A/N: If you couldn't get it from the title, I think after the first few paragraphs it should be fairly obvious as to which movie I am referring. All the same I hope this is ok.
Disclaimer: "Luck is like ice-cream; it can't last forever."
Hotstreak walked into what had been designated as his room, sighing; it was further away from the rest of the Metabreed's rooms at their latest hideout since he valued his privacy. He didn't even bother with the lights; after all, this was just another day he wished would end. All that energy wasted, and for what? So Static could kick his ass? So Gear could make him look like an idiot? So Ferret could get captured for the umpteenth time? But then again, it wasn't as if he would be missed.
The pyromaniac laughed to himself, moving towards the fridge; another day, another screwed up heist, another lost fight, another battlescar. When had real life gotten to be so much like fiction? Hotstreak was reaching for a beer when he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye.
"Hey," he called out in anger. "I thought I said not to bug me?"
He ignited his thumb, looking around; on the chair in the corner was a wooden puppet, it's glass eyes and black hair shining eerily in the firelight.
"What in the hell?"
He stared at it incredulously, picking up the puppet to study it. Its face was painted white with red lips and red swirls on its cheeks. He brought it closer to his face, and the puppet suddenly let out a creepy artificial laugh. He threw it to the floor and turned around wildly, confused and slightly afraid.
"Who's there?! What the fuck is going on here?"
The door slammed shut and a figure in a pig mask tackled Hotstreak, injecting him in the neck, and then everything was black.
"Wake up, Francis," a voice demanded as he was sprayed with water. Hotstreak sputtered and gasped, spitting out the water, his eyes widening in shock.
The first thing he noticed was that wherever he was, it was very cold; the second was that he was duct-taped to a chair. He tried to break free, lurching violently about and calling up all his reserves; unfortunately the third thing he noticed was that he was all wet and couldn't ignite. At such rotten luck, only a single word came to his mind.
"Fuck."
In front of him was a little tv, and on it was that stupid puppet. Hotstreak was in a meat locker, and he knew exactly what was going on; he'd heard about this guy, how he toyed with his victims.
He was at the mercy of the Jigsaw Killer. The puppet on the screen again spoke to him.
"It's time to play a game."
Hotstreak sighed, for he knew it was a game he couldn't win.
A/N: Yeah, I wanted to go further than this, but I couldn't come up with a speech for that damn puppet. Monologues are hard! Oh well; live and let die. R&R!