This is the long awaited sequel to Hoffman's Justice. Enjoy.
Detective Lieutenant Mark Hoffman turns about in a restless night's sleep. He rolls over onto his side, trying to position his back to where it doesn't feel like spikes are being driven through it. A cold chill runs through him hitting his spine. He grunts, pulling the covers up to his bear chest. One thing he cannot stand is being cold while he sleeps. It's almost as unbearable as a trap.
He loudly yawns, rolling over to the opposite of the bed. He blinks a few times trying to remove the sleep from his eyes. A deep sigh escapes though his lips. It's another night torn apart from sleep. Another useless, insomnia-filled night of hell. There is no way he will be able to go to work in the morning if he's wide-awake now.
For the past week, insomnia has run his life. Nothing but tossing and turning for hours on end. He positions himself to where he is lying on his back. Thoughts of his former lover John race through his mind. Ohh what he would give to be lying in his warm, protective arms right about now. He surely wouldn't have any trouble sleeping.
A deeper sigh escapes his lips. He seems to be doing that a lot lately. Maybe it was the thought of finally finishing up his journal--more like a memoir of his life with John Kramer. It could've been the thought of their three-year anniversary that was coming up in a few days.
The small shine of his wedding ring catches his eye for a second. The light reflecting off of it from the flood light outside his window, never made it look so beautiful. He sighs again. Too many painful--yet happy memories entangle his mind like a spider-web. That ring is a powerful symbol that is meant to be cherished and kept forever.
It's no wonder why he still has it on a year later after Jigsaw's death. He just can't bring himself to take it off and put it in a safe place. The thought of it makes his stomach turn. A few tears trail down his face, landing on his hairy forearm. He buries his hand underneath the cover to prevent himself from feeling any worse.
He snorts to prevent the mucus from ruining his cover. He wipes his eyes, trying not to cry anymore. He could cry for years on end and it would never bring his John back. No wonder Hoffman has buried himself in his work lately.
"The more distractions the better."
He always says--well ever since John died. It's been nothing but work and playing games. Sometimes he'd blow off work to go on a binge of playing games. Other times it was vice-versa. Which ever was more convenient that day. He thought if he distracted himself to a point, where he could forget about John for a minute would be good for his health.
The more he tried to forget, the worse everything else around him would get. He thought things would get a lot easier. He was wrong. That is when he decided to write the journal. He could take out all of his frustrations and memories and finally put them in writing. He could go back and read the best parts whenever he was feeling bad. He could read the frustrating parts whenever he was pissed. It worked out nicely both ways. The day came a week ago whenever he finally finished the journal. He had no choice but to step out and get his latest victim for the next game. He had to take a break, all of that writing gave him a major headache.
He finished up getting his first two victims. He finally completed writing the end of the journal later that night. It made him feel so great to compile all of those memories into a single notebook. He wrote so much, that by the time he wrote the ending of it he had all but five pages remaining in the notebook
He kept his notebook in the built in desk drawer for safekeeping. It may be wiser to keep it locked up in a safe at a bank or something. Having it right there somehow makes it closer to his aching heart. He smiles to himself, he at last is starting to feel drowsy again. Thinking about John always helps him clam down and go to sleep. He always seemed to have that sort of magic power over him. He was like an old magician, making everything right in his world again. What he wouldn't give for some of his magic right about now.
Sleep pushes heavily down on his eyelids. His burning eyes are screaming at him to go to sleep. A light sleep passes over him, relaxing every aching muscle in his body. Suddenly, a crash startles him awake. He bolts upright in his bed, staring at the door. His heart is racing. His heartbeat is thumping wildly in his ears. Swallowing hard, he reaches over into his nightstand drawer and removes his gun.
He quickly gets up, wearing only a pair of black pajama pants. His bare chest is heaving, his eyes never move from the door. He quietly opens the door, just enough to peep his head out. Nothing. The long hallway is empty, not a sound coming from anywhere. He quietly stalks through the dark hallway, blackness engulfing every crevice.
The gun is aimed high, mid level to his chest. Walking down to the end of the hallway, he can barely make out a figure. He can't tell if the figure is a man or a woman. The clothing they are wearing hides their shape rather well. Plus, it is really hard to tell in total darkness. The figure is rummaging though his desk, tossing papers and books everywhere. The person grunts as a sign of frustration.
"FREEZE YOU MOTHER FUCKER!!"
Hoffman screams warning the person. He quickly fires his gun three times, almost hitting the robber. All in one motion, the robber grabs the desk lamp, hitting the hard floor.
Hoffman rushes the robber, getting right in front of them aiming the gun at their face. The robber gets to their feet, Hoffman never notices the desk lamp in their hand. A fit of blind fury caused him to only see the outline of the robber. Suddenly, the robber smashes the lamp as hard as they can right into the side of his face. A sickening crack of bone echoes though out the apartment.
