recent bout of killings –Zoran's psychotic outburst had put a dampener on the night's proceedings. Derek announced that the next round would begin very soon and Zoran re-entered carrying five guns.

Stephen was sure that someone would die this round

Stephen was certain that there was more than one bullet in each gun.

Stephen was scared that he might be the one to die.

That's you – to a tee! Scared, weak and woeful!

The demon announced his arrival in Stephen's brain with his usual brand of negativity and vitriol. Stephen knew that his time was limited and that he had begun a course of self-destruction this evening that he could not back out of – one of the few commitments in his life he actually intended to see through to the end.

But, in a twist of fate and irony, one of the few times he actually did intend to honour a commitment, he now had a change of mind. And that was due to Carly.

Come on, you sorrowful sack of shit! Some young tart bats her eyes at you, wafts some cheap perfume in your face, and gives you the time of day and you're all of a sudden in love again? How many times do I have to go through this with you?

None! That's the answer to that – you NEVER have to go through it with me.

What the HELL do you mean by that?

You choose to go through it with me, tearing apart any chance I have of a relationship because of your jealousy and anger. You are driving me insane.

Insane? I'm driving you insane? You're already insane!!! What do you think I am anyway? I'm the product of your insanity – the love child of your lack of rationality and your inability to deal with anything!

As usual, the demon spoke the truth. He existed in Stephen's mind as an entity that Stephen wasn't sure was entirely separate from reality anyway. Had he always been in Stephen's mind, in his head? Was the demon an evil incarnation of his conscience?

Was this God speaking to him?

Not the God of love and peace and forgiveness. Is this the God of vengeance, retribution and hellfire? Old Testament God – living inside the skull of Stephen?

When the saints heard the word of God, did they hear the demon like this? Or did they channel the God of love and peace? And, if so, why did Stephen only hear the demon of smite?

Because, and I have told you this more times than I can count, because you are worthless

Nothing

Pathetic

Useless

Unlovable

You have no redeeming features

No future

A loser

Give up now

The demon continued as he always had done

Petty

Self absorbed

Small minded

Timid/shy/backward...

The tirade continued on inside Stephen's head as the heavy gun was thrown onto his lap by a chaste looking Zoran. He still had the air of menace that he carried from the moment Stephen first saw him in the underground car park, but he was now quiet, reserved. Whatever Derek said or did to him worked.

With the weight of the gun on his lap, Stephen concentrated on it trying to block out the demon's repetitive montage of negative character traits –

measly, weasley, under-achiever...

Which was proving to be a challenge. Most of all, with his mind taking a kicking inside his head, Stephen was tired. He wasn't sure if committing suicide (even by proxy) would rid himself of the demon but it sure was worth a try –

lily-livered, yellow bellied, cowardly...

He had, over the years, challenged the demon on why it bothered with Stephen anyway. Why would it spend it's time with such a worthless insect of a man anyway?

To feed upon you – I exist to provide you with a sense of reality and, in turn, I feed off your ego, insecurities and banality

It once told Stephen.

Stephen was simply so tired. Tired of the demon, tired of the wheelchair...tired of life. This escape, when it came, was his last resting place. Somewhere he could finally lay his head to sleep without the constant barrage within reminding him of all the reasons why he hasn't succeeded in life.

No-one needed that kind of affirmation did they?

selfish, terrible in bed....

Well, the demon was bound to bring that up wasn't he? No matter how many times Stephen tried to reassure himself (and negate this assumption by the demon) by remembering the women he'd been with who had obviously enjoyed themselves, the demon would never listen. He always had an answer.

bad driver

Bastard! He had to bring that up – now!

Thought that one might get your attention...well, it's true isn't it?

Quiet! I'm trying to listen!

Derek was talking –

Don't Shush me! Answer the question!

Stephen pictured Judd Nelson in "The Breakfast Club" quizzing Molly Ringwald and asking telling her to "Answer the question Claire"!

Answer the question!

The demon took on the form of Judd Nelson – long dark oily hair, black over coat, Doc Martin boots – all attitude. It would not cease until Stephen gave the answer it wanted – he couldn't ignore it or else the constant badgering would never cease.

"OK – yes...I am a bad driver!" Stephen blurted out.

Those around Stephen turned and looked at him and Derek stopped speaking. Stephen knew he had said it aloud but, after years of similar such situations where the demon would invade his consciousness and become a part of his speech, he was getting used to the looks he got.

That look said: nutcase.

The look said: Weirdo.

The look said: Stay away from me.

It went silent for a few seconds and then Derek continued as if nothing had happened.

"Zoran will make sure everyone is in position – place you bets and we will start the next round very shortly."

The energy level in the room picked up as people started laying bets on which of the five remaining players would or wouldn't get their heads blown off. Stephen felt that Zoran, and probably Derek had had enough and simply wanted this over and done with. The orgy was winding down, most people had started putting their clothes back on. But the betting still went on in earnest.

Money was placed at the feet of Stephen's chair, below his useless feet and legs. His feet were swollen with the oedema of incapacitation – no manner of drug therapy or physical stimulation seemed to help. His blotched reddened skin looked like taut sausages, ready to burst with the pressure of the fluid beneath. The money was directly beneath his feet and it was safe – there was no way he could pick it up even if he wanted to. Yet another reminder of the misery his life had become imprisoned in this chair.

A chair that you confined yourself to ages ago – remember that

I do, I do...I said it – I am a bad driver

You were already imprisoned before that – maybe not physically, but certainly mentally. Psychologically.

But –

Don't bother denying it – I was there remember. I've always been there

Again that was true. The demon had always been there and he knew all of Stephen's dark secrets – the reasons for why he was the way he was.

Zoran had them all in a circle now – Stephen aiming at Franklin aiming at Judith aiming at Carly aiming at #11 aiming at Stephen. A circle of death.

Franklin's fat sweating head was directly in front of Stephen and he had stopped his crying and bleating and settled into his inevitable fate. Finally he seemed to be accepting the undeniable. Maybe he too realized that someone (if not all of them) were going to die in this round?

Then, and only then, did Stephen realize that he actually DID NOT want to die. The demon was silent which surprised him, but nonetheless, Stephen came to the conclusion that he actually wanted out of this thing.

Maybe he should have simply thrown himself off a building – once you begin that process, there's no going back. No getting out of it. No return.

No calling 000 and getting your stomach pumped after an overdose of sleeping tablets

No getting your veins injected with Naloxone to combat a heroin overdose.

He wanted Carly – more than he wanted to cure his unhappiness through death. Maybe she was the cure for him? Perhaps that was his fate here tonight – rather than death, fate brought him here for life. A second chance, a new beginning – with Carly.

Yes – she was damaged goods, but so was he. Everyone in this room was damaged in some way or another, but beyond hope?

Stephen started to think that maybe he wasn't beyond hope – that maybe there was a chance for him and the catalyst for this, the vehicle that could take him away from what seemed like a pre-ordained date with destiny, was Carly.

He turned to talk to her and a sharp crack hit him on the back of the head from one of the guards. "Face ahead," he said, his accent strongly South African – straight off the High Veldt.

Stephen turned back and faced Franklin. The din died down as the bets slowed and all seemed to be ready. Derek counted backwards as the room fell silent – the tension palpable as they all waited. Stephen's hand was sweating heavily, the gun was slippery in his palm. He had to squeeze the stock tightly to stop the heavy metal killing machine from slipping out.

Stephen could hear the room breathing slowing – one huge organism primed for an explosion of death and release.

The numbers stopped and he squeezed the trigger – Click!

Then BANG!

Right behind him.

Carly had killed #11.

No other bangs rang out and Stephen turned to find the dead eyes of the drug addict staring straight into him. For a brief second he saw relief.

#  Basic Instinct

Empty – that's how Carly felt. Killing someone was nothing like she expected at all. Carly thought maybe it might be a huge rush of adrenaline, endorphins flushing through her brain and exciting her. Or maybe she would feel full of regret and pity for the poor soul she had dispatched to another realm.

