75 clicks.

He could feel the veins around his cheeks and eyes throbbing. 'Bitch'! He looked down at the acrylic photo-frame on his desk and saw how happy they looked in the photo. He had no idea who they were, never really cared either; came with the frame when he brought it. Tom Brown, at this precise moment was not happy.

It takes exactly 75 clicks of his silver Schaeffer pen to walk from his clinical and uncomfortably sterile white plastic work station, to the chrome-finished elevator sitting not unobtrusively out in the hallway. The pen was given to him by some faceless non-entity lurking like a carrion feeder at his twenty-first birthday celebration many years ago; merely a gatecrasher, now, a piece of art. Probably stole the pen in the first place. Tom stares at his distorted reflection in the pen's barrel and a pleased smile divides his face.

He places the pen back in its allotted position in his shirt pocket and straightens his tie. He glares up at the clock ... 15 minutes to go. He has decided on the Spanish omelette today.

'73 - 74 - 75'. As the elevator doors whisper open, Tom checks his appearance and straightens his tie once more. Upon entering the elevator, it seems cramped somehow. Tom feels alarmingly stifled by the heavy air permeating from the air-conditioning ducts in the roof - an almost tangible fog choking the very life out of him - and is forced to loosen his always immaculate tie. Tom appears agitated and fearful as the elevator slows to a screeching halt at the messanine floor.

A cool rush of air enters as the doors slide open. Tom relaxes. He enters the elevator and gives Tom a curteous nod and smile before facing the now closing doors once more. Tom looks at his own distorted features in the polished elevator walls and sees just how dishevelled he appears. He re-adjusts the pen and his tie. A pleased smile divides his face again.

A lot more relaxed now, Tom looks this intruder to his elevator over with disdain. He stands about 6'3, solidly built and is wearing bib & brace overalls - wearing nothing underneath either, or so it seems - a safety helmet, and a pair of safety goggles draped carelessly around his taut neck. His arms are folded in the defensive position across his barrel chest and Tom can see the sweat glistening on the intruder's biceps and triceps. Tiny beads are also dripping off his broad forehead, and off the tip of his obviously frequently broken nose. Tom watches fascinated as the drips splatter randomly on the elevator floor.

Tom wrinkles his nose. The intruder emits a stench - stale, salty, rancid. This nauseates Tom slightly. Trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling, he lets his mind drift

... the plastic sheet is spread out evenly and precisely on the empty concrete floor. He gently places her in the exact centre of the sheet, being extremely careful not to shake or bump her lest the drugs wear off. He looks her over slowly and deliberately as he reaches for the clamps in the bag, knowing exactly where they are placed within. He kneels down by her head, spreading her beautiful long blonde hair out beneath her like a peacock's tail, and uses the clamps to lock her emerald green eyes open.

The injections had to be exact. Penetrating between the protective coating and the jelly of the eyeball only. Any deeper, or too shallow, and the overall effect would be ruined. The black dye had to envelop the eye completely.

Having succeeded in the task, he raises himself to his full height and bows deeply and elegantly to his captive audience. Even Jedekiah Mallacourt would be no less than impressed with the astonishing results. Jedekiah was always a bully and an arrogant brat - his nemesis - now, of course, he will never bully anyone again ... ever!

Mallacourt was the first. He placed him in the kneeling position with hands restrained behind his back and a hood covering his head, as if awaiting the inevitable execution. The final bullet eventually coming from a pistol held by a faceless non-entity that happened to be in the wrong place at the right time.

He checks the wire support frame for his latest acquisition's pose. The back cannot be up too high, and the left leg must be raised to the exact position to emphasize the beautiful crease between the calf and the shin, without showing the calf's muscular definiton. He had finished the wings weeks ago, insuring that they had the perfect amount of burning, blood and feathers, and he was now ready to complete the transferring of his latest acquisition's bodily fluids.

Once completed and the piece set up, he could start thinking about acquiring and preparing the companion piece. He needed someone to be the support for his 'Fallen Angel' ...