Dazed, Hoffman collapses onto the floor dropping his gun along the way. The robber runs for their life out the front door, leaving a very dizzy Hoffman lying face first in a small pool of blood. Hoffman slips in and out of consciousness for a few seconds before completely passing out.
He lays there for what seems like days, which in reality is only seven minutes. He blinks rapidly, dizziness attacking him like a brute force. It is almost unbearable, his stomach is in knots. He feels very nauseous, his head won't stop spinning. It feels like he is on a continuous upside down roller costar ride.
Vomit erupts from his mouth, landing right next to his pool of blood. He must've been hit harder then what he thought. He doesn't remember a thing. Using all of his strength, he rolls over onto his side to prevent himself from chocking on his own blood and puke. The room is spinning faster then a blender full of fruit. He pukes once more, this time trying to avoid getting any on himself.
He touches his bloody and swollen face. He checks to make sure there aren't any bones broken. Luckily, only the left side of his face was hit and not his nose or mouth. It feels to be only a severe gash. He gives a breath of relief. He somehow gets into a sitting position, only to be overcome with severe nausea. He wipes some of the blood out of his eyes to survey the damage of the room.
Everything is a complete mess. Tables are turned helplessly on their sides, books are ripped apart, his desk lamp is smashed into large pieces. There are tons of pieces of paper scattered all around his desk--his desk. His eyes sharply widen, his attention is completely focused on the desk drawer.
The drawer is ripped out of the desk, lying on the floor next to the window. He slowly reaches over trying to prevent himself from further injury, to notice that his most prized possession is missing. He throws the drawer next to him, cussing heavily under his breath. He stares around the room, peering at the open door.
Whoever that was made their way out with the most valuable thing he owns. It contains not only him being the new Jigsaw, but of his personal relations with the former one.
Hoffman barely made it to his couch before he puked what remained in his stomach up. It was painful this time. It was as if somehow the robber slashed right through his stomach. That was impossible since only his face was actually hit. It felt as though Hoffman had been through more hell then what he really had.
His secret journal was stolen after all. What really surprised him was the simple fact that the robber knew what they were going after. It wasn't like some simple, random robbery of jewelry and electronics. This somehow was personal. But who would do such a thing? Who knew him well enough to look for something that he just wrote a week ago? He told no one about the journal. He even pretended it didn't exist for safety reasons. It had to have been someone who knew of what he had done. That was impossible though. The only person who knew of him being the new Jigsaw killer was Special Agent Peter Strahm. He was dead.
Did Strahm somehow leave behind a trail? Did he tell someone else it was Hoffman who was helping Jigsaw? It is very possible. Strahm was smart. He could've easily pulled something like that off. The strange thing was, that the journal focused mainly of Hoffman and John's intimate relationship. How would the robber know what was inside of the journal without any prior knowledge of it even existing?
Whoever the person is, they sure know a whole lot about him. Hoffman sits on the couch in a mental state of anger, disgust, sadness, and exhaustion. It was true he hadn't had much sleep these past few days. Maybe the stress was finally catching up with him. He had to find a way to calm himself down. He glances around the room, trying to catch even the slightest shred of evidence of the identity of the robber.
Nothing. The place is as messy as it was before the robbery took place. Frustrated, he slams his fists into the couch cushions. What else can he do about it right now? Defeated, he shuts the door and locks it back. He slowly marches back to his bedroom for which will be yet another night of insomnia. Maybe this time he will figure out a way to make everything seem better--if just for the time being.
The early morning sun greets Hoffman to what seems is going to be another rough and painful day. The sun is blinding at eight in the morning. It has been so long since Hoffman has even attempted to sleep to twelve in the afternoon. He has been so accustomed of waking up in the middle of the night to take care of John or work on a case. It was never easy getting even one ounce of sleep.
Hoffman deeply sighs, the remains of last night are still buzzing about his head. It seems so blurry yet new somehow. It was almost like he had experienced this before. Stretching his aching bones and muscles, Hoffman lazily gets to his feet in search of his clothes. After hastily getting dressed, he strolls into the destroyed living room. The place is still a mess with papers and blood everywhere. Surveying everything, Hoffman kicks a few books aside trying to clear a path for the door.
Hoffman arrives at the police station at 11:26 AM. He sits in his blue cop car watching people walk inside. He ponders how bad other people's lives must be right now. He imagines that his can't be the worse. Maybe there is some young athlete drying of a severe back injury or something.
He makes his way inside of the building, heading directly into his office. He shuts the door not wanting to be disturbed in any way, shape, or form. He has had about enough of people these last few days. He blankly stares at the paper clippings attached to his bulletin board. The picture of him "saving Corbett and discovering Jigsaw's body" is just another reminder of how bad his life has been. Not only did John die, his life had spiraled downward.
