Breath came heavy and thick in the cramped, stale air. His mind reeled in the dark tide of emotions coursing through him. Had he a worthy voice he would have been singing. Thank heaven for small favors, one might think.

A touch here, a light caress. A punch there, sullen vengeance for a lifetime of perceived wrongs. A pinch on this one, just to taunt.

A misshapen fairy of unhappiness, Gordo flitted about his chambers of malevolence. Heavy footfalls plunked and thudded along and half way up the curved floor of his masterpiece, five septic tanks welded onto one central tank, creating five bays, all enclosed and sealed tight. From captive bed to captive bed he pranced.

A whimper here, unable to voice the feeling. A sob there, pitiful acquiescence to despair. A muttered swear from this one, just one last ounce of defiance.

And then came the other voice, drifting on velvet waves from the hatch above, “Gordo, you’re not getting too excited, are you? We don’t want another incident like Mildred.”