The Perfect Death

            “She’s beautiful,” Erwin whispered.

            Yes, she is, the familiar voice purred in his head.

            Tied to a chair near the center of the bare room, the body of Amy Tucker was a horror to behold. Her cheeks had been split from the corner of her mouth to the hinge of her jaw, giving her an impossibly wide, bloody grin. Bloody sockets were all that remained of her eyes. Most of her fingers had been hacked off just past the second knuckle, and the few that remained were missing their fingernail. The wounds to her body were numerous, imaginative, and medieval. She had lasted over three hours — three hours in which Erwin had managed to keep her from teetering past the boundary of unconsciousness or merciful death.

            “Is she perfect?” Erwin asked after a pause. His voice had lost some of its confidence, and now bordered on fear.

            No, the voice answered.

            Erwin’s mood did an immediate about-face. His thick bottom lip began trembling and his eyes became glossy with restrained tears. “You promised,” he whined. “You said she would be perfect, then you would leave.”

            I was wrong. She is beautiful, but she’s not perfect.

            “No! You promised!” Erwin yelled, stamping his foot like a two-hundred-and-fifty pound toddler.

            She’s not the one . . . but maybe he is.

            His erratic mood once again changing in a moment’s notice, Erwin ceased his pouting and smiled as he turned to his second visitor.

            Bound to the chair next to Amy Tucker, Jerry Sharpe’s only visible injury was his swollen right eye — the blow that had knocked him unconscious earlier in the day. Jerry was now very much awake, but the strip of duct tape covering his mouth was maintaining his silence. Of course the tape would have to be removed, lest his screams be wasted in silence.

            Resting on the surface of the table between Erwin’s most recent and next victims were the big man’s toys — an ice pick, a cattle prod, various knives of all shapes and sizes, a pair of pliers, a cork screw, an electric drill, and a hammer, just to name a few.

            A twisted smile made its way across Erwin’s face as he reached to remove the duct tape from his guest’s mouth.

* * *

            When Jerry regained consciousness to find himself gagged and bound to a chair with a lunatic torturing his date, he had been understandably terrified. However, the panic only lasted the first thirty minutes of the ordeal; then Jerry found himself remarkably calm. 

            At first his mind jumped to and fro as if he was in shock. His thoughts were far from stable – for instance, while poor Amy screamed and begged for mercy, Jerry sat in his chair contemplating the fact that this could certainly be considered the mother of all disaster dates. He even found himself wondering if he would have scored if they hadn’t decided to give this nice stranger a lift. Perhaps the screams were getting to him, but at one point Jerry was actually smirking beneath his silver gag.

            After a while Jerry steered his erratic thoughts toward survival. When he first realized the rope securing his left hand to the armrest was loose, he thought he had found his salvation.  However, he soon realized his situation was still quite grim — even if he was able to free one of his arms, how could he overpower a muscle-bound lunatic armed with knives while he was tied to a chair with only one arm free? Besides, the rope proved not quite as loose as Jerry had hoped - despite over an hour of twisting and pulling, Jerry had failed to free his arm.

            Still, when the big man turned his eyes on him, Jerry wasn’t completely without hope.

            Erwin tore the duct tape off with one quick jerk, leaving a rectangular patch of reddened skin around Jerry’s mouth.

            With a look of child-like sincerity on his face, Erwin said, “Your friend wasn’t perfect, but he says you might be.”

            “Who said?” Jerry asked, keeping his voice calm and conversational.

            “The Prophet,” Erwin explained. Turning from Jerry he gazed over the table full of instruments of torture, wondering where to begin. “He talks to me.”

            “No, shit?” Jerry said with a friendly smile. “He talks to you, too?”

            Erwin’s face darkened instantly. Snatching a long knife from the table, he grasped Jerry by the hair and pulled back, placing the blade to Jerry’s throat and his mouth to Jerry’s ear. “The Prophet talks to no one but me,” Erwin growled in a voice barely above a whisper. “I am his only disciple.”

            Pain shot through Jerry’s ear, forcing him to grit his teeth to keep from screaming. 