His life was good until John died. Was it that lonesome feeling of never seeing him alive again? Was it being highly praised for something he set up and never actually accomplished? Was it the guilt eating him up inside? It was none of those things. Sure, it stung a great deal when John was murdered. He wasn't praised too often, so that was nice for a change. Guilt was one of the least feelings he had been feeling at the time being.
A depressive-like sigh lazily escapes his lips. There is a rapid tap at the door. Whoever it is must be in a hurry to see him. Hoffman tells them to enter. It is Detective Fisk. Hoffman gives a small, fake smile. Fisk hastily returns it.
"We've got another Jigsaw case!"
Hoffman's expression doesn't change.
An alarming, eerie expression passes over Fisk's face. He hasn't seen Hoffman act like this when hearing about a Jigsaw case. Usually he is right on it, today however he is not. Fisk gives a concerned gaze at Hoffman, who ignores him hoping that he will leave.
"Anything wrong Hoffman? You seem very distraught over something."
Hoffman's eyes flicker back to the newspaper clippings. Just reading John's name hurts him so much. He sighs, ignoring Fisk's question. He acts as though he isn't there.
Fisk attempts to ask once more.
"Hoffman?"
His gaze is adverted and glazed-like. He appears to be peering off into space or another dimension.
Hoffman's voice comes out shallow and grave-like.
"Yeah…We'll get right on the case. Let's go…"
He rises out of his seat, walking directly at Fisk with no intention of stepping out of his way. Fisk quickly jumps to the side avoiding an almost direct collision with Hoffman. Fisk stares perplexed at him, not sure of the man he just spoke to. He shakes his head following Hoffman down the hallway.
The police arrive at what appears to be an old abandoned furniture warehouse. The place appears to have been abandoned for months, if not years. There was once life in this building, all it sees now is a gruesome, bloody death.
Detectives Hoffman and Fisk make their way over to the corpse. A man in his mid 30s, is hanging upside down with his body severely decapitated and mangled. A long length of thick chain is wrapped around both of his ankles. A bloody jigsaw puzzle piece is carved out of the middle part of his stomach.
He looks as though he has been through a blender. His young body has deep gashes spread all through out his torso, leading all the way down his back. The only shred of clothing he has attached to his body is a pair of tattered blue boxers.
There has to be at least 100 individual cuts covering his body, if not more. The man's face is barely recognizable, showing what appears to be an expression of surprise written on his severed face.
One of the man's arms is hanging by a long hook, while the right half of his torso is lying on the ground a few feet away from him resembling a cherry slushy. His guts are spread through out the crime scene like a maze, there is almost nothing left of him. Blood has soaked almost every square foot of this building. Whomever this man was, he must've done something undesirable.
Hoffman glances over all of the detached body parts, his expression never changes. Taking a deep breath, he makes his way around the rest of the crime scene surveying every inch of it. Fisk watches him, trying to determine if he figured out the way this man died.
Hoffman stops abruptly right in front of the severed, upside down man. Detective Fisk pauses before saying a word.
"The victim's name is Shane Jaheim, do you know how he died?"
Hoffman stares hard into the dead man's face, his eyes trailing all the way up his mangled body.
Hoffman thinks to himself.
"Of course I do, this man failed his test."
Hoffman nods, clearing his throat.
"Yes, the man died by what appears to be severe cuts along his body, not to mention his hanging."
Hoffman points to the bloody chains attached to his feet.
"He must've had to escape from his ankle chains within the set time limit or die by having all of the blood rushing to his head."
Fisk's face turns two shades lighter, his expression twisting up. He quickly covers his mouth with his hand, afraid of vomiting. Hoffman appears natural and calm, almost smiling. Fisk notices his odd behavior, but doesn't call him on it. He figures that is how Hoffman does his detective work, trying to get into the mind of the killer.
Detective Fisk uncovers his mouth.
"A typical Jigsaw trap. We better report this to the FBI. Special Agent Dan Erickson might want to take a look at this."
Hoffman joins Fisk standing further away from the body.
"Yeah that's a good idea. Erickson told everyone here if another Jigsaw case comes up he wants to be immediately informed. I'll go and make the call."
Hoffman leaves the warehouse, smiling to himself. Pulling out his cell phone, he dials Erickson hoping he picks up quickly. One ring…Two rings…Three rings…
"Hello? This is Special Agent Erickson speaking."
"Hi, this is Detective Hoffman. I am calling to inform you we discovered another Jigsaw case. You told us to immediately contact you, so here I am."
Erickson smiles to himself, eager to be on the move to catch "the Jigsaw killer".
"Thank you Detective Hoffman. I'm assuming that the reports will be at my office in a matter of hours?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact they should be."
Erickson clears his throat, sounding grim.
"Did you all find anything---strange?"
Hoffman frowns, not entirely sure of what he is asking.
"What do you mean?"