But she didn't feel anything at all – numbness prevailed. Maybe that feeling of regret would hit her at a later date, a time in the future when the shock of blowing someone's head off (even though she half expected it this time) hit home and she realized exactly what it is she had done. The full extent of her murder hadn't hit her yet and she didn't expect to be around long enough for it to do so.

Carly tried to think of a time when she had killed anything at all. She had sprayed flies, spiders and mosquitoes with insecticide; she painted the spiders almost white with the spray. Carly wasn't sure if the chemicals killed them or they simply drowned.

But that didn't count, in this context anyway. She cannot think of anytime she had killed anything with her bare hands. This was the first time a gun had gone off in her hands and she was surprised that she actually held onto it. Carly did expect there to be a death this time around – and she had a feeling that she would be the one to deliver it. It's not like the gun felt heavier or anything as tangible as that – it was more a gut-feel.

Sixth sense.

It wasn't a premonition or anything; it just didn't seem like a total surprise that the gun went off in her hands. Sometimes Carly got a feeling that she knew something bad was going to happen, an ominous feeling in some way. In all reality, she didn't really believe in all that paranormal stuff other than the fact that, at the end of this night's proceedings, she would be reunited with her Mum and Dad once again.

Heaven and hell – just paranormal alternate realities to keep the great unwashed masses under control, Carly thought. But she still believed. She didn't know if it would be heaven or hell when she was reunited with her parents, but it had to be somewhere better than this.

Somewhere without pain, without cancer.

The closer Carly got to the end of her life, the more she wanted to believe in it too. She didn't want "this" to be all there was. That after her own head was splintered by the supersonic lead projectile, she would be ground up and fed to pigs somewhere – and that's it. She hadn't gone through all this suffering in her life to simply end up as methane and shit.

Carly dropped the gun to the floor and it was swept up quickly by one of the guards; it barely came to rest before he pounced upon it. That was a quicker retrieval than previous rounds which lent Carly to think that maybe there was more than one bullet in that thing. That the odds were stacked, bases loaded – it was bound to go off.

Maybe this time she got unlucky – that the chamber opposite the firing pin in the gun behind me was empty? In the minority.

And then, for the first time, Carly felt a sense of relief. Relief that she wasn't dead – that same relief you get when you catch yourself just as you trip at the top of the stairs, or get a close call from a car when crossing the road.

Relief that she still lived.

And, Carly thought, if I feel that way, I ask myself do I really want to die tonight? If I did, why am I relieved that I haven't?

After letting out the emotion and pain with Judith earlier, Carly felt that a weight had lifted off her somewhat. The pragmatic part of her says that it was just psychological and the reality of cancer was that she was still going to die. And she knew this was a fact. But she also felt a sense of contentment that she hadn't felt before – like she relieved herself of some sort of burden.

A problem shared was a problem two people had.

Judith had been through this before, she had seen her husband die slowly from cancer and the complications that surrounded it. The treatment alone was painful enough and it was for all those reasons that Carly was there and avoiding the inevitable. Judith didn't try and talk her out of it either – which Carly thought she might. She said she understood why Carly was there.

She said she knew why it was that Carly wanted to avoid the pain and suffering that lay ahead of her.

She said that she was sorry.

Judith understood that Carly didn't come to this conclusion easily or rationally. When is rationality a requirement for deciding when to die? Carly knew it wasn't a rational decision – but she was in an irrational situation. There was no cure for her, there was no future. Her short-term prospects were her long-term ones...pain, doctors and death.

And now, on cue, the pain built within her again. Acute, stabbing, piercing through her like a timely reminder of the reasons for being there. It negated that feeling of relief she had, conflicting her but, as it continued unabated, galvanized her decision to be there.

And now Carly sat and waited for the gun to be returned so she could continue this sick game – and she was grateful that she hadn't died. Maybe it's like a person who suicides by drowning – in those few seconds they fight and scramble like mad for air.

The basic human instinct to survive.

Carly wondered if someone who committed suicide by jumping from a 50 storey building regretted the decision halfway down? Seconds from smashing into the concrete and providing innocent passers-by with a memory they wished they never had, does the jumper think: "Oh, shit – maybe this was a bad idea?"

Carly would never know.

The basic instinct to survive over-rid the mind's desire to destroy itself.

Human instinct was irrational – trying to keep alive a diseased body like hers. There was no rhyme or reason for it. The conflict she felt was irrational as well – nothing was making sense. Carly felt she just needed a break, some time to think things through.

But she had stepped off the ledge and slipped past the 49th floor.

Fanciful thoughts preoccupy her as well:

Maybe they can cure me? Someone must be first.

What if I'm wrong? And it's not cancer?

Maybe I can control it? Live for many years with the beast vegetating within, lying in wait but still allowing me to function?

She knew it was folly to even think like this, but her mind was doing somersaults now. Hope butted in and confused the issue, muddying her clarity of vision for the future – short that it was.

If only she hadn't cried like that to Judith.

If only she hadn't noticed Carly.

If only Stephen hadn't noticed Carly.

Carly didn't know his story or why he was here – there may well be a very good reason for it. But if he was suffering like she was suffering, then maybe they could go through this together. Support each other – Support Group 101.

People who survived cancer

Or...

People who survived Russian Roulette

There certainly was something about Stephen that was very endearing to Carly. Regardless of the wheelchair, outside of this place she would have been very attracted to him. He had an air of charm that she knew he wasn't aware of. And he was attractive too. Those deep brown eyes, long flowing hair – a rough wildness about him that she found sexy and intriguing.

It looked like he used to walk; his legs were not spindly remnants of what might have been. They have atrophied and wasted away through lack of use, but they looked well formed – like they used to work once.

If she didn't have cancer....

If he wasn't wheelchair bound...

If they both weren't hell-bent on killing themselves...

Then maybe, just maybe, they could have had a future together.

Well, in all actuality, they DID have a future together. But it wouldn't be long one. In fact, it could only be a matter of minutes. Carly was pretty sure those guns were going to come back into the room any second now and they would take part in the next round.

In her new found clarity of mind, Carly realized just what a twisted and debauched place this was. The orgy itself was Sodom and Gomorrah – but it seemed to have calmed right down. She remembered when she came here the first time, the orgy lasted almost the whole night – certainly well past the last death in the roulette game. But, then again, back then there was no anarchy like there had been tonight. Zoran was out of control before and Carly didn't think anyone was going to be able to stop him. Then, out of the blue, Derek came in and ended it with just a few words. She had no idea who he was other than the voice they heard over the speaker.

Derek scared her more than Zoran. If he was the mastermind of this sick ritual, and he can control a monster like Zoran, then he was someone that should be genuinely feared.

The basic human instinct to survive.

Fight or flight – get the hell out!!!

What am I doing here? Carly thought to herself. Her initial thoughts to kill herself, after knowing how advanced her cancer was, involved sleeping tablets and vodka. But she didn't want her rotting corpse found three weeks after she had died by some neighbour inquisitive about the smell. It just seemed so tacky.

But now that Carly thought about what had been going on here tonight, she was wondering if this was really the right way for her to get out as well?

She was passing the 30th floor and having second thoughts.

The basic human instinct to regret stupid decisions.

Carly knew that she couldn't leave the room – not unless she won the game. And the reality of her situation was such that she didn't really want to win it. If she did, then she had more decisions to make. Does she play again when they next meet and hope she lost then? If so, will she have strength to participate?

Or does she simply take the easy way out and overdose – giving the innocent passer-by a smell memory they wished they never had?

The only reason to survive would be for Stephen but, in order for her to survive, he would have to die – negating the reason for survival anyway. The ultimate Catch-22.

Those that were partaking in the orgy had pretty much stopped now and were placing more bets on the outcome of the next round. The sex had all but stopped. A few die-hard people, coked out of their heads, continued with some domination-sex – three guys and a girl about Carly's age. Carly could see their drug-fuelled pleasure, their vacant bliss. This poor girl will be feeling her experience for a few days Carly expected.

Once the drugs wear off.

The basic human instinct to numb the pain.

Carly's pain would never be numbed – not now. It ebbed and flowed, receding and swelling...but it would always be there. And it always grew.

And the feeling that she had made a mistake in partaking in this game was now swelling within her.

