?Yer wife?s already dead, ma?e.?
?No??
?Fraid so. Th? li?le ones wa?ched. Cu? her eyelids off firs??
?NO! NO, I?LL KILL YOU!?
?Know ?ow I kept yer kids quie???

Michael Rollins convulsed in his chair. He tried in vain to break free of his restraints. The jackal was perched on the edge of a table positioned across from the victim like a deranged gargoyle, ever observant. The canine features visible in the dimly lit conditions were twisted into a grin of smug satisfaction. Idly, the blade of his knife was dragged across his palm. That sickly gaze was locked on the progression of the weapon before snapping back to the guard. He shouted curses, first. Curses and threats: they all did that. They all began as proud men?even while strapped to a chair in a room that reeked of mold and death. Some took longer to break. Some required physical pain while others were better to speak to. To get inside their heads. Then, once it hit them; once they realized that they weren?t likely to see another sunrise, they begged. They begged and pleaded until tears?forbidden to this type of man?streamed down their dirty faces and their voices grew hoarse; until the flesh of their wrists was raw against the rope and chain.

When the shouting had ebbed, the raspy voice of the jackal split the silence, barely a voice at all, ?I cu? her fingers off one a? a time, an? shoved ?em in ?eir moufs.?

A free hand traveled to his jacket and his fingers prowled the fabric for the pocket. From here, a wedding band was produced; gold with an array of diamonds. Traditional. It was thrown at Michael?s forehead and with a cheerful clink, fell to the floor.

It had been several nights since he had last returned to his cave of an apartment. He found it overwhelming. Too bright; too dim, too crowded and too empty. Oppressive. Stitch pondered the possibility that his home had become a prison for the poor souls he dragged in to dispose of their bodies. ?If?n they would jusss?? ssstay on ?eir own floor, I?don? fink i?d ma?er?? he mused aloud. That disgraceful slip of the tongue. Why did the snake show itself in times like these? Why, when his strength had abandoned him. Or had it? The Dragon. A name was whispered into the deep shadows that enveloped him, ?Cam?? Yes, He deserved a name.

Ears strained for the tiniest hint of life. The grime and muck of the alley outside of that infamous Red Dragon seeped into the flannel material covering the knees of his pajama pants. The evidence of lovers come and gone; the refuse of the intoxicated; the lingering blood of someone?s last steps. ?Why ..w-won? ye anssswer me?!? His patience was wearing thin. Guidance. He needed guidance. Canine skull snapped to his right?a nervous twitch.

That calm, poisonous voice had not been heard for nearly three weeks. That is, until this evening when he sat perched on the stairs within. Until his song bird walked in. Then the dragon spoke. Broken statements, vague notions? it may have just been his thoughts.

The jackal?s jaw shut quickly enough to produce an audible click and vibrant greens fell shut. The sound of a body tumbling down the stairs echoed in his ears; the deafening silence that followed. Her words?her last words?threats of what another man might do. A snort escaped him. There was a hole in his chest where his heart used to be. The blackened, pathetic excuse for one.

?An? this is why ye should be chained up and burned.?