"Well. I detailed very well how Strahm pulled off his traps. I've went over several of the past cases, and I've noticed that there is a certain pattern that tends to go along with these traps. So, now I'm curious to see if there is anything like that you should inform me of."
Detective Hoffman ponders for a second. He obviously knows what all occurred to Jaheim.
"Nope. Nothing that I'm aware of."
Erickson nods on the other end of the line, his voice sounding hopeful.
"Alright, well thank you for calling and informing me. Good-bye."
Both men hang up. Hoffman walks back inside to check out the remainder of the scene. He spots Fisk over near a TV, peering inside of a VCR.
"The tape is gone. We were hoping it was still there so we could figure out what test this poor man had to endure. Forensic checked out every inch of this place. No finger prints, hairs, tracks, clues, nothing. Whoever did this sure knows what they are doing."
Hoffman feels his heart race with joy. That was easily a success. He smiles on the inside, trying not to let an unnecessary emotion escape in front of Fisk. Hoffman nods, indicating a job well done.
"Alright, let's clean up here."
Hoffman finishes up dealing with the rest of the crime scene and heads home.
Hoffman arrives at his place right after grabbing himself some fast food to eat. He forgot to eat earlier due to his latest trap being "uncovered". He seats himself on the couch, digging in to his cheap, artery-clogging cheeseburger. He pours himself a glass of whine, sitting in silence.
He beings to ponder on their discovery of his latest trap. It was nice seeing everyone look so puzzled at such a simple trap. Hoffman is surprised Detective Fisk didn't pick up on it. It wasn't even hard to pull off, in fact it was the simplest one he had ever done.
His mind rewinds back to Shane Jaheim's trap.
A man was hanging upside down by his ankles in thick, strong chain. He had been hanging there for at least an hour or so. He slowly felt his blood rush to his head. He jolted awake to find himself in this very tormenting state.
"Help! Somebody help me! Help!!"
He screamed until his throat ached with pain and scratchiness. He glanced around trying seek out another living person, as luck would have it he found no one. He swayed slowly back and forth by his ankles, hoping to knock one of them loose.
Suddenly, a surge of power swiftly ran through out the room. A TV came flickering on revealing a white-faced, red-swirled, cheeked puppet. The puppet smiled as if happy to see the man dangling there like a freshly killed piece of meat.
"Hello Shane, I want to play a game."
Hoffman's voice bellowed.
"You have spent majority of your life damning others. Now it is your turn to be damned. Right now you are hanging upside down, chained up by your ankles. As every precious minute ticks quickly by, your blood is flowing faster to your brain. In order to survive this trap, all you have to do is unhook yourself from the chains. In 30 seconds, several hooks will be propelled toward your body. In a matter of one minute, all of the blood will have rushed to your head causing your untimely demise. Will you unhook yourself and seek a more peaceful life? Or, will you remain there waiting for the hooks and chains to finish you off? Make your choice."
The clock quickly starts ticking down.
60 seconds…
Struggling with all of his might, Shane desperately tries to pull himself with his arms.
He outstretches his arms trying to get a firm grasp on his thighs. His grip slips, he isn't strong enough to support his weight.
55 seconds…
He tries again, his fingers attaching themselves an inch below his knees.
The clock ticks down.
Tick…Tick…Tick…
He swings his body trying to create enough movement to swing his arms closer to his ankles.
He falls back, his body swinging awkwardly back and forth. He has but one chance to successfully grab his ankles.
With all of his might, he thrusts his body upward scratching to wrap his hands around his ankles.
So close…He missed them only by in inch. He holds on though, clinging to dear life. He must not give up.
The clock ticks away getting closer to 30 with every little tick. Pressure begins to build, as he fights to get control of his game.
His hands slowly inch upward, he is so close to touching his ankles. Finally, he manages to grip his left ankle. He smiles at his hard accomplishment. All he has to do now is grab the other one and quickly undo both chains.
The clock has almost reached 30. Realizing how little time he has remaining, he grabs both ankles ripping at the chains. He has two strong grips around the chains tugging to get them free. It's no use. They aren't budging.
30 seconds finally reached the clock.
WOOSH!! Out of nowhere, two hooks come flying past him, both nicking his sides.
He sucks in his breath, pain erupts though out his body. Blood freely pours out of him. He pries at the chains with all of his might. Still nothing. The chains are wrapped around his ankles so tight they feel like vice grips. They aren't going to budge.
"Fuck! Ahhhh!!"
Shane screams in pain and agony. The chains aren't moving and the hooks are inching their way close to him. WOOSH! A hook nicks small gashes all over his torso.
20 seconds has flown by.
The clock ticks further down to its destination.
He struggles, fighting against the hooks to try and somehow loosen the powerful chains. WOOSH!! A hook snags into the top of his right arm, it dangles there like a Christmas ornament.
"Ahh!!"