She was reaching 195km/h – terminal velocity. The tenth floor flashes past – concrete rushing up at her.

She couldn't bail out – she couldn't go back.

The tension mounted and Carly turned to the door, waiting for the guns to re-emerge.

#  End of the Road

Derek was concerned about Zoran – even more so than normal. After he spoke with him about returning to Namibia, Zoran inhaled a ridiculous amount of cocaine – a level which would kill most normal human beings. A nutcase like Zoran coked to the eyeballs is not a happy prospect. Given his state of mind and his last comment-

" _True – it is not finished for me either"_

Derek was concerned where Zoran's head was at.

Maybe he knows my plans for him – a quick execution in the bush, thought Derek, the paranoia nagging at him, confusing him.

Maybe he plans the same for me? To get in before I get him, he thought too.

With Zoran amped up on cocaine, anything was possible and he might consider betraying Derek. In the years he had known Zoran, Derek would never have thought this was possible, but now he wasn't so sure.

Zoran's reference to Sonja was significant. Derek met Sonja through Zoran. Sonja was a nurse and worked in Luderitz at the local hospital there – she was looking after Zoran who had an infected barbed wire cut on his lower leg after chasing some thieves through the dense bush.

She, like Derek, was damaged goods. There was a past about her that took him a long time to break through – her lost farm, the murder of her parents and so on. It took Derek months to wear her down, to break through the tough solid brick façade she had built up so that she wouldn't get hurt again. She had shut herself away, emotionally, and he felt compelled to break through that.

At first he thought it was simply lust, attraction, whatever... Her auburn hair, bright blue eyes, long, slender legs. She was the most beautiful creature Derek had ever laid eyes on. But the depth of the attraction, the way she changed him in the most wonderful of ways...that was something new, something special.

It took him some time to realize that this feeling was love. He'd never been in love with anyone before. He just couldn't get her out of his head.

In his time in Namibia, Derek satisfied his needs with several of the married women around town – bored housewives or farmer's wives who didn't see their men for days on end. This was perfect for him – no responsibilities, no pressures. But he'd never had a "relationship" in his line of work, how could he?

Zoran detested her – he knew she was going to take Derek away from him. He knew that Derek's love for Sonja would drive a wedge into their partnership. He was jilted, jealousy abounded. For years Zoran tolerated this, as best he could, abiding Sonja all the while knowing that Derek was drifting further away.

Derek knew Zoran was capable of anything – he feared for Sonja.

Then she wanted nothing to with Derek – it was over. After several years together, she said she needed time.

She said she needed space.

She said needed to review where she was heading.

Derek suspected that maybe Zoran had told her of the past that he and Derek had – of the skeletons in the closet. Nasty skeletons – war wounds that Derek never showed her. That would explain why she refused to even talk to Derek for the first few months he was away.

But time was a great healer – Derek had started to regain the one person in the world he couldn't live without. He intended to go back to Namibia, repair whatever damage had been done, take over the mine...and execute his best friend.

Zoran was inhaling another line of coke as the guns were re-loaded for one more round of Russian Roulette. Derek stood next to him and saw beads of cold sweat rolling down Zoran's chiselled features, his stiff spiky hair a forest of follicles surrounded by puddles of salty perspiration.

"Easy on that, tiger," Derek said and Zoran looked at him sharply, his usually cold eyes drunk with the narcotic high.

"Is okay," he stumbled out, "I will be fine."

He was loading the revolvers with four bullets each, spinning the barrels dramatically as he finished each one. There were only four people left – chances were that number would be reduced greatly after this round.

The door swung open and another lifeless corpse was dragged through to the waiting van outside. It was almost full now and Derek was thinking that they would be lucky if they only have to make one trip to the factory. Zoran and his team would have a few hours of chopping and mincing to do tonight due to the extra body count.

"You've taken a lot of that shit," Derek said, indicating the rapidly declining pile of cocaine on the table. "You'll melt your nose entirely at that rate."

Zoran swung around to face Derek and, for the first time he could ever recall, Derek thought Zoran was going to hit him. The chemical reaction to the cocaine in his head had made him bullet proof, irrational, uncontrollable.

In an instant he backed down, his gait relaxed minutely, his shoulders drooped as realized who it was he was shaping up to.

"As I said, is okay. I'm fine."

Derek put a hand on his shoulder, not in a patronising nor admonishing gesture, but one of support and genuine affection. "Mate, I need you okay? I need you to be strong." He looked Zoran square in the eyes but the cocaine-high made Derek invisible to Zoran. His eyes looked through him with a demonic 1000 yard stare that would chill most people to the bone.

He slid out from under Derek's hand, took the four guns and opened the door to go back into the game.

From the doorway Derek watched the scene unfold.

Franklin sat with his head bowed, contemplating just when this nightmare would end. Carly and Stephen were talking again and, in any other setting, it would look like a romance was beginning to blossom there. Judith was quietly watching the crowd, watching Franklin, watching Stephen and Carly – and waiting for it all to end.

The Extreme Team went silent as Zoran entered with the guns.

"Next round, straight away!" He yelled and he virtually bounced around the room handing the guns out to people.

"Now just wait a moment," started Stephen as Zoran dropped a gun in his lap. "Can't you give us a bit more time?"

Carly looked forlornly at the weapon in her hand and, even behind this door, Derek could feel her dread. He could see that she did not want to aim it at anyone.

"You will do it!" Zoran yelled at Stephen as he handed a gun to Judith who accepted it with no fuss at all.

Stephen grabbed the gun from Carly's hand – she offered very little resistance. He had one in each hand he brought them up level with his eye line, arms held out in front of him. He aimed both of them straight at Zoran.

The crowd was deadly silent and Zoran swung around to face Stephen – and the two loaded guns stared straight at him. Stephen's black eyes of death stared into his psychotic, narcotic own. Even though the pistols weren't fully loaded, the odds were not on Zoran's side.

From his viewpoint, Derek could see that Stephen was about to kill Zoran.

The look in Stephen's eyes told the tale – he had gone blank. The killing face that Derek know so well – it was present in the wheelchair bound would-be victim.

Zoran was too wired to notice. He is invincible! He's had fully loaded guns, machine guns, pointed at him before and yet he was still here to tell the tale.

Derek knew that this is going through his mind right now:

"You can't kill me! I am Zoran – I am invincible! I survived Yugoslavia, Rwanda, Afghanistan and Africa. I can't be killed by a skinny sick boy in a wheelchair. That is not how I die!"

Instead, he said: "Do not be..."

Stephen unloaded into Zoran, the occasional click of an empty chamber punctuated the BANG-BANG-BANG of eight bullets flying supersonically across several feet of space and into the chest of a Croatian nutcase.

The first couple of rounds rocked him, but Zoran tried to come forward to Stephen who had begun rolling backwards slowly with the recoil from the weapons. Then Zoran hit the floor as the last shell entered his body.

The only sound in the room was the constant clicking of the hammers of the guns hitting empty chambers as Stephen continued to squeeze the triggers. The crowd was silent/frozen, the other competitors were stunned/shocked.

Stephen dropped the guns to concrete floor; the crisp clatter sound of heavy metal on concrete broke the silence. Then there was a soft moan as Zoran tried to pick himself up.

Blood was streaming out from under him, the pitter-patter splatter resounded as the fluid hit the floor. As his strong arms start to push his body off the floor, a waterfall of blood fell from his torn chest, tendrils of life drained out of him. He was going to bleed to death.

Derek opened the doors and all eyes were now on him – waiting/expectant. He walked the short distance to the struggling and bleeding Zoran and took out his own 9mm pistol. Quickly he aimed it at the back of Zoran's head as the dying man struggled to a crawling position, and pulled the trigger twice.

Zoran's head exploded and the body – now a corpse – slapped to the floor with a squelch and a soft exhalation as his life was expelled.

Derek had put Zoran out of his misery

Derek had put Zoran out of everyone's misery.

No more would he be a threat to anyone – including Sonja. He should have died on the battlefield, wielding an axe and causing bloody carnage only to be cut down by the hordes of some foreign land. He was born in the wrong century – a fierce warrior with his demons. Instead he was cut down by a skinny crippled guy and finished off by his best friend. His corpse would end up anonymous somewhere, eaten by animals in a yard or stuffed inside a container under a concrete slab.