            Erwin raised himself from the chair and spit a bloody chunk of ear into Jerry’s lap. The big man pondered the knife he’d so hastily chosen, decided it wasn’t the proper instrument, and then turned back to the table, searching for a new toy.

            So much for bullshiting his way out. Scratching his first plan as an absolute failure, Jerry opted for another approach. “Mind if I ask you a question?” Jerry said, keeping his voice steady and calm.

            After removing a smaller knife from the table, Erwin turned from his table. “Sure, ask away.” Despite the blood dribbling down his chin, a grim reminder of his recent outburst, Erwin’s expression was surprisingly friendly. Jerry noted that his new friend’s moods were a wee bit unstable.

            “If you and The Prophet are so tight, why do you want him to leave? When you finished with Amy you said that if you find a perfect one The Prophet would go away.”

            Erwin dropped to one knee before Jerry. He smiled patiently and said, “When I provide the perfect sacrifice, the Prophet will leave to conquer heaven and hell, making him lord of all. Since I am his disciple, I will rule the earth. I know this seems horrible to you, but this is the way it must be. You see, I really don’t like doing this. I’m really a nice guy.”

            Then he smiled as he casually whacked off the rest of Jerry’s injured ear.

            This time Jerry did scream.

            Erwin placed the ear on the table, then kneeled down and began removing Jerry’s shoes. With his head down, he couldn’t see Jerry frantically pulling at the rope securing his left wrist, but it was no use, the rope held.

            “Why does this Prophet guy need a sacrifice?” Jerry asked.

            Erwin returned to the table and retrieved a hammer. “The Prophet is very powerful, but, to become god, he has to have a sacrifice. It says so in the bible. Why do you think God sacrificed Jesus?”

            “You know, I’m no biblical scholar, but think the bible says something about ‘live and let live,’ too,” Jerry offered.

            Without replying, Erwin dropped to a knee, took aim at Jerry’s foot and swung. Jerry’s ankles were tied to the legs of the chair, but this didn’t prevent him from twisting his foot sideways, avoiding the blow.

            Erwin’s face darkened. “How dare you defy The Prophet’s wishes,” he roared.

            A hard arcing blow slammed the head of the hammer into Jerry’s knee. The pain was tremendous. The world spun in lazy circles as Jerry teetered on the brink of unconsciousness.

            Erwin reached for the syringe he’d used to revive Amelia every time it seemed she would pass out.

            “No, thanks, I’m good,” Jerry said with an odd smile on his face.

            The hammer came down two more times, smashing each of Jerry’s big toes. Jerry yelped with each blow, but managed to keep from screaming.

            When Erwin returned to his table, Jerry started laughing.

            This change obviously startled Erwin, who turned to regard his guest with wide, shocked eyes. “The Prophet doesn’t like laughing.”

            “Well pardon the hell out of me,” Jerry said, between guffaws. “What are you going to do, kill me?”

            Angered, outraged, and perhaps a little frightened, Erwin let out a high-pitched shriek. He grabbed the knife he had used to remove Jerry’s ear and a pair of tongs. When he returned to the chair with his toys, he found his guest most uncooperative. Jerry thrashed his head about in such a violent manner that there was no doubt he would have toppled to the floor had the chair not been bolted down. In the end, however, the big man had his way. The tongs were used to pull Jerry’s tongue from his mouth; the knife was placed underneath and Erwin was about to remove the offending hunk of meat when Jerry spoke.

            “Op, op, ah an eh ew.”

            Erwin paused.

            “Ah . . . an . . . eh . . . ew,” Jerry repeated, much slower this time.

            “But I don’t want to hear what he has to say,” Erwin replied to the unheard Prophet. “He makes me mad and I don’t like to be mad. Can’t I just take out his tongue? He’ll shut up then” a pause. “But . . .” another pause, “As you wish.” With a heavy sigh, Erwin released his grip on the tongs. “The Prophet wishes to hear what you have to say.”

            The tongs were removed from Jerry’s tongue, but the combination of pain and a mouthful of blood made it difficult for him to speak. “I ink I an elp ew.”

            Erwin absently scratched his head with the bloody tongs. “Huh?”

            Jerry rolled his eyes, then slowly said, “I think I can help you.”