The chains aren't moving. Shane has a strong suspicion that the chains weren't suppose to be removed. However, he continues to fight for his life. WOOSH!! Three hooks cleanly cut through the right half of his torso. His guts spill out, landing all over the room. Blood pours down his banged up body.
Tick…Tick…Tick…
The clock isn't there yet. He still has time to complete his task. Trying to dodge the approaching hooks, Shane swings sideways avoiding being hit. Blood splashes down his body, soaking everything in sight. Guts fling out, landing over a foot away. Blood is pouring out of him like a fountain. With every breath he inhales, the more blood trickles out.
Tick…Tick…Tick…
"AHHHH!!"
A hook embeds its way on his back. It digs deep into it, slicing down his back like a child on a slide. The hooks quickly slides down the remainder lower half of his back, trailing all the way down his spine before hitting the ground with a loud clank.
"Shit!"
A hook sticks into the left side of his face, attaching itself though his jaw. It dangles there, the tip of the hook sliding deeper and deeper going through the other side of his face. It hangs happily resting through his entire face.
Blood streams out, falling hopelessly onto the stained ground below. He screams again, hoping that someone will save him.
5 seconds…4...
A final hook clashes directly through the remains of the right side of his torso.
More guts fling out, landing several feet away. They scatter on the ground like mice searching for cheese. Blood pours like wine, it soaks almost every inch of the ground. There is so much blood, the floors appear to have red carpet attached to them.
3 seconds…2...1...
All at once five hooks propel out of a wall zipping right into him. They pierce almost every inch of his body. His body is mangled so badly, he appears to have through a severe car crash.
The force of the five hooks cause the hook embedded into his jaw to fall out. It lands next to him, making a sloshly sound. It lands in a puddle of blood. Shane failed his test.
Detective Hoffman appears carrying a jar, he walks through a door located next to the hook propeller. He fixes his gloves, walking closer to the body. He examines Shane, almost nothing is left of him. He is no longer recognizable. Hoffman reaches into his pocket pulling out a small knife.
He cuts a jigsaw piece out of the middle part of his stomach, and places it in a jar on the ground next to the body. A knife slashes across Shane's stomach right next to the jigsaw puzzle piece. Hoffman makes six deep incisions into the bloody, dangling corpse. A sadistic smile spreads across his face as he punches the body. A fist digs deep into the rib cage, causing the ribs to crack.
He strikes a few more times letting loose his frustrations. He smirks, staring blankly into his victim's eyes. He peers deeper into them as if there is something there. He heavily sighs, his eyes drifting over the body.
Hoffman can't stand to look at the body much longer, the problem in his pants has grown larger then what he originally expected. His shallow breathing increases, he slides his hand to the top of his pants tugging at his belt. He unbuckles his belt, unzipping his pants in the process.
His pants fall to his thighs, giving him just enough room to conduct his business. His boxers are next to be lowered. His hand finds his hard cock, he strokes it several times. He stares into the man's face, smiling to himself. He steps back a foot, his eyes tracing every bit of Shane's body. He pumps himself twice, letting the palm of his hand to steadily go down his shaft.
His breathing increases he can feel himself getting closer to cuming. His hand is going faster and faster. He stares into Shane's face one last time before cuming onto the ground. His breathing is starting to slow, he feels a lot better now. He stares down at his own white mess. He straightens his clothes up, getting fully dressed.
He cleans up his mess and over half of Shane's blood, making sure to cover his tracks. He smiles to himself, walking out of the room.
Hoffman's eyes flash. That burger he just consumed didn't set right with his stomach. He sits back, surveying his room. It's still a mess, he hasn't had time to clean being busy with work and everything. He peers over at his vomit and blood on the floor. It's starting to smell and attract ants.
He frowns, throwing the cheeseburger rapper on the floor next to the sick. He gets to his feet, making his way to his bedroom that ensures yet another night of no sleep. Getting into bed he glances at his wedding ring. He sighs watching it shine brightly almost as if it's smiling at him. His eyes widen suddenly realizing who broke into his home.
"Jill Tuck."
He mutters her name out loud. Of course, it all makes sense. Who else would know better of their relationship then John's ex-wife? Hoffman slowly touches his ring absentmindedly. He strongly remembers the day John told her about their relationship. She didn't take it very well.
In fact she didn't accept it. She couldn't understand how John developed feelings for man, more or less his new apprentice. Hoffman gets to his feet, he walks out of his bedroom and into the destroyed living room.
He couldn't accept what Jill had done to him, to John. His living room lay in ruins because of her. Hoffman couldn't stand the thought of going to sleep learning this new information. He has to act quickly for his new game just begun.
Hoffman heads into work the next morning, nothing but vengeance is on his mind. He can't stop thinking about Jill wrecking his place and stealing his journal. Sure, the journal plays an important part in his life now; that's not the case.
