The alarm sounds at exactly 7:15 A.M on September 22, 1996. The events that would ensue in approximately twenty-five minutes are: a fifteen minute shower, a five minute shave, two minutes to get suited up, and a three minute breakfast of either a bagel right out of the bag or cold Pop Tarts. This series of events is the early morning ritual that Benjamin Breegly has continuously engaged in for the past seven years, but this morning Benjamin did not stir from his slumber. Instead, he tosses and turns in bed as if in excruciating pain, yet with a nefarious smiling affect.
With a tumble Benjamin fell out of bed. He looked about confused while tethered to the ground with a goose down comforter and Egyptian cotton sheets. He threw a sideways glance over to the desk clock to find that is 7:42 A.M. He jolts to a rigid stance and screams,
"I'm going to be late!"
Benjamin hobbles over to his closet, throws on the first visible pair of slacks, an old dirty dress shirt, and a plaid tie his children had given him for Father's Day. He then hops down the hall with one leg in the air in an attempt to tie his shoe while simultaneously rushing to the kitchen for his usual breakfast. Reaching his destination in a panic, he heads over to the refrigerator for a cool blueberry bagel. The fridge is littered with various condiments and unrecognizable substances housed in Gladware. Searching furiously for the bagels to no avail, Benjamin slams the door shut with a curse and opts for a Pop Tart in the bagel's place. Unfortunately the pantry must have conspired with the fridge for there were no Pop Tarts.
"Perfect, just perfect! Is there anything else that you're wanting to throw at me to even further perpetuate the crappiness of this morning, God? How about a flat tire? Or maybe you can kill off one of my relatives so I would have to miss a day of work. How about this, I'll go about my day as usual, and you go do whatever it is omnipotent beings do? Go play hopscotch with Cthulhu or something, sheesh."
At that moment the toaster fell off the counter and landed with a loud chatter onto the linoleum floor. This sight stops Ben dead cold in his eccentric rambling. Shaking off the event as an unexplainable freak accident dealing with vectors, he walks out of the kitchen to the garage, so he can just get to work. Entering the garage with a sigh, he hoped into his recently polished black Lexus, hurriedly fumbles with the garage door remote, and peels out his driveway towards Bayfort Luxury Autos.
Benjamin notices that he arrived at the dealership at precisely 8:04 A.M. He shakes his head in dismay, a perfect seven-year record shot to hell. Passing by his receptionist she flashes newly arrived mail and says,
"Wow, mister Breegly, I never in like a thousand years would've expected to see you coming in late. Go figure. Anyhoot, here's the mail."
Benjamin snatches the letters from Tracy with a scowl and stomps off to his office. Fiddling through the mail, Benjamin spies a conspicuous letter without a return address. Eyeballing the letter, he quickly enters his office and softly closes the door behind him. He mutters quietly,
"About time I heard back from you. Maybe we can finally close this deal and move on with our lives."
Benjamin sets the mail down on his desk and slumps down into his newly polished leather chair. Filtering through the rest of the mail, he finds a bill, another bill, a Victoria Secrets catalog, bill, bill, and bill. He huffs to himself and thinks about how the world just wants to continuously bleed him dry. They take, take, and take. It's the only thing the government can efficiently do. He rolls his eyes in exasperation, lets them settle back down into place, and spots the conspicuous letter before him. He looks nervously through his office windows to see if any nosy people were spying on him. Once he felt that his privacy was intact, he reached for the letter and opened it by ripping tiny sections off of its topside. He pulled out the message and immediately noticed the beautiful handwriting. Adjusting his eyes to its exquisite presentation, Ben silently reads under his breath,
"Dear Mr. Breegly,
Thank you for your interest in my work. I have thought long and hard about your proposition and decided to go along with it. It's not everyday that I get a request of this nature. Let's schedule an appointment for 10:30 A.M. on the twenty-third of September at 1366 Quincy Ave. I look forward to seeing you.
Sincerely,
Draven"
After reading the message, Benjamin props open the second drawer of his desk and pulled up on the wooden bottom to reveal a hidden compartment. Inside is random clippings of newspaper articles and obituaries dating back five years. Each clipping depicts information on the stream of brutal murders that had plagued the city of Bayfort for the past few years. Despite valiant attempts by both the local police department and the FBI, a suspect still has not been successfully apprehended. The police reports on these various murders were filled with ghastly depictions of the murderer's insidious tactics for his victim's deaths. There are signs of mutilation, torture, and, in some instances, postmortem intercourse. After the killer had become gratified with his work, he would then leave his renowned signature on the scene of the crime as a sign of satirical jest towards the local authorities. His signature was to hang his victims from various items by fashioning a noose made up of the victims' semen soaked intestines.
