CHAOS BEFORE PREDICTABILITY

“Where am I?” was going to be the second question Tim asked himself. However, he was currently distracted with the more poignant question of “where are my legs?” He was almost certain before he went to sleep he had exactly two of them. Now, at best, there was half. Had he perhaps taken the time to look around the strange room he’d awoken in, he might have noticed one was resting upon the smooth blue cloth of a pool table in the corner.

From a quick scan of the small, damp basement, Tim could tell it was now day outside through light seeping in through the tiny window in the top corner. He was supposed to have a date tonight, which he was almost definitely going to miss. Aside from the mobility issues, he was rather inconveniently handcuffed to a hook in the wall. Taking this in, he pondered his options.

Mid-ponder, he heard footsteps. Slowly, they trudged down the wooden stairs, forcing audible creaks from the rotten timber. He was about to meet the man, woman or other that had put him in this state, as much as he hoped it might be a policeman or Chuck Norris. Of course, such fantasies don’t come true and in moments he was being looked in the eyes by his captor – this maverick limb thief.

Dressed in torn black jeans, converse and a Popeye t-shirt that was just one size too small, his tormentor look down upon him. He wasn’t tall, but the hate in his eyes made up for his stature. It sank deep into Tim, penetrating his every muscle (except the ones in his legs, which were now on the other side of the room.

Silence reigned, until the man conquered it. “Don’t stand up”, he said with a dry, flat tone that showed little emotion. He knelt down to tie his laces, eyes on Tim at all times. He had an air of suspicion, as if Tim was the kid next door caught stealing gnomes from the garden.

But what had Tim done? As far as he knew he was an innocent. Racking his brains he couldn’t work out what it was. He was a virgin, so he hadn’t slept with this man’s wife, if he had one. He’d never stolen anything or hurt anyone. In his impenetrable shyness, he’d never even managed to exchange a cross-word with even a shadow. So why did this man seem to hate him so?

“Do you know what day it is?” said the man, glaring at Tim for an answer. Begging his body for a breath, he managed a reply, “It’s. It’s Tuesday?” Hoping it was indeed the right answer and unsure of the consequences if it wasn’t.

“Yes, that’s right. Tuesday”. The man spat the word as if it were a dirty term. “Do you know what happens every other Tuesday, lad?” Tim did not, but he wasn’t keen on letting the man know.

“Men come to pick up the recycling?” guessed Tim.

“No, that’s Wednesdays!” replied the man, clearly displeased with Tim’s apparent lack of knowledge. “I’ll tell you what happens every other Tuesday.”

Before launching into an explanation of this fortnightly event, he pulled across a small, wooden chair and sat down, causing his jeans to rise up to expose what Tim was sure were Sonic the Hedgehog socks.

“Every other Tuesday, I find one of you… you nicer than nice folk. I find you, take your from your slumber and kill you.”

“Oh” said Tim “that’s not particularly nice, is it?”

“No it is not!” replied his assailant “it’s not meant to be nice. If I was aiming to be nice, I’d bring you a lasagne or wash your hair. I’ll leave the niceness to you, Mister ‘I’ve never done anything bad in my life’. I know your type: always courteous, always polite. Holding doors open for grannies and feeding ducks by the hand. I see you lot everywhere and every time I do, I wretch.”

“Do you not like niceness?” asked Tim.

“The occasional bit of generosity, fine. I’ll give a pound to the blind and I’ll smile at a baby. But it’s you folk – the non-stop angel-faced ones, making the world think you’re whiter than white. But I know your secret, don’t think I don’t.”

“That I’m a virgin?” said Tim

“That you’re a what? No. I meant. Wait, what you’re about 24/25? I’ll almost feel bad for killing you before you managed to get laid, but that’ll pass. No, you’re darkest secret. You demon.”

“A what now? I’m a demon? The only demon I’ve ever been was a Speed Demon, in my head when I listened to Michael Jackson and that doesn’t count – does it?”

“Don’t lie to me, demon. You lie just like the last.” But it was too late for Tim to hear these words as that were barked at him, because his head was now several feet from the rest of his body.

Cleaning his collectable Urak Hai sword frantically before the blood tarnished the surface, the man in the Popeye shirt made his was gravely out of the basement to get his recycling ready for tomorrow.