The journal doesn't matter a single bit besides the very intense detail of Hoffman's Jigsaw persona. He has got to get his journal back even if it means his death. Fisk rapidly approaches Hoffman as soon as he enters the door to his office. Fisk watches him sit down before speaking.
"Hoffman, you won't believe this. We just got word of a new Jigsaw murder. It's over in this abandoned house about ten minutes from here. Want to go check it out?"
Hoffman's eyes widen, he has not played a game since Shane. This wasn't his work it was Jill's. He blinks a few times, nodding at Fisk. Hoffman stands up, his expression changing. He's alert and focused, he knows just how to get Jill caught for this.
He straightens up his black tie, leading Fisk through the door.
They arrive at the scene of the crime, Hoffman glances over the place seeing how dreadfully bare it is. It was a perfect location to play a game. Hoffman and Fisk immediately see the mangled body handcuffed to a pole. Hoffman briskly walks over to the homemade body fountain. He glances at the numerous holes located on various places on the corpse.
Fisk and Hoffman find the culprit behind the holes, it was a yellow, bloodstained power drill. Hoffman bends down, picking it up. It looks at it for several seconds before handing it off to Fisk. He walks over to the victim, giving him a long stare. He recognized him almost at once.
It was a long time friend of his named Damen Chandler. The two of them were good friends since they were in college. Hoffman hasn't talked to Damen in quite some time, he has been so busy playing games and doing his police business. With Jill corrupting things, this has given Hoffman a chance to finally get even with her.
Fisk yells trying to get his attention.
"Hoffman! We tried to get the tape out but there isn't one. We're going to run DNA to figure out who this poor guy was."
Hoffman holds his hand up, appearing a tad grim.
"He was my good friend from college, Damen Chandler."
Fisk has surprise written all over his face.
"When was the last time you spoke to him?"
Hoffman walks away from the body, sitting down on an old crate.
"Years."
Eyes trace over the entire crime scene. He can't believe Jill would go to so much trouble as to kill off an old friend of his. She surely isn't messing around. He stands up, taking his latex gloves off.
"It looks like he was handcuffed to that poll being drilled literately to death. Check for any forms of DNA."
Hoffman leaves the premises, getting his act together. He gets into his car, going directly after Jill. He doesn't have time to screw around at the crime scene.
He arrives 15 minutes later at a dark and desolate part of town no one goes to anymore. It appears as if the place was attacked in some sort of vicious war many years ago. He parks his car a dim side street littered with old tires and garbage.
Hoffman gets a better view of his surrounding area, he nods to himself.
"This place really does suit Jill."
Sitting inside of his blue patrol car, he watches while a skinny orange cat makes its way across the street. An aging, red brick building catches his attention. There was something about that building that spoke to him. A vague similarity of perhaps another building or an old lair of some sorts.
Stepping out of his car, he grabs his gun from the side of his belt. He walks slowly and quietly down a dark alleyway. He comes across an old, rusty steel door. He opens it walking inside. The place was extremely dim, the only source of light was an old desk lamp sitting in a corner of the room.
Glancing upward, he saw some low hanging lights but no switches. Out of nowhere a loud voice spoke to him.
It was none other then Jill Tuck.
"Welcome Hoffman. I see you've discovered my building. Nice huh?"
Hoffman scoffs, aiming his gun at her.
"Cut the shit, I know you murdered Damen."
A long row of overhead lights flicker on. Jill was sitting on an old, faux leather office chair merely ten feet away.
"Whatever do you mean Hoffman? I thought you were the Jigsaw killer and I was just an accomplice."
Angry, Hoffman gets closer aiming the gun directly at Jill's head.
"I said to cut the fucking shit."
Jill smiles, getting to her feet.
"Or what? What are you going to do about it, turn me in to the police? Hoffman, whatever you say will be directly linked back to you. If you try and bring me down your ass is going with me."
She lets out a laugh, thinking she has Hoffman right where she wants him.
Hoffman's face glows red, his gun is steadily in his hands.
"Give me back the fuckin' notebook or I'll spill your brains out where you stand."
Jill's expression changes, her eyes become focused on the gun.
"What are you going to do kill me? How did that work out for Seth Baxter? What happened then huh? John won't save your pathetic ass this time."
Hoffman fires his gun, hitting Jill's office chair. The bullet misses by inches.
"Next time it will be your fucking head. Give me the notebook!"
Shaking her head, Jill walks away heading toward an old drawing table. She opens a drawer, pulling out the notebook. She holds it high in the air for Hoffman to see.
"You mean this notebook? You know, I was going to publish it for the entire world to see. But now I think I'll just keep it for myself. I have to hand it to you Hoffman, you sure know how to write."
She flips though a couple of pages, reciting some sentences.