Derek wanted to cry but he couldn't in that room. Everyone looked at him and he said: "The game continues until there is one left. Next round starts in a few minutes. Guys", he indicated to the guards, "please take his body and add it to the others."

"It" – a few seconds ago this was a living and breathing human being, now Zoran's an "it", Derek thought.

He picked up the guns, loaded them with one bullet each and put one in the hands of each competitor. They were quiet, compliant. Their shock has rendered them malleable. He had seen this before – even the toughest people he know had been reduced to that of a zombie give the right amount of the right type of stress.

Some of these people actually want to die – it's why they were here. Derek had a duty to complete this game, for one last time, before leaving and never again setting foot in his own country. He had no doubt that what had happened here tonight would get out – there were simply too many people who knew what was going on.

Derek's resignation complete – finish the game, return to his adopted land. He had Sonja in his life now and that was all that mattered – redemption/salvation.

She would never know what he had done and the extent of his activities. The closest she will ever come to the truth will be whatever he used to explain his nightmares. Contrition/penitence.

The end of the road for Derek was there.

The stop sign was looming.

#  The Point of No Return

With Zoran lying dead on the floor, none of the players knew what to do. The man who marshalled this game was dead and Judith feared that this place would get out of control – like a driverless train careening down the tracks. Zoran's large motionless body was dragged away by the feet, his blood left a deep red carpet-like trail behind him. She watched every inch that his body was covering on its way out of the killing floor – so scared that at any moment he would pick himself up, dust off the bullets and then massacre the entire room.

Judith could not believe that Zoran was dead. She never thought Stephen would be capable of doing that. And she was even more surprised by the number of bullets in those guns! Judith counted at least four or five in each one. They had no chance of surviving the next round – well, very little chance anyway.

But what was even scarier to Judith was the look on Derek's face when he shot Zoran. He went grey – literally grey. It was like all the blood and life had drained out of him, made cold and deadly like a vampire in a B-Grade movie. He simply walked up to Zoran and blew apart his head. Then, after he had finished, he continued with the game – as if it was simply a minor inconvenience. As he turned to leave though, there was a flicker of emotion on his face and Judith wasn't sure what that was at first.

Hurt?

Loss?

Then she recognized it as regret.

Judith didn't know their stories and she didn't really want to either. But she could see that even though he was acting calmly and business-like, killing Zoran distressed Derek more than he was prepared to let them all know.

And now the gun was back in her hands and Derek was commanding the room from the doorway. He didn't need to be up in everyone's face screaming at them and boisterously pushing people about to get the message across.

"Play the next round", he said so quietly that Judith struggled to hear him above the music. There were no sounds of sex and foreplay in the room, it had all but ceased. She got the feeling that this was winding up pretty quickly and, in a brief moment, she wondered if that's what she wanted.

The fear of actually dying was now taking hold of her and over-taking her desire to be dead – to be reunited with her husband Alan. What if I'm wrong and the pain isn't brief? She thought. What if the guy next to me stuffs it up and doesn't kill me?

She could end up a vegetable – doomed to a life of nothing for years until she wasted away in a home or a hospital somewhere.

The doubts filled Judith now and, in the briefest of seconds, her eyes darted around the room looking for an escape. Could she get out of this? If she could, she would simply take an overdose or something. Maybe that's what she should have done from the start?

Fear gripped her, reality bit.

Her thoughts bombarded, jumbled, on top of one another: what kind of fool was I to enter into this game? What was I thinking? My lovely Alex, so helpful, so understanding... Are you a demon in disguise? The devil incognito?

Judith dutifully raised her gun for the next round, ready to pull the trigger.

She could see the door behind Derek and she could see his mouth moving – but she couldn't hear the words.

She heard a sonic boom.

Beyond the door Judith saw a field, green grass stretched over rolling hills. The clear blue sky contrasted starkly with the deep green of the field, the odd white puff of cloud broke the monotony of the sky. She saw herself flying over the field, only a few feet above the waving grass; long thick blades of grass gracefully swayed beneath her like dense seaweed under the ocean, caressed by current. She reached down and her hand brushed the tips of the grass. It was cool and comforting, the soft blades gently whipped around her fingers.

She looked ahead and saw a doorway in the middle of the field – a thick wooden door painted dark chocolate brown. As she neared it, Judith felt herself slow down and she was now hovering above the grass in front of this door. The door too was suspended above the field. The door knob was a golden colour but the gold paint on the knob had partially worn off through constant use.

It is the door to her bedroom. The room she shared with Alan.

How can I see this? She thought; the words seemed to hang in the air beside her. She could see the words formed in her writing, floating away encircled by a cartoon like bubble – fluttering away from her like a butterfly.

Everything seemed so real. The grass, the sunlight. She could almost smell the paint on the door.

Then she felt an enormous pressure on her head, like it was in a vice or a clamp. One side of her head was pierced by a blinding pain and Judith couldn't find the words to describe the magnitude of this. It was tearing her apart and she could feel the tension being relieved on the other side of her head.

Judith could feel her whole body move to the left as the stress was relieved. Her jaw went slack and the door flew open. Light flooded through and all she saw was bright light.

There was a smell of something burning, like a char grilled chicken. Her eyes could not adjust to the light and Judith couldn't tell up from down.

The field had gone, the door had gone, the sky had gone.

Everything was white and there didn't seem to be an up or a down. There were no dimensions – Judith could not see distance and she couldn't see herself. She tried to put her hand in front of her face but she couldn't even tell if she had hands.

Judith tried to look at her body but all she saw was whiteness.

The pain was screaming through her head, but she didn't feel anything else. She was consumed by pain – the very thing she was trying to avoid by being there.

Then the light began to fade, like the lights at the cinema before the film began. Except, this time, there was no film. In these brief few seconds, Judith realized that her number was up and that she had, most certainly, passed the point of no return.

The pain receded with the light...numbness.

This was it – this was what she wanted for so many months. This is what Alex had delivered for her.

Judith hoped that her faith in this course of action was justified. Where was her beloved Alan? When will she see him again?

The pain in her head – in her being – was fading in time with the light and darkness was enveloping Judith. Blacker than any black out, this thick dark fog of nothing was swallowing her and now she was scared.

Where was everyone? Alan? Asif? All the other dead people?

Don't tell me I was wrong? She feared. That all the faiths in the world – Christianity, Judaism, Islam and all of them – don't tell me they were wrong too?

This is it? Nothing? Just a blackness and then nothing?

But she was still there – she still had a consciousness. Was this the soul? Her essence, her self.

Anxiety and fear filled Judith now as she realized that, maybe, she had made a terrible mistake. This may not be what she wanted – not this nothingness. Dying was supposed to relieve her of the earthly realm and deliver her to a new state of being with her love forever. Instead she was being swallowed by a thick molasses like blackness that was suffocating her.

The pain in Judith had all but disappeared and she saw nothing. No blackness, no light, just a being in nothing.

....then she saw a sliver of light.

#  The Show Must Go On

That was not the first time Derek had seen someone die of course. He had lost count of the numbers over the– definitely hundreds, likely thousands. Not all had been by his own hand, but still...definitely thousands.

But even Derek Giles was shocked when Judith was killed. Franklin's gun went off only a fraction of a second after Derek had finished the countdown, the recoil throwing Franklin's arm up and backwards. The spray of blood from the exploding wound hovered in the air surrounding Franklin's recoiling fist, lightly painting his fingers crimson.

Her body hit the floor with the now familiar dull thud but she fell in a way that seemed more dead than anyone before. Derek closed his eyes for a brief second and had to look away – humanity kicked in. As far as he was aware, Judith had done nothing in her life that justified her being here. This was entirely her choice because she couldn't face the next 20 or so years without her husband.

It was sad, but romantic.

Tragic and doomed.

Derek looked about the room in the immediate aftermath of this latest round and every person was focused on Franklin. He shot Judith and he was now staring at his spray painted hand, spots of blood splatters evenly coated him.

Stephen and Carly looked at him aghast, the look on their faces one of "What the hell have you done?"

