"Some cause happiness wherever they go; others whenever they go"
—Reze Cosplayer
Trevor sniffled again, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
"M-mommy said she would be by exit number fiveeee," he whined, dragging out the word like a toddler who'd just learned it. "She told me to follow these directions, but..." He paused, lower lip trembling. "I can't read it."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.
And I do mean crumpled. The thing looked like it had been balled up, flattened, balled up again, and possibly chewed on. It was wrinkled beyond recognition, the edges stuck together in clumps, the surface glistening under the atrium lights with some kind of…
Wait.
My brain caught up with my eyes.
Earlier. The curtain. His hand in his lap.
Oh no.
Was he actually-
Reze don't touch that.
But it was too late.
The Reze cosplayer, bless her naive, kind-hearted soul, had already plucked the paper from his grubby fingers. She held it up to the light, squinting at the smeared writing, trying to decipher whatever chicken scratch Trevor had scrawled on it.
"It's kind of sticky," she murmured, frowning slightly.
You think?
"Probably just glue," she reasoned, tilting her head. "Or maybe tears? Poor thing..."
I wanted to scream. I wanted to stand up and shout "THAT IS NOT GLUE" across the empty atrium. But I stayed frozen, morbidly fascinated by the sheer audacity of what I was witnessing.
Trevor had weaponized his own bodily fluids.
This man was a menace to society on levels I hadn't even conceived of.
Reze studied the paper for a moment longer, then looked up with a soft smile. "Exit five? Okay, sweetie. I think I know where that is. Let's go find your mommy."
Did I mention that exit five was the most secluded of all the convention exits?
Tucked behind the main hall. Mostly used for catering deliveries and staff smoke breaks. Minimal foot traffic. Minimal cameras. Minimal witnesses.
But the Reze dupe didn't make that connection.
Why would she? She was a kind person helping a lost, mentally challenged man find his mother. The thought that she was being lured to a kill zone by a predator with crusty hands probably never even brushed
her mind.
Trevor pointed toward the exit door near the far end of the atrium.
Reze nodded, and took him by the hand
That same hand.
I rose from my seat. I hadn't had this much fun in a while.
They walked toward the main hall the logical route, the populated route, the route any sane person would take.
Trevor stopped her.
"N-no, not that way," he whimpered, tugging at her sleeve. "Mommy said to use the special door. The fire exit. She doesn't like crowds..."
Reze hesitated for a moment. I could see the gears turning behind her eyes a flicker of something that might have been suspicion.
But then Trevor's lower lip wobbled, and the moment passed.
"Okay, sweetie," she said, her voice soft. "We'll go your way."
She was just trying to placate the gremlin at this point. Get him to his "mommy" and move on with her life. I couldn't blame her.
They slipped through the fire exit and into a narrow service hallway attached to the main building. Still indoors, but barely. The lights were dim, the walls were concrete, and the air smelled like old grease and forgotten health code violations.
Reze walked ahead, her petite frame practically swimming in the darkness.
She was small. Compact. The kind of build that would fit neatly into a large suitcase.
I found myself ruminating on how Trevor planned to transport her back to the hotel. His car? A rideshare? Was he bold enough to try wheeling her out in luggage? The logistics were…
I lost my train of thought.
Because Trevor's pants had begun their descent.
I don't know if it was the walking or the sweating or the sheer gravitational pull of his lifestyle choices, but his waistband had slipped to a catastrophic degree. His butt crack was now visible not just visible, but aggressively visible.
A chasm. A canyon. The Grand-fucking-Canyon of ass cracks, staring directly at me like an eldritch void.
I wanted to look away.
I couldn't.
I signed for what felt like the hundredth time today God, he gets weirder and weirder.
Up ahead, the hallway opened to a service exit. A single door leading outside. And beyond it, tucked inconspicuously against the building's exterior a car.
Nondescript, dark windows, and engine off.
In the driver's seat, a figure sat motionless. Long hair spilling over the headrest.
"Mommy."
Except something was wrong.