Looking through the clippings with a glint of excitement in his eye Benjamin softly says,
"Mr. Draven, I finally found you."
The alarm sounds at exactly 7:15 A.M on September 23, 2006. The events that should ensue in the next 25 minutes were of no concern to Benjamin Breegly this morning. This day is one that would be marked as his greatest achievement – or as Abraham Maslow would put it, the primary peak experience.
Ben rises calmly out of bed, strolls over to his closet, selects his most elaborate suit, and whistles himself down to the kitchen. He pulls out a carton of eggs, an onion, and some cheese out of the fridge and begins making his first omelet in seven years. After breakfast, he reachs for the phone to call Bayfort Autos and said,
"Hello, Tracy, this is Benjamin. I'm afraid to report that I am feeling a little under the weather this morning and will be taking it off in order to better my condition. Take care of things while I am away."
Hanging up the phone, Ben resumes his elated whistling while pulling Draven's letter out of his pocket to verify the address for his appointment. He crumbles the letter after memorizing the address and tosses it into the garbage. Benjamin glances at the time and sees that he had a good chunk of time before 10:30, so he decides to walk to kill some time.
The morning showcases a radiant sun accompanied with a brisk wind in the forties. Ben walks about as if in a childish daze – back and forth between the widths of the sidewalk. Never before has he felt such intense feelings of anticipation. He walks past unfamiliar houses and quickie marts until arriving on the corner of Quincy and Sparse. Looking at the nearest Quincy address, Ben thinks aloud,
"Hmmm, 1344 huh? Seems my destiny awaits a few houses down from here. Well Mr. Draven, maybe you can finally alleviate the chronic nature of my illness."
Ben's heart rate sporadically jumps a few levels, and he notices that his palms are sweaty. It is unlike him to be nervous about anything. With a gulp of air, Ben meanders down Quincy while counting aloud passing addresses,
"1348, 1351, 1356, 1359, 1363, 1366. . ."
1366 Quincy Avenue looms menacingly before him. He walks trembling up the stone patio steps and swings the cast iron knocker three times. Waiting with a tapping foot, Benjamin times how long it takes for Draven to answer his call: approximately two and a half minutes. Draven met Benjamin with a wide smile, a strong handshake and says,
"Mr. Breegly, so glad you could make it. Come inside, you must be freezing out there. May I take you coat?"
Benjamin follows Draven into the entranceway and hands over his jacket. Looking wide-eyed around the room, he asks,
"Is it okay if we begin right way? I must confess to be experiencing a great deal of anticipation over finally seeking help for my ailment."
Draven responds,
"But of course, Mr. Breegly. I commonly see this kind of enthusiasm from many of my clients. Although, I must say that your request came as a surprised. Most people that call upon my abilities are just wishing to engage in their peculiar fantasies of experiencing death, but you don't necessarily want to die do you? You do realize that your request will ultimately end with your demise right?"
With a quirky smile, Benjamin answers,
"The end result is of no concern to me, so as long as I get to experience my fetish fully conscious and alive."
Benjamin's words trail throughout the house as Draven motioned for Ben to come follow him downstairs. They walk to Draven's hidden world within the storm cellar. Entering through a wooden door affixed with Victorian hardware, Ben welcomes the sights that grace his senses. The walls are littered with various surgical instruments, restraints, acids, and mechanical monstrosities. Located in the center of the room is a wide table with four large fishhooks on bungee cords attached to its sides. Draven looks over to Benjamin and says,
"It's sure nice not to make a house call for once. Here, feel free to lie down on the table. I recommend taking a deep breath, there might be a slight pinch."
Draven shifts off into maddening laughter and reaches for a utensil that slightly resembles a pizza cutter with serrated edges. He strolls over to where Benjamin is lying, grabs one of the bungeed hooks, and inserts it slowly into Benjamin's wrist. He does the same to Benjamin's other wrist before heading down to hook Benjamin's feet.
Benjamin is huffing profusely, but refuses to cry out in pain. Draven then inserts the lower hooks through Benjamin's Achilles' tendons with a grim look of satisfaction. Draven then remarks,
"I will now meet you eye to eye upon your request. I will admit to never before engaging in someone's fetish to be eaten alive, but I promise to do my best and will make sure you remain conscious for each and every moment."
Benjamin looks over to Draven with a drugged expression of happiness and says,
"Thank you. . . Thank you so incredibly much. I want to feel it. I desire to feel your teeth sinking into my flesh. I want to see you eviscerating my entrails and sucking my guts. Please promise me that you'll make a feast of my remains after my death. My only regret was not having a daughter to serve as an appetizer. . ."
Benjamin's voice trails of as his screams of pleasure begin to fill the room at the hand of Draven, a man who only wishes to help his clients fulfill the desires and fetishes that plague their soul.