" ' I didn't have John to guide me any longer. I was on my own and I was scared. I knew the confession of John and I being lovers would make her snap. She lost all control and became enraged.' "
Hoffman stands there in shock, he can't believe Jill would have the audacity to read his personal, private journal like it was a newspaper.
"You really think I've snapped and lost control? DO YOU!?"
She throws the notebook down at Hoffman's feet, almost tearing it. Jill gets right up in Hoffman's face, the gun still pointed at her head.
"What do you think now Hoffman!? Do you still think John loves you even after he's dead!?"
Hoffman swallows, his mind is racing. His gun is starting to shake.
Hoffman screams at Jill, trying to keep his gun from shaking.
"You knew John and I were together! You tried to prevent us from being happy! You're still trying to prevent me from being fuckin' happy!"
Jill flinches, thinking the gun went off when really it hadn't. Hoffman's eyes are bulging, his face is red. He repositions his gun, this time placing against Jill's temple.
" 'Gonna shoot me? Do you really think John would have wanted you to kill me?"
Hoffman ponders this for a moment, putting his gun down. Jill laughs in victory.
"That's what I thought. I knew you didn't have the balls to kill me, even John knew it."
Hoffman's eyes are watery, all this talk of John made him emotional. A small smile spreads over his face.
"You know what? John didn't anticipate on me doing this!"
Out of nowhere, Hoffman strikes Jill with the side of the gun. He smashes the side of her face causing blood to instantly appear. Jill falls to the ground, grabbing the notebook. Hoffman smashes his foot onto his property, his shoe crushing Jill's hand.
She screams in agony, trying to get free. Hoffman aims the gun at Jill's skull preparing himself, he fires. He misses the shot by mere inches, causing him to cuss in frustration. Jill crawls away, leaving a bloody trail behind her.
Hoffman picks up the notebook, stuffing it into the pocket inside of his jacket. Jill gets to her feet, pulling out a syringe from her pocket.
Hoffman eyes the syringe, knowing exactly what's in there. He braces himself, lunging after her. Jill moves quickly out of the way almost stabbing Hoffman in the neck with the needle. Hoffman makes a quick attempt to smack it out of her hand, it works.
The two of them have an all out war over the syringe. Each one clawing and kicking trying to firmly secure the syringe in their hands. Hoffman has a grip over the end of the needle, while Jill has her hands on the front of it.
It's a tug of war as the two of them fight for control. Hoffman has his gun in one hand and the needle in the other. Jill's injured hand tries to smack Hoffman in the face, but it's too weak to do any damage. The syringe slips between their hands, the needle now facing upward.
They fight back and forth for a few minutes, before one of them is stabbed. Staring at each other, they look to see where the needle went. To Hoffman's luck the needle is deeply embedded into Jill's wrist.
Quickly, Hoffman pushes down the liquid into her veins. He watches as Jill collapses onto the cold floor. The last thing Jill sees is the smirk on Hoffman's face.
Jill wakes up dazed and confused. She glances around, trying to figure out her surroundings. She's sitting on the cold damp floor, she's not alone. There is a tape recorder sitting on her lap, she clicks the play button listening hard.
Hoffman's voice echoes.
"Hello Jill, I want to play a game. You find yourself in a position of weakness and abandonment. I assure you, this will not continue. You have but one task before you. On the ground before you there are hundreds of light bulbs. These light bulbs are all fastened tightly to the ground. In order to survive your test, you have to cross the field of light bulbs in order to reach a key. This very key unlocks one of the doors to this building, it is your only way out. If you don't reach the key in time it will vanish. And by vanish I mean it will disappear in front of your very eyes, by me. I will personally come inside and destroy it in front of you. Why you ask? I like to see the horror on my victim's face of the test they failed. Will you cross the path of light bulbs and get the key, or fail and stay locked inside forever? Make your choice."
Overhead a clock can be seen slowly counting down the time, 60 seconds. Quickly, Jill stands up, merely inches away from the light bulbs. She glances down at her feet, her shoes and socks are gone. She peers over at the key, she can barely make it out.
Five seconds has already passed, her time is draining quickly. It's now or never, as she steps on the first five light bulbs crossing her path. They smash hard, the shards of glass sticking into the soles of her feet. The light bulbs have a slight wetness feel to them. She screams in agony, the pain is great. Stepping on five more, she's getting closer to the key.
50 seconds remain in her test. Jill's pace quickens as she steps on two more light bulbs. The pain in her feet increase, they begin to burn. Glancing down, she notices red spots all over her feet. She stops for a moment, examining her toes.
Suddenly, the tape recorder somehow clicks on by itself.
Hoffman's voice booms out.
"Ohh Jill, I forgot to tell you something. Those light bulbs you are stepping on are filled with acid. You better watch your step."
Hoffman can be heard laughing as the tape recorder snaps back off. Jill screams, the bottoms of her feet are bleeding, her flesh is peeling. Some of her bone is showing through her feet, the acid is working quickly.