The figure wasn't moving. Not even a little, there wasn't any sign of shifting or breathing. Just perfectly, unnaturally still.
Trevor's voice pitched up again. "Ouuu, I think that's mommy! But I'm not sure... I think she's gonna be mad at me." He turned to Reze with wet, pleading eyes. "Can you come with me? Pwetty pwease?"
Reze glanced at the car, then back at Trevor. I could see the relief flooding her face this nightmare was almost over. She'd deliver the man-child to his mother, escape this creepy hallway, and never think about this interaction again.
"Of course, little guy," she said warmly. "I'll tell your mom how brave you were."
Oh, Ms. Reze. No.
They approached the car from the rear, Trevor shuffling behind Reze now, positioning himself at her back.
Twenty feet away.
Fifteen.
Ten.
And then Trevor's hand disappeared behind him.
Into the canyon.
I watched in slow-motion horror as he rooted around in his own ass crack actually rooted around and produced a rag.
A damp rag.
That had been stored in his butt crack.
WHERE ELSE WAS HE KEEPING SUPPLIES? WHAT ELSE WAS IN THERE?
Before I could process the biological terrorism I'd just witnessed, Trevor lunged.
He clamped the rag over Reze's face from behind, wrapping his other arm around her torso. She thrashed, muffled screams escaping through the fabric, hands clawing at his arms.
But Trevor held firm, his face twisted with concentration, the most effort he'd probably exerted in years.
The rag definitely held chloroform.
I recognized the way Reze's body went limp that boneless, ragdoll collapse that only comes from chemical intervention. Her struggles slowed, then stopped, her arms falling slack at her sides. Trevor caught her before she hit the ground, grunting with the effort.
I waited not out of curiosity this time. I just needed him to do the heavy lifting.
Trevor dragged Reze toward the car, huffing and puffing like a walrus. He popped the trunk which already had plastic sheeting laid out, how thoughtful, and heaved her inside with all the grace of a man stuffing a sleeping bag into a too small compartment.
Once she was in, he stood there for a moment, catching his breath, admiring his work.
That was enough.
I'd had enough of this fever dream. This circus. Whatever the hell you wanted to call the last hour of my life. I'd watched a grown man fake a mental disability, pull a rag from his ass crack, and successfully kidnap a woman in a Reze costume.
My brain needed a shower.
I moved swiftly closing the distance in seconds. Trevor didn't even hear me coming. One hand over his mouth, the other jamming a syringe into the soft flesh of his neck. The paralytic worked fast. His body locked up mid-struggle, muscles seizing, a muffled squeak escaping his throat before he went rigid as a board.
He hit the pavement like a sack of wet cement, eyes wide his mouth frozen in a silent scream. Still conscious and aware.
I turned my attention to Reze, still crumpled in the trunk. She was out cold, but that wasn't enough, chloroform wears off. And her last hour would linger in her mind. I couldn't have her waking up with Trevor's ugly mug seared into her brain she'd go straight to the authorities, and then cameras would be pulled, timelines reconstructed and dots connected.
I pulled out a second syringe. Rohypnol. A little insurance policy.
I injected her carefully just enough to scramble the last few hours into a foggy mess of half-remembered images. When she woke up, she'd know something happened. She just wouldn't know what.
I lifted her out of the trunk she weighed practically nothing, bless her petite cosplaying heart and carried her to a bench near the docking area. I propped her up and adjudged her wig. Made it look like she'd simply dozed off after a long day.
Someone would probably find her call security maybe an ambulance. She'd wake up confused, groggy, with a gap in her memory and a vague sense that something is off.
But she'd be alive.
That was more than Trevor's other victims could say.
Speaking of which.
I returned to Trevor's paralyzed form and grabbed him by the ankles. Dragging him to the trunk was harder than I expected the man was dense in every sense of the word. He was a mix of dead weight and uncooperative fat distribution. I finally managed to roll him into the trunk, but his gut spilled over the edges like bread dough escaping a pan.
I tried to close the trunk.
It didn't close.
His ass was in the way.
