Post-ep to 7x15 "Monster in a Box." Italics are quotes straight from the episode (scene with Brass and the psychotherapist).
WARNING: healthy respect for irony required.
Tell me. What am I looking for?
Carrying a fresh box in gloved hands, he entered the small room and prepared to give them another dot to add to their massive collection of failed connections.
Repetition.
He flipped off the fluorescent overhead light, casting everything in a bluish glow. The way he always worked. The way he worked best.
Attention to detail indicates Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.
The chair should be much darker blue, he thought, and the back shouldn't be quite so high. Tossing the tiny model into the pile of other discarded bits of furniture, he started molding a fresh piece. The exact piece.
Obvious antisocial personality.
Not surprisingly, his hands didn't jerk when the phone rang. Nor did he care who was calling, or what they had to say. They'd try to interrupt him again. Like always. To no avail, he knew.
Most murderers lack impulse control. Inability to plan ahead. But… this one's different.
The sixth would be even better than the others. More complicated. More detailed. More mocking. And they'd never get it off their minds during the interim. While he worked, they would never fully concentrate on another case. Not now.
He conceives murder. Visualizes it.
Complication is, in fact, simplicity. Life's ultimate paradox -- and his ultimate mantra. A chemical equation can look like a series of impossibly interwoven factors to most. A puzzle so detailed, only few know of its pieces. But to him, it is but a simple joining of elements. These replicas, too, portray a canvas seemingly too detailed to comprehend. But he sees it as is. Death. One is born of this Earth, and one must die.
And he takes all that horror that he's imagined… he compresses it into these little rooms.
Eyes disciplined for long, intense focusing concentrated wholly on his task. The art of deception fueled more than any amount of diesel.
These models literally indicate repressed rage.
The last event should have been perfect, he thought. Meticulous. Down to the last wilted flower. It almost was. Four weeks of waiting nearly ruined. But small detours saw the job completed. This time, though, not a single fucking thing would stray off course. Unappreciation for such brilliance was a crime beyond these horrors.
And when you start taking that apart, all that rage comes flying out.
Steady, patient hands glued a tiny phone onto a tiny nightstand, not nearly wavering when a rumble of hunger threatened interruption. He pulled back the tweezers and placed them on the table, considering a fleeting moment from earlier in the day. Reaching for his phone, he mused to the empty room.
"Ah, my befuddled boss, you can't create this on empty stomach, either."
And you will have let the monster out of the box.
David Hodges dialed the number for Krispy Wok. And cackled like a cartoon villain.