It wasn't Franklin's fault – had the circle of players faced the other way, one of them would have been shooting at Judith. But Franklin looked like the villain as he had shot a little old lady in the head – even if he had saved her 20 years of loneliness and depression.

The crowd was stunned too. They had seen a fair amount of death before – on this night and on others. But this old lady could have been anyone's mother, or grandmother. Her tightly permed white hair neatly touched the collar of her blouse, but that hair was now pink/red with her blood and remains. Her motionless body leaked claret, more dead than dead. More red than red.

Somehow, in some way, Judith's death was totally wrong. Derek knew that even by his own reformed sense of morality all the deaths tonight were wrong – even Zoran's really. But Judith dying like that, so violent. So inappropriate for an old lady.

With Zoran's death Derek felt that the anarchy had died as well – but he was wrong.

Judith's gun fell to the floor without her even pulling the trigger. A short fat guy deftly picked it up. Derek tried to react quickly and cover the twelve feet or so between him and the fat little pig-like man who now brandished a revolver with four bullets in it.

Derek was not quick enough.

The guy levelled the gun at Franklin's head and pulled the trigger in a frantic, panicked manner. The first chamber clicked and he became more rushed. The second chamber exploded and the flash at the end of barrel appeared a split second before the deafening BANG filled the room.

Franklin was hit in the stomach, knocking him over, his bare feet slapping the concrete as he stumbled backwards.

The guy pulled the trigger again just as Derek tackled him. The gun fired again and Franklin was hit again, this time in the chest. The bullet pierced into his labouring heart.

As Derek tackled him to the floor the gun spilled out and he picked it up. Unlike Zoran, Derek had no desire to kill or bash this person. He cowered on the floor in front of Derek, expecting a kicking or bullets to rip into him.

He begged for mercy: "Please, please don't kill me! He killed that little old lady!"

He was crying and Derek thought of the similarity between him and the dying Franklin. Both short, fat, debauched men lay on the floor – one crying, one dying.

Derek wondered if this guy could see Franklin as a premonition for his own demise as he went to check on Franklin.

Franklin's chest wound was literally pouring blood, the stomach wound was clean, but leaking as well. Derek could tell Franklin would soon bleed to death. He coughed up frothy pink blood as his lungs filled up – the bullet must have passed into the left one. Derek leaned over him and looked into Franklin's eyes.

Mean, swine-like black eyes. But in them, now at the point of death, there was the humanity that is inside everyone. Even Zoran had it, although decades of abuse and inner torment kept it very well hidden. But at that moment, in Franklin's eyes, Derek saw his fear as he realized that he was dying. Really dying – dying for real.

He gurgled and Derek knew he was trying to say something. All that came out was spittle and pink foam. Then, just like in the movies, his eyes rolled back in his head and he died. Peace came to Franklin – in the end, sweet mercy

That's it, Derek thought. I've had enough.

"OK everyone, the night's over. Show's finished – everyone go home."

The guards know that this is their cue to take the dead bodies out to the van and dispose of them in the various ways that they can. It's not hard to get rid of a body if you really want to. It's even easier if that person will not be missed or reported missing.

The voyeurs and onlookers shuffled out slowly, disconsolate that the night had denigrated into an anarchic free-for-all – in some ways. Derek had restored order, but there certainly was an anti-climactic feel to the evening for the hardened members of this group.

A few people asked him when the next gathering will be:

"We'll be in touch" was his reply. But there was no "we" anymore.

Zoran was dead and, by this time tomorrow, Derek would be in South Africa on his way to Namibia – never to return. A one-way ticket to redemption.

Carly and Stephen sat there stunned as the reprobates and deviates wandered out of the room. A couple of the departing Extreme Team looked a little dejected that they couldn't see the game out to the end but that's just bad luck – Derek wasn't prepared to risk any more anarchy. He had a life to leave, someone to live it for. He could never risk that for these people – not any more.

"Does that mean us too?" She asked. Carly was the one who was absolutely adamant that this was what she wanted. Her cancer was getting bigger and more advanced and Derek could see she was in pain a lot of the time. But the look on her face was one that showed him that she was happy to still be alive.

"No," Derek replied. "We'll play one last round – just the two of you with me watching. You two have to finish what you started. Remember – this was what you both wanted."

It would just be the three of them – very cosy and intimate. They both had their reasons for being there and those reasons don't go away just because the game had ended in a shambles.

Her cancer still grew.

His life...well, his life was still his life (what life there was left for him anyway).

They would still need to deal with that when they leave here. Or, at least, one of them would anyway.

Derek could see Stephen's lips move as he talked to himself, confident that Stephen heard voices in there. Occasionally he spurted something out, and sometimes, if he listened closely, Derek could hear guttural sounds coming deep from the back of Stephen's throat, like he was trying to keep his voice down so no-one else could hear him. Carly sat back on the chair and picked up the gun.

"Not yet!" Said Stephen sharply, louder than Derek expected and made him jump a little.

The last of the orgy members had gone and only a couple of guards remained outside the room – waiting for the last corpse to load into the van. Will it be hers or will they also have a wheelchair to dump as well?

Stephen started to talk.

#  Catharsis

"I haven't always been in this wheelchair," Stephen began, "which is partly the reason that I am here today. It goes back a long time really, but the catalyst was certainly Sarah."

Don't you dare...don't you dare tell your story

It's my story and I'm playing this game til the end – I have to tell this story

If you do, you leave me out of it

Or what? What can you do?

You know what I can do...remember? Do NOT tell them about me!

"Sarah was seeing my brother Sean. But Sean was – and still is – a shocking womanizer. He couldn't stay loyal to a girl any longer than a week at best. Anyway, about a month or so after she broke up with him, I met her at a party. I had briefly met her once with Sean and as soon as I saw her again, I was instantly in love. I mean, I never thought that shit really happened you know? I always thought that was the sort of crap in cheap Hollywood romance movies – that didn't happen in real life?

"But it did happen and I fell in a big way. So did she and we had a great six months or so – the best time of my life. It was almost exactly seven months after we met again that I started to have some issues."

Don't.....don't you...

"You see, I have a demon inside me -

BASTARD!

"- and it's constantly telling me things that I fail to pick up normally. I don't know if other people have this as well, or maybe you all are just better at reading the signals other people give out.

"I call it a demon because it has caused me no end of pain and grief, even though it often tells me what I know I need to hear."

BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD!

"Right now it's calling me bastard over and over because I have revealed it to you – brought it out of the closet so to speak. It'll go quiet in a moment but it's only a brief respite – it'll be back. But the reality is that whether you know it is in me or not, it will not stop. It is a constant voice of honesty and frankness that has always been with me. But, after what happened with Sarah, I know now that there are some types of openness and honesty that I can do without.

"The demon told me that she was seeing other people. I didn't want to know at first because we seemed so happy, so much in love. But the demon would tell me why she was late home from work, or what that smile on some guy's face really meant and so on. Of course I didn't believe it to begin with – no-one wants to face up to the fact that the person they love is not all that they seem to be. But, after a few months of its observations and insights, I started to think that maybe it was right.

"I would get very jealous and, if she was home any later than normal – even by only a few minutes – then I would get so jealous and my mind would be filled with images of her having sex with any number of men she worked with. I would yell at myself, scream at her when she did come home and, eventually, I would black out. The first time this happened, I woke up in my bed and there was blood on the pillows. Sarah was gone but, the next day she came back. She had been at her sister's place so I would cool off. I never knew whether the blood was mine or hers.

"This didn't just happen once, I lost count of the times it occurred. Each time, the demon would be in my head and goading me about what she was up to, and with whom. I would get worked up into a rage so strong, so black, that I would feel like I was going to burst. The pressure built up and, like a steam valve, eventually something had to give. And that something was me. I would black out and wake up the next day with blood on the floor, or pillows, or couch. And Sarah would be gone – only to return the following day.

"She never told me what happened when I passed out, when the blackness returned. She never looked like she'd been hit and I could never tell if the blood was hers or mine. But she always came back and I started to have my doubts as to whether the demon was right or not. It would visit me in the night, in my sleep, invading my rest. It would whisper to me what she was thinking about me, what she was dreaming about. But I started to question that.