            Erwin forced a nervous laugh. “And how are you going to help me?”

            “I know what the Prophet wants.”

            The big man shook his head. “No, no, no, there’s no way you could know what he wants. I am The Prophet’s disciple, he speaks only to me.”

            “Bullshit, I talk to him all the time.”

            Erwin swung hard; the blunt side of the iron tongs caught Jerry in the side of the head. “Liar! I am the chosen one!” Erwin grasped Jerry’s head and began trying to force the tongs into his mouth.

            “Prophet said you gotta listen!” Jerry shouted.

            Erwin released Jerry’s head, then took a couple steps back.

            “That’s right, big boy, you’ve got to listen to me,” Jerry taunted from his chair. “How do you know I don’t talk to The Prophet? Huh? For all you know we might be high school chums. We might have season passes to the Astros. Hell, he might have been over at my house for a beer last night.”

            Erwin began to tremble with rage . . . and fear.

            A steady stream of blood trickled from Jerry’s chin onto his shirt. The wide grin on his face didn’t match his swollen eye, missing ear, and bloody teeth. “He talks about you all the time. Said you’re a regular screw up.”

            “No!” Erwin said with a stamp of his foot.

            “Oh, yes. I believe his exact words were, ‘that stupid bastard couldn’t find his ass with both hands.’ He said he gave you one simple task, and you can’t even get that right.”

            “You’re a liar!” Erwin shouted. He raised the tongs to administer another whack, but when Jerry didn’t flinch he backed off.

            “He told you to find the perfect death, right?”

            Erwin nodded slowly.

            “The perfect death is a person, not a type of death, you moron,” Jerry said. “You’re not supposed to find the perfect way to die; you’re supposed to find the perfect person to die.”

            “You’re lying.”

            “No, I’m not. And do you want to know who that person is?” Erwin didn’t reply, but Jerry gave the answer anyway. “It’s you.”

            The corners of Erwin’s mouth twitched as they slowly spread into a smile. “Now I see. The Prophet was testing me. He wanted me to hear your lies to see if I was worthy.” 

            Taking a short, bloodstained slab of wood and a knife from the table, Erwin returned to his guest. Jerry remembered this routine from watching Amy’s torture; this was how Erwin severed her fingers. Erwin placed the board under Jerry’s right hand, balancing it on the armrest with his left hand while his right held the butcher knife in preparation for the strike.

            “Which finger would you like to go first?” Erwin asked.

            “Try this one,” Jerry said, defiantly presenting his middle finger.

            With one swift hack, Jerry’s finger was severed from his hand. When Jerry tilted his head back and howled in pain, Erwin began to feel more confidence and control.

            Then Jerry’s howl changed to laughter. When he lowered his head from the ceiling, his bloody grin was even wider than before. A chill ran down Erwin’s spine as a fine sliver of fear pierced his heart.

            “Don’t you think The Prophet is getting tired of your stupidity?” he asked.

            “I am his disciple,” Erwin murmured. He collapsed to his knees before Jerry. “He loves me.”

            “And look what you give him in return – not one damn thing.”

            “No!” Erwin shouted, “You’re wrong, I would do anything for The Prophet!”

            “Would you die for him!?”

            “Yes!”

            “Then do it!” Jerry shrieked, bloody spittle flying from his mouth.

            Erwin brought the butcher knife to his face with every intention of driving the point into his right eye socket. Jerry could see the confusion in his face. The big man wanted to prove he was a worthy disciple, but he was unsure. He closed his left eye and stared directly at the bloody point that was barely a quarter of an inch from his eye. Jerry had come so close, but the doubts surfacing in Erwin’s mind began to show on his face. He wasn’t going to do it.   

            Slowly, Erwin backed the knife away from his eye.

            Suddenly, before Erwin could remove the blade, Jerry’s free left hand swung forward, his palm connecting with the hilt of the knife, driving the blade deep into Erwin’s eye.

            Erwin fell back, screaming as blood gushed from his eye socket. After a few second he lay still on the floor.

            “Damn, that was close,” Jerry murmured, looking down at the big man lying at his feet.

            Yes, it was, a strange, yet somehow familiar, voice replied.