Jill glances over at the clock, 34 seconds remain. She tries to walk faster but with every step she is filled with severe pain and burning. Her feet appear as though they were thrown into a blender.
The pain engulfs her, she can't take it anymore. Screaming, she stomps on the light bulbs moving as fast as she can going through the pain.
The clock ticks down faster, her blood is everywhere. She can clearly see the key in front of her, it's almost in her grasp. It's only feet away, but to her it seems like miles. She steadily makes her way across the light bulb field, cussing under her breath.
She panics, glancing down at her feet. Blood is gushing and oozing out of every little cut. Her feet are mangled, the toes are barely noticeable. A trail of bloody glass soaked in acid follows her wherever she steps. There is no escaping the smell of fresh blood and acid.
Suddenly gaining momentum, her steps increase. Every loud pop of the bulbs encourage her to move faster, almost as if the bulbs are mocking her.
Jill manages to speak, it's barely above a whisper.
"Almost there…"
Her time is almost up, there is less then 14 seconds on the clock. A large steel door opens a few feet past the shiny key. Jill immediately recognizes the figure, it's Hoffman. She watches as he makes his way to the key. He stops right before it, his hand inching closer to it.
"What are you going to do Jill? You're still not close enough and the time is going faster."
He smiles at the horror written all over her face, her eyes widen. Jill gathers all of the courage and determination within her, racing to the key. Seconds fly by as Jill makes her way across the path. Jill is getting closer with every step, she reaches her hand out to grab the key.
Right before she could get her hand on it, Hoffman snatches it up before her. Jill gives Hoffman a look of pure horror.
"I won! Give me the damn key! I still have time!"
Hoffman shakes his head slowly back and forth, he points at the clock.
"The clock hit zero right as I grabbed it. You failed."
Jill turns to the clock, Hoffman is right. Her knees collapse, she lands hard on the broken shards of glass. She screams hard as the glass rips through her flesh like butter, her game is over.
Hoffman places the key on the center of his palm, he squeezes hard. Suddenly, the key disintegrates right before Jill's eyes. The key was compiled of weak scraps of metal that could easily be broken. She screams in horror, she knows she has completely failed. Her time is up.
Hoffman pulls out his gun from his jacket, he aims it directly at Jill's head.
"There's no point of keeping you alive any longer. You failed your test. I don't want you to roam aimlessly around here with nothing to do. I might as well put you out of your misery."
Tears stream down Jill's face, her life is over. She holds her hands up, pleading with Hoffman.
"Please, please don't kill me! Leave me here! I don't want to die!"
Hoffman's head shakes back and forth.
"It's too fucking late for that now. You should've thought about that when you stole my notebook."
Hoffman's gun is aimed directly at Jill's head, he straightens it up positioning it just right. Jill begs for her life one last time, but it's too late. BOOM! The bullet goes right though the front of Jill's head, blood runs down her face mixing with her tears.
Her body collapses to the ground, falling limp. More light bulbs break, causing the acid to eat though her face and clothing. Hoffman stands there for a moment, watching the acid degenerate her corpse.
Putting his gun away, he walks off toward the door. He pauses for a moment, and turns around looking back at the scene one last time. He walks out of the cold, blood soaked building smiling to himself.
His nightmare is finally over, he finally won. Jill was no more, and the Jigsaw legacy could become his once again. He was finally on his own now, no other person helping him with the games.
It felt nice to him, finally gaining back his independence that he so rightfully deserved.
Hoffman returns home that night, his body aching and his mind finally at ease. He flips on the living room light, surveying the place. Hoffman sat in the one place he has not sat at for weeks, his desk chair.
He smiles to himself, pulling the notebook out of his coat pocket. He places the worn out notebook in front of him, flipping to the final five pages. He grabs his favorite black, ballpoint pen from a desk drawer.
He sits there for a moment, deciding what to write about. It had been ages since he last wrote in his journal. He reads the last sentence he wrote weeks ago. I made my choice. Finally, something came to him. He knows what he wants to write about.
These past few weeks have happened so fast. It was all over in a blink of an eye. My mind is finally at ease with Jill out of my way forever. I can now do what I originally sought out to do in the first place. I can now give my full attention to the games in which I play, not only for me but for John as well. I can now take solace in the fact that I'm working by myself for the first time in so many years. I have no one physically looking after me, just the sheer after thought of a man gone from this world. With my many years given to servicing John, I now know why he played these games. For this, and only this, is what it really means to cherish your life. A person must be pure to themselves and the rest of their society to truly offer enlightenment. I dedicate this journal to my late lover, John Kramer. It's time to play a game.
Mark Hoffman finishes filling up the final five pages of his three-spiral notebook. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he closes his work. He gets to his feet, taking the notebook with him for safekeeping. He turns out the living room light, and walks to his bedroom for a well-deserved night of sleep.