"Why did she come back if she was seeing someone else?

"If she didn't love me, why did she come back to care for me?

"The fact that she never really talked about what happened in my blackouts was hard to handle and the demon stepped up its campaign to get her out of my life. I can say this now because I now know what it was – but back then, I had no idea what its motivations were.

"You see I had grown up with this thing inside my head. And it had helped me out on many occasions – offsetting my trusting naiveté with the harsh realities of life. I trusted its opinion and I knew that it wasn't going anywhere anyway. I would never be rid of it and I had to live with it. My demon was my guiding light, my shepherd through the darkness. I had no reason to doubt its intentions or words.

"It convinced me that Sarah was going to leave me for another man – one of my neighbours. We rowed (which was mostly me yelling abuse and punching the walls) and then I blacked out. But this time, when I woke up, not only was I surrounded by blood which has seemingly come from nowhere, but I was also covered in petrol and cuts to my chest and arms. I was surrounded by police, ambulance and firemen. I can't remember a thing but they told me that I did it to myself. I had ignored everyone's pleas.

"I didn't believe it of course – that was until Sarah showed me the footage. She had captured it all on her phone. I cut myself with one of the kitchen knives, slashing at my body. I used the petrol for the mower. But Sarah had flushed all the matches down the toilet. The footage showed me trying to use the stove top for a flame, but the starter didn't work and I was coughing through the gas as it filled the kitchen. Then I simply fell down and passed out.

"She showed me the other movies as well. She had all of my blackouts – except for the first one – on a hard drive. They varied in intensity but the general pattern was that I was getting worse. At first she thought I was going to hurt her but it became obvious that I was only hurting myself. I would hit myself, berate myself, put myself down with such demeaning vitriol. I didn't even know I had those words in me and yet there they were, coming out of me in digital proof. She needed to get video of this but never had the courage to show me what I was doing.

"That is until I used the petrol. She knew that I was trying to kill myself but, in doing so, I would take her with me.

"I first saw a doctor about this straight after seeing the tapes of me destroying myself. They started me on various treatments for schizophrenia even though I was convinced that I wasn't schizo. I knew that schizophrenia wasn't multiple personalities which most of the world seems to think it is, however I did know that I wasn't paranoid either. I had a demon inside me and I needed exorcising, not medications. I thought about seeing a priest or someone to perform an exorcism but those sort of services aren't advertised much.

"So I began the treatment for paranoid schizophrenia. They put me on Seroquel but I was knocked out and so sleepy all the time. The demon was quiet and I heard nothing from him, but I was sleeping for 15 hours a day, sometimes more...I had to get off the stuff. Then they put me on Clopine which worked a lot better. The next six months were the best in my entire life.

"I felt like such a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I even proposed to Sarah and she said 'Yes', I bought her the engagement ring and we were going along really well. The demon was quiet and I even briefly mourned his passing. The side effects of the Clopine were less drastic than Seroquel, but the long term effects to my liver and heart were more concerning. I felt fantastic and, like so many other people, ignored the warnings everyone gave me and I stopped taking it. I still felt good for a day or so and then my life changed forever.

"We were stuck in some traffic and I swore I could see her winking at a guy in another car. There was my fiancée flirting with some random stranger – right in front of me. Then, like a long lost friend, the demon returned. It wasn't pissed off that I had driven him out, it simply returned like the long lost prodigal son and assumed its rightful position in my head as guardian and mentor. I could see the dark fog of a black out coming on and Sarah and I started to have an argument.

"The traffic had cleared and I was tearing along the highway at about 90 kilometres per hour. I remember trying to take my seatbelt off, wanting to leave the car. Sarah was holding the steering wheel, trying to keep the car on the road. In my head the demon was screaming at me, Sarah was screaming at me, I was screaming at me.

"Then, in an instant, it all went silent as the car slid into the kerb and became airborne – sailing through the air sideways off the edge of the highway. Looking back now it felt like that moment lasted an hour but it was likely less than a second. It was peaceful and quiet, everything was in slow motion. Spare change from the console floated up in front of me, my loose seat belt flapped about the steering wheel as it retracted into the side pillar. Sarah's long blonde hair floated around her like the halo of an angel.

"Then I blacked out.

"When I came to, I was clear of the car but I couldn't move. I could see the wreckage in front of me about 30 feet or so away. I tried to get up but I was stuck, paralysed. I didn't realize then that my back was broken, that I had severed my spinal cord. I could see the car wrapped around the light pole, tin and aluminium folded upon itself. I could see Sarah stuck inside it. She was barely conscious and moaning. It was so quiet, I could hear nothing other than her moans.

"Then I heard that horrible 'woof' sound of a petrol fire and the car started to go up in flames. I was waiting for a huge explosion, but car fires in the real world aren't like those in the movies – they don't explode like a bomb. They just burn – and they burn with people in them. I lay there paralysed whilst I watched my fiancée burn to death."

Stephen paused to catch his breath, his thoughts. The memories came back to him instantly – he could smell the burning gasoline, hear her panicked screams. He remembered feeling no pain as he struggled to move, his legs were simply dead.

The demon was quiet now, refuelling for a final tirade at him. Stephen knew what was coming from his tormentor but he did not fear it anymore.

This was catharsis. He knew it, the demon knew it.

The others said nothing, waiting for him to finish his story.

"Even before they gave me the news, I knew I'd never walk again. My demon told me that as I lay there inconsolable as my world burned around me. I have never blacked out again, not since that day. But, when I feel the demon coming and the pressure mounting, it becomes a fiery rage and I can feel my insides burning with an anger and intensity that matches that day. It's more regular now and I refuse to take anything for it – this is my life, my demon, my pain. And I need to experience it, punish myself for destroying the only thing in my life that was worth anything.

"In the hospital I was undergoing rehab and one of the physios there became a real friend to me. Alex is his name and he knew part of my story – why I was there and what had happened to Sarah – and he could see the mental pain and anguish I was going through too. The demon hated Alex and he told me all about it too!

"He said that Alex was manipulating me, that he was setting me up so I would fall even harder this time.

"He told me that Alex couldn't be trusted and that I was a gullible prat for allowing him to help me.

"I never told Alex about the Demon.

"But I knew that the Demon was wrong. After what happened with Sarah I knew that the Demon was the one that was setting me up to fail, whispering (or yelling) falsities and lies in my head that twisted everything around, confusing me. My mind would be muddled and muddied with that thing in my head – yet when it went quiet, things were easier.

"Alex knew the pain I felt in losing Sarah and losing my ability to walk. I never told him everything I've told you here, but he knew enough to see that I was sick of it all. If he had known the full extent of it, I think I would have been in this room earlier. I told Alex that I didn't want to live anymore – I told him that six or seven times really. Now I realize that he needed to be sure that I really meant it before he introduced me to this game, but at the time I was so wrapped up in my own misery, I didn't notice that he was grooming me.

"For this,", Stephen indicated the now vacant and disgustingly filthy concrete room.

"And now I am here, possibly about to die, I feel such a weight off my shoulders. The Demon is quiet, although I suspect he will be back soon – he's just gathering strength for yet another attack.

"And I am conflicted in some way. Meeting Carly has shown me that there is light in this world and that if I can only kill the Demon, and not myself, maybe I can walk into that light."

Stephen stopped his story to allow the others to talk. This was the longest Stephen had ever spoken in his life – it was the longest the Demon had let him have some peace. Derek sat there impassive – Stephen could tell he wasn't immune to the tales of woe and pain, but he didn't empathise either. To him this was like a business transaction – Stephen had entered a contract and that needed to be fulfilled.

But Carly's eyes were moist with tears. She felt every word. Then she told Stephen her story.

# Timing

After Stephen spilled his story, Carly felt she was honour bound to do the same. Once he started talking, he wouldn't/couldn't shut up. Carly had only just met Stephen tonight but she got the impression that this oration was the longest he had ever spoken in his life. He explained the voices in his head – his "Demon" he called it – and it came as no surprise to her. There were times when she could see his lips move, as if he were having a conversation with himself.