I shoved. Readjusted. Shoved again. Finally, I had to physically compress his stomach with both hands, pushing down while slamming the trunk lid with my elbow.
It latched. Barely. The whole car sagged on its suspension. I took a step back, caught my breath, and stared at the vehicle.
This was not my most elegant work.
My impulses had made me reckless tonight.
Sloppy, even. Too many variables.The kind of operation that should have gone sideways a dozen different ways.
But all's well that ends well.
I chuckled to myself as I pulled out of the loading area, Trevor's muffled existence thumping faintly from the trunk.
I drove slowly. The same speed as a grandma going to church. Every window rolled down despite the evening chill.
Why?
Because this absolute dumbass had decided to pimp out his kidnapping vehicle with illegally tinted windows. I'm talking limo- dark. Can't see your hand in front of your face dark. The kind of tint that screams "please pull me over, officer."
A word of advice to any aspiring criminals out there: commit one crime at a time.
You don't speed while transporting a body. You don't run a red light with drugs in the glovebox. And you sure as hell don't drive around in a murder-mobile with windows so dark they violate state regulations.
It's basic operational security. Some people learn this through careful study and planning.
Others learn it when they're being cuffed on the side of the highway because a cop wanted to ticket them for a busted taillight and found a dead hooker in the backseat.
Don't be that guy.
Trevor was that guy.
Fortunately for me, I was driving his mistake of a vehicle after dark, so the tint was less noticeable. Still, I kept my speed exactly three miles under the limit. Signaled every turn. Let other cars pass me without a flicker of road rage.
Just a responsible citizen heading home after a long day.
Nothing to see here.
By the time I arrived at the hotel, the sun had fully set. The parking lot was bathed in the sickly orange glow of cheap neon lights, half of which were flickering on their last legs.
I pulled around to the back of the building, near the service entrance. Where the shutters were closed. No cameras, at least, none that worked.
I popped the trunk.
Trevor stared up at me, paralyzed, eyes wide with terror. Still conscious and aware of everything happening to him. I gave him my most gentle smile and laughed lowly. I wanted him to marinate in the anticipation.
I searched his pockets, gloves on, obviously and fished out his room key. A copper key with the hotel's logo peeling off the corner.
Now came the logistical challenge.
I couldn't exactly fireman carry a three hundred pound man child through the hotel lobby. Even at this hour, someone might notice. So I needed a container.
I made my way inside through the service entrance, avoiding the front desk entirely. The shitty freight elevator groaned to life when I pressed the button, descending with the enthusiasm of a machine that had given up on life decades ago.
I rode it up to a storage area on the second floor. Where housekeeping supplies and spare furniture is kept. And bingo one of those massive road cases on wheels. The kind bands use to transport speakers and amps. Big enough to fit a drum kit.
Or one overgrown gremlin.
I wheeled it back down to the car, popped the trunk again, and stared at the puzzle before me.
Getting Trevor into the trunk had been hard enough.
Now getting him out and into the case was going to be a nightmare.
Ten minutes of shoving, folding, compressing, and creative profanity later, I had Trevor wedged inside the road case. His limbs were bent at angles that would definitely cause cramping, and his face was smushed against the interior padding, but he fit.
For the most part.
I had to sit on the lid to get it latched.
The wheels squeaked in protest as I rolled him toward the elevator, the case wobbling under the uneven weight distribution. Trevor's muffled breathing echoed from inside rapid, panicked, and aware.
Ah music to my ears. My little gremlin.
I made my way back to room 412, I kept the no housekeeping sign on the doorknob entered the key, and wheeled my cargo inside.
The room was exactly as I'd left it.
Plastic sheeting covered every surface walls, floor, furniture transforming the dingy hotel room into my stage. My tools were laid out on the nightstand in neat rows, gleaming under the dim lamplight.
I chuckled darkly to myself. There was something almost meditative about a wellprepared workspace.
I unlatched the road case and laid eyes on the thing.
Trevor stared back at me, eyes wide and alert, darting around the room as his brain processed the plastic, the tools, you know the implications.