A jarring thud brings Tom back from his wandering reverie. He absent-mindedly pulls the pen from his shirt pocket again. As the elevator doors slide open, he looks at his large, unwelcome travelling companion one last time. A twisted smirk starts to appear on his face as he exits the elevator. '253 clicks until lunch.'

The Cafe was small, but it did serve excellent food and wasn't overly expensive. The decor was quaintly retro in the Art Deco style and Tom's seat was in the perfect position to savour all the wonderful odours emanating from the tiny yet well-stocked kitchen. His seat, just far enough away from the ogling refuse frequenting this street without being totally reclusive. His seat, just next to the large earthenware planter full of delightful odours and colours from the various flowers and shrubs vying for their miniscule sod of earth.

His seat, and god help anyone who dared desecrate his piece of Nirvana.

Tom fumbles around in his right trouser-leg pocket feeling for the familiar velvet sheath containing his fork and knife. As he approaches the cafe he notices a particular scent wafting through the air ... her scent. Her disgusting, bitter, putrid stench fouling the sanctity of his Cafe. He turns the corner into the alleyway and there she is ... in his seat.

He froze where he stood, blood pounding through his veins and culminating into a massive throbbing at his temples. He feels the burning fire behind his eyes. She lifts her eyes from the menu and peers over the top of her horn-rimmed glasses perched precariously on the tip of her large Roman nose. For a second their eyes locked. A ghostly smirk - malevolent and cruel - haunts her ruddy face before she lowers her eyes again to continue her pursuit for the perfect lunch.

That was it. Tom Brown was extremely pissed. No matter what the consequences, or how severe they were, he was going to destroy the witch ...  destroy her as slowly and as painfully a way as his steel-trap mind could conjure. He had had enough.

~~~

The young girl was lost. No older than eight or nine she just stood there, crying, everyone passing her by as if she was some sort of diseased thing.

One lady did eventually approach her. Ruddy-faced and in her mid to late sixties, she was wearing lurid green slacks, black shoes, an overly large black trenchcoat and was heartbroken at the plight of the poor unfortunate little angel. 'Well aren't you just the cutest little thing. Why I bet your mummy and daddy are so proud of you ... and such a pretty face. Come on pet, I'll take you to the nearest Police station. I think there's a short cut through the arcade just up around the corner.'

The young girl followed the kind lady unquestionably. She offered to help her when no-one else would. But this kind lady was far quicker and more ferocious than she appeared. As quick as a heartbeat she knocks the young girl out with a glancing blow to the top of her head. The vicious lady then throws the girl over her left shoulder, climbs down into the sewer, through one of the many unlisted access hatches and makes her way along the old abandoned railway tracks that run parallel to the main pipe. One of the exits comes out approximately 250 yards from the shack she uses as a storage facility.

The trek of course was arduous. Though she was fast and ferocious she was not that strong, and the young girl - her burden - was a lot heavier than she first thought she was going to be.

When she finally reached the exit she needed, she put the young girl down, kicked the amassing rats away and tried to catch her breath before letting out a high-pitched whistle. As if in response, the lights within the shack flickered into life. From all outward appearances, the shack was little more than a collection of rotted stone and wood vaguely resembling four walls and a roof. More than likely condemned many years before, its one saving grace was the extremely large cellar it had buried deep beneath its foundations. At one time this cellar was probably constructed as a bomb or storm cellar, but now it was the perfect place to hide certain things from unwanted prying eyes.

She throws her burden over her shoulder once more and makes her way to the front door. During the trek, three times the young girl started regaining consciousness, and three times she had to knock her out again. She was getting a little tired of it. 'Ungrateful brat!' The last time, she made sure that the young girl would be out for a long, long time, nearly breaking her own knuckles in the process. Of couse she hoped that the young girl's pretty face wouldn't bruise, otherwise Pa would get extremely upset.

She reaches the door. A wirey arm, scattered with age and liver spots and brandishing long, bone-like fingers, beckons her in impatiently. 'Get in here Ma, the place is swarmin'. Another deaden found down by the river. Face all chewed off 'n'all.'

'One of ours?'

'Nah. Ol' geezer McKinny report says.'

'Good! Then break out the skinning knives Pa, we've got ourselves a keeper.'