As he was telling his story, Carly felt her Cancer continue its endless onslaught – chewing its way through her body and consuming everything in its path like a wild fire out of control. Its nibbles at her were like violent little pecks at her flesh, taking only a small bit at a time - a piranha chewing at her flesh.

She was concentrating on trying to block out that pain and listen to Stephen's story. Carly empathised with Stephen and the guilt he obviously felt at the death of his fiancée. She could never understand what it was like to have that voice – that Demon – inside her head like Stephen had. That must have driven him insane. In some way Carly had a similar demon inside of her – except this one was a very tangible and physical one. And it had a name.

Its name was Cancer and it will never stop. Until Carly stopped, that is.

Stephen and Carly were both trying to kill their inner demons. Hers was real, organic and growing. Stephen's was mental and fluctuating. Hers grew constantly, metastasising. His came and went.

Carly started to talk and tell her tale. Derek knew this story but he chose not to give anything away whilst she unloaded – he simply sat there impassive and patient. It was like he was waiting for them to finally rid themselves of these burdensome secrets so they could get on with the business of killing one another. He was somewhere else, distracted.

Stephen, however, was aghast. He was astounded at her tale and as Carly told it, he broke in regularly, asking questions and wanting answers to issues that she didn't know herself.

Can't they cut it out?

Is there some sort of drug treatment that can prolong your life?

How much does it hurt?

Carly knew that Stephen was trying to be understanding and show empathy which was quite endearing considering he had just opened his soul up to her as well. However, what it did do was annoy her even more.

Why do I have to meet someone like him NOW? She thought.

Why couldn't I have met him after Kelly? She thought.

Or before I found out I had cancer? She thought.

But, no! Carly had to meet him here when she had taken the step off the ledge and was plummeting towards the ground. She was a suicide jumper who fell in love with someone as they passed the 10th floor.

It was just another reason why she was resigned to the fact that her life had been a colossal waste of everyone's time – especially her own. She knew that she helped kill her mother – that, by giving birth to Carly, her mother developed the cancer that took her away. Her father killed himself because she was too much of a burden...and now the cancer that was borne with her was eating her alive.

What have I done with my life? She pondered. What is the point of it all?

Why does there even need to be a point? Maybe we like to think there is a point (or that there needs to be one) to justify our existence. This helps us carry on when we really should simply say "Fuck it!" and do whatever the hell we want. Searching for the reason in life is futile – there was no reason, she thought.

There was no meaning, she thought.

There was no God, she thought.

But she hoped that there was an afterlife. This existence can't be all there is – surely?

Stephen and Carly sat in the middle of the room, the bloodied floor surrounding them. Derek was slowly walking around now and all Carly could hear was the tap-tap-tap of his leather soled shows on the hard concrete. He held two guns, one in each hand, and she knew they were loaded with at least three bullets each. She could just sense it.

As the game had progressed she had been more and more relieved to have had survived. Carly felt that relief had been borne more from intrigue than actual self preservation. She was intrigued about Stephen – why he was there and what drove him. But now she knew, her curiosity had been sated.

And disappointment now set in.

Disappointed that she won't get the "happily ever after".

Disappointed that life had not turned out the way it should.

Disappointed that this was the only time she would have with Stephen.

Her cancer continued to stretch and pulsate within her, like a huge elastic ball expanding and contracting, but always getting bigger. Her spine felt like it was about to be ripped out, she couldn't breathe properly and she started to double up in pain.

"Are you okay?" Stephen asked.

Carly grunted out a few syllables, which sounded mostly like a bunch of vowels randomly connected.

"You need to get to a hospital. It may not be too late for you; they could help in some way. You know, make the last few weeks or months you have at least a little bit more bearable."

Carly caught her breath. "It's too late for that," she said say as the pain slowly subsided, allowing her the sweet freedom of a long inhalation.

"I'm fucked, broken beyond repair," he said, "but there might be some hope for you.

"I don't want hope!" She cried. "Hope will kill me even more painfully than the cancer. I've been through that before – hoping my mother will come back, hoping my father would love me, hoping Kelly would leave his wife for me. Hope is cruel and painful and I can't go through that again."

Her tears melted Stephen's heart. Carly seemed so strong, so determined, that an outburst of emotion was out of character. But he knew what she meant by hope. He knew it word for word.

What could he say to that?

Carly was done/beaten. She was free-falling, plummeting to earth. No brakes, no parachute...terminal velocity reached – termination imminent.

She was finished.

Kaput.

She was slowly dying and didn't need the pain anymore. It's sad that she had met someone in the last dying hours of her life, someone that could be something special if the timing wasn't so bad.

Timing – life was all about timing. Carly could have met Stephen five years ago, back when she was with Kelly, and not been interested at all. Hell, he might have done the same to her at that time. That was how it often happened, she thought. People meet people all the time.

But it's not Mr Right that a girl needs – it's Mr Right-Now.

The person that was right for you at that moment. Sometimes you can grow and evolve together and those people stay together – the rest end in divorce until the next Mr Right-Now comes along.

Carly's had two Mr Rights.

Kelly – she met him too late; and

Stephen – she also met him too late as well.

Carly couldn't afford self-pity though; it only exacerbated the pain she felt. She couldn't allow herself that luxury. This was the life she was given and her only real say in it was when she left it. She had had no say in what had happened to her in life, but now she had the one chance to influence it once and for all.

It was time – time to finish what she started. Any other thoughts or regrets were a futile prolonging of the inevitable. And that was exactly what she was there to avoid.

She looked at the guns in Derek's hands, the brushed black exterior looked cool and sleek. Carly hoped that she pulled the trigger at the right time – too early and she was the only one left. She would win, and she didn't want to win.

Timing...dammit! Her timing had never been good.

#  One Last Time

Even an old wizened warhorse like Derek could still empathise with the pain and anguish that both Carly and Stephen were going through. He could see that both of them were filled with regret about being here. Maybe they still felt, deep down, that this was the right course of action for them. But he could see that they knew they'd missed an opportunity as well.

If it weren't for the cancer.

If it weren't for the Demon.

Derek's old Grandmother used to have a saying – "If 'ifs' and 'ands' were pots-n-pans, there'd be no work for tinkers".

"I'm happy to call this quits right now if you want," Derek said, knowing that this act of mercy, of humanity, was his final affirmation that his life had turned 180 degrees. He could simply walk away and go straight to the airport.

The minute he stepped back onto South African soil he would be happy – the second he touched Namibian soil again, he'd be in heaven.

Sonja was waiting for him and he felt renewed – like he had turned the corner on a very long journey. Washed clean, cleansed of sins. His full confession would have to wait until his day of reckoning – but Derek hoped that that day didn't come until after many happy years with Sonja.

In his life, he hadn't had the freedom to love and the privilege to belong to someone else. Anyone that he had been responsible for has also been expendable – that had been his life for over 20 years. But now it had changed. Sonja will never be expendable to Derek – he now belonged to someone else and he would die for her.

"No," Stephen said, not even looking at Derek. He was staring straight at Carly, his eyes soaked with welling emotion.

"I agree," she said, her throat swallowing deeply as she fought back emotion as well.

"We came here for a reason – those reasons exist still," said Stephen. "I want to see it through."

"Me too," Carly replied – fatalistic, final.

Derek understood – now the game was no longer his call. The last two players had assumed control and Derek was more than happy to let them have it.

"The guns each have three bullets in them," he said. "You have a 50% chance – either way."

And he handed them their weapons. He also had his own 9mm in his pocket just in case either of them decided to fire one at him. It was doubtful, they seemed determined/resigned but, when faced with death, Derek had learned that people did the most unexpected of things sometimes.

Derek saw Stephen's lips move and he clearly was having some sort of argument in his head with the Demon he had inside. The Demon drove him, possessed him, tormented him.

Zoran was similar in some way – but the manifestation of his demon was a lot more dramatic. His inner demons drove him into unspeakable acts of barbarism and depravity. If he had received treatment, then maybe he might have had some semblance of a normal life.

But what is a normal life anyway? Who had a normal life? Derek? Carly? Any of the other depraved, despicable compliant reprobates that visited this room every couple of months or so?

