His task completed and his day in the sun over, Gordo retreated to his sanctum, his masterpiece. The cool metal of the recessed hatchway was like an old friend to his hands. With little grace and even less beauty he dropped down into the darkness.

Quiet, fearful breathing echoed from the shadows. Furtive movements rustled sheets and pulled cords against restraints. Gordo perked his ears to his right, chamber 2 he called it, one of five pods of depravation and torture crafted by his heavy hands.

Someone was whispering a hurried prayer. The words, flowing like water, ran over and over, a plaintive stream of what was left of hope. It was almost musical. Gordo didn’t like music.

“Pre-e-e-etty thing,” he chided with growling malevolence in his voice, “What di-i-i-id I tell y’all?”

The flow of celestial-bound desperation was damned, destined to well up again. The someone didn’t answer Gordo’s question. She dared not.

But he answered his own question with a chuckle, “Go-o-od can’t hear you here.