I thought it would funny to set the monstrous dildo from his belongings onto the nightstand in plain view. Upright, prominently displayed, and impossible to ignore.
Trevor stared at it. Then at me. Then back at it.
I offered no explanation. Just an implication..
Anyways, the paralytic was wearing off I could see the micro-twitches in his fingers, the slight tremor in his jaw. A few more minutes and he'd have full motor function again.
Good. I wanted him to feel everything.
I hogtied his wrists and ankles with zip ties, then secured him to the bed frame, arms stretched toward the headboard, legs toward the footboard. Nice and taut. No wiggle room. Then came the accessories: ball gag stuffed in his mouth, shock collar fastened around his sweaty neck.
I stepped back to admire my handiwork.
The sight reminded me of a rotisserie chicken tied up, spread out, slowly rotating on a grill. All that was missing was the flames.
I chuckled at the thought. Maybe later.
Time passed and the paralytic faded completely, and Trevor's body came back online. He thrashed against the restraints immediately, the bed frame groaning and squeaking beneath him.
Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.
I paused.
That... did not sound great.
The rhythmic creaking of bedsprings, the muffled grunts through the ball gag if anyone walked by this room, they were going to get entirely the wrong idea. Or maybe the right idea, depending on your perspective.
God, I hoped no one called the front desk to complain about "noise."
That would be an awkward conversation…
I directed my attention back to Trevor.
For a man about to be tortured, Trevor seemed weirdly... focused. Yes, he was thrashing. Yes, he was panicking. But his movements weren't the frantic, animalistic struggle of someone trying to escape. They were directed. Possibly protective like he was trying to shield something.
I followed his gaze to the box.
That creepy, tentacle-carved, eldritch nightmare of a box was sitting on the dresser where I'd left it. And Trevor's eyes were glued to it like it contained his firstborn child.
Interesting.
He really cherished that thing. Maybe I'd set it on fire later and watch him squirm. But that was dessert. First the main course.
I picked up a surgical scalpel from the nightstand, letting the blade catch the light.
I'd learned a lot about the human body over the years. Where to cut for maximum pain. Where to avoid for minimum blood loss. How to keep someone conscious and screaming for as long as possible.
The sciatic nerve was a personal favorite. Longest nerve in the body. It runs from the lower back all the way down each leg. Incredibly sensitive if aggravated.
I traced the blade teasingly across Trevor's body his chest, his stomach, his thighs. Letting him anticipate and imagine.
Then I reached the spot.
One clean incision. Deep enough to expose the nerve. Trevor's whole body went rigid, a muffled scream tearing through the ball gag.
But we were just getting started.
I picked up the bottle of brake fluid. Oh.
Fun fact: brake fluid is corrosive. It dissolves paint, eats through rubber, and causes chemical burns on contact with organic tissue. Poured directly into an open wound, onto an exposed nerve?
Well.
Let's just say Trevor found out.
The moment the fluid touched the gash, Trevor's reaction was... dramatic. His face turned crimson. Veins bulged against his neck like tree roots. Tears poured down his cheeks in rivers, snot bubbling from his nose. His whole body convulsed so violently I thought he might actually snap the bed frame.
I stuffed two fingers into the wound and kept pouring, working the fluid deeper into the tissue.
Trevor's screams reached a pitch I didn't know human vocal cords could produce and then, abruptly, stopped.
He'd passed out.
I checked his pulse. Still there. Rapid, but present.
My hands moved swiftly, I couldn't have Trevor bleeding out on me. That would be dissapointing.
So I grabbed the medical stapler from the nightstand and closed the wound with three quick chunk-chunk-chunks. A temporary fix. Just enough to keep him alive for round two.
I removed the ball gag from his mouth, letting it dangle around his neck like a grotesque necklace.
Trevor's breathing was shallow, ragged. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused, swimming in and out of consciousness.
I pulled up a chair and sat down in front of him.
"Hey, Trevor," I said softly. "I've got a few questions for you."