Derek didn't think so. He couldn't afford the extravagance of hope and wishing for a different world. His life was what he had made of it and it was normal for him.

He did feel some guilt at having used Zoran for as long as he did. If he had done the right thing by Zoran, and the rest of the world, Derek should have killed him that day in Yugoslavia. But he succumbed to humanity – and created a monster.

Call him Dr Frankenstein.

Instead of seeking the help for Zoran that he needed after the Balkans disaster was finished, Derek sharpened his weapon and cultivated it. He profited, he plundered – and Zoran was his weapon of choice.

Derek knew he should have helped Zoran but, instead, Derek was an enabler. He allowed Zoran to satiate his lusts and placate his demons, but never confront them. That was Derek's burden/guilt to carry and he would tuck that away with the countless other guilts and skeletons in his closet.

Skeletons that Sonja never needed to know about.

One day, maybe, his house of cards might come crashing down. Secrets can't remain that way for ever. That's the reckoning he deserved after all those years.

But until that time, he intended turn over a new leaf and try and live a life filled with love instead of hate.

He could only try.

For now though, he had one last thing to do. The guns had been handed out and Carly had taken a seat and sat down in front of Stephen's wheelchair. Derek decided not to say anything now – let them have their last words and then count down for, hopefully, one last time.

A weight lifted off him as this realization hit Derek – "one last time". And he really meant it too.

#  A Matter of Time

You have crossed the line for one last time – how dare you? You told them about me? Why did you do that?

And now you're sitting there, your face swathed in your salty ocular leakage, embarrassed – ashamed. And here I am, within you, and I now have mixed emotions.

On the one hand I'm furious you told them about me. I want you to suffer, I want you to burn. I am at boiling point with a rage so furious that you are fully aware of what might happen. I will command you to dig your fingernails into the soft flesh of your forearm, open the skin and tear at the dermis. You will be unconscious, oblivious. Until, that is, you wake up in bloodied pain.

And on the other hand I am happy that this hurts you so much – it's what you deserve. I feel every inch of your pain, I know how much this reminiscing tears you apart emotionally. I feed off that pain and, where it hurts you, it nourishes me.

I know what you know.

Your pain is mine and you can never escape me.

You think that by killing yourself – even by proxy – you will rid yourself of me and the deeds of your past. And the terror you put Sarah through.

You're basing that upon an agnostic form of faith (ironic in itself don't you think?) that there is no afterlife and dead means dead. That's it! What if you are wrong? And the Christians are right?

Or the Muslims? Or the Jews?

What if they are all right and you are wrong and you end up spending eternity in a pit of fiery hell? With me?

You can never be rid of me.

In death, as in life, we are entwined as one.

You don't realize how I have helped you – you have a level of self-actualization that others spend a lifetime striving to achieve. Most people never understand themselves with the clarity that I bestow upon you. And this is the gratitude I receive? You try and kill me off!

Oh, before that, you denounce me to your new friends here – reveal me like some mystery killer in a bad "who-dun-it"!

See how much they care? The guy still wants you dead.

And the girl? Your would-be girlfriend? She replied by telling you her story. She'll be dead soon too – she has no time for you! She's dying from the inside out – what can you possibly offer her? You can't do shit to help her.

Donate a new uterus?

Replace her bone marrow?

Blood transfusions?

You're pathetic really. At least she has a legitimate reason to be here – she IS going to die; and soon too by the look of her. She's even gone downhill just in the last few hours. If the bullet doesn't kill her soon, the cancer will for sure.

But you have no such reason.

Can't walk?

Self Pity?

Killed your girlfriend?

Boo hoo!

You cannot escape me – ever!

Sarah loved you too much and that was her downfall. She should have exited out of the relationship when she had the chance. But she didn't and she paid the ultimate price. It was always going to end in tears wasn't it? Be honest with yourself and listen to me – it was only a matter of time.

You were a project for her, an experiment to see if she could help/care/save you. She tried to be your saviour and you burned her at the stake. From saviour to martyr for you own selfish cause.

The guilt you feel – it's a millstone. Hell, it's a headstone that weighs you down! Sarah's headstone! The one that reads:

"Here lies Sarah Shellham"

"17/09/87 – 10/01/11"

"Blinded by Love"

"Taken too soon"

And

"Killed by **YOU**!"

Yes you Stephen!

The stone weighs you down and the pain you feel has been inflicted by that stone. Well, I have had a little helping hand in that too so I guess I can take some of the credit.

You have the luxury of indulging in guilt and self-pity – so arrogant of you.

But you know that is why I am here; why I have always been here – to redress the balance. To provide you with a more stable and eclectic source of reasons why you are a worthless meaningless accumulation of organic waste. Trash!

You try and shut me up sometimes, but we both know it's futile.

You try and cut me out of you, bleed me out, but we both know it's futile.

You try and kill me now, but we both know it's futile.

You will never be rid of me.

You CAN'T be rid of me.

And you know why. Go on...say it!

Say it loud so that the words hang in the air. In the cartoon strip depiction of your life, the words are in a balloon with the pointy bit at your mouth.

Say it loud so your friends can hear. Imprint them with your words. A one-sided conversation can still be interesting.

Go on...you know you want/need to. It will help you.

Now listen here you malodorous crippled fuck. I want you to say the words out loud – the words you have wanted to say forever.

You have no choice...say it! Say it in your own words and that's the last you'll ever hear from me.

#  Countdown

Stephen said this out loud: "The demon inside me – he is me. I am him. I can't escape him, not even in death. But I can placate him...through death"

Carly and Derek looked at Stephen as he raised the gun to Carly's head. Derek stood back, waiting.

Carly raised her gun too and, like starry-eyed lovers, the linked their arms around each other and placed their guns against their own heads.

Carly's tears obscured her face. Her eyes were red; her hand shook as she struggled to hold the gun to her head. Both of them rested the barrel of their guns against their temples. There was perspiration channelling from Stephen's eyebrow and collecting at the end of the barrel, a droplet formed.

The demon was silent.

The room was deadly silent – even their breathing was muted. Softly Derek counted backwards from five.

Stephen's breath was shallow.

Four.

He blinked ever so softly

Three.

Carly's eyes stared right into his.

Two.

He couldn't look at her but he also couldn't tear himself to look away.

One.

He stopped breathing. He felt his gun go "Click".

Then a shot rang out.

# A Sliver of Light

Oblivion.

It's neither dark, nor black, nor pure white, Stephen notices.

There are no clouds, no angels, no harps, no pearly gates.

There's no fiery hell.

No nirvana.

Instantaneous oblivion is less of a shock than it should be.

How long has it lasted?

How long will it last?

How long has he been here?

Is this it? Is this all there is?

There is no demon here – but there is a consciousness of sorts.

Altered state.

A new dimension.

A metaphysical realm.

But it is nothing.

Just nothing.

Nihilism, oblivion, eternity...

And then Stephen sees a sliver of light.....

# About the Author

Jamie J. Buchanan is based in Perth, Western Australia. He spent many years playing in rock bands, mostly loud, fast, heavy metal and hard rock bands - the sort your parents warned you about. But his first love has always been writing.

Facebook: <https://www.facebook.com/jamiebuchanan1971>

Publishing history:

  * Jamie has had a short story "On My Goat" published by Cardigan Press in 2006 in the anthology "Allnighter".

  * Several short stories published on the Smashwords website for free download (www.smashwords.com).

  * The short story "Sanguine Saviour" won second place in the monthly "Darker Times" competition and was included in the inaugural Darker Times anthology as well.

  * The short story "The Woman on the Pavement" has been published in an upcoming Editor's Choice anthology by Stringybark Press entitled "Hitler Did it".

  * The short story "Battle of Wits" won first prize in the Twice-yearly Short Story Competition "Raspberry & Vine".

Jamie enjoys the films of Robert Rodriguez, The Coen Brothers and Guy Richie, music by Bad Religion, The Offspring, Clutch, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Metallica, and books by James Ellroy, Irvine Welsh, Chuck Palahniuk and Stephen King amongst dozens of others. His only hates are people who talk about themselves in the third person...and Brussel Sprouts. He hates Brussel Sprouts.

