Thank you so much for the reviews. It really helps me out, telling me what I'm doing right and/or what I could be doing to make this story more enjoyable. This is my story as much as it is my readers', and I want us both to be happy with the outcome!

I do not own Mount Massive Asylum or Doctor Trager. They belong to Red Barrels. I do, however, own Simon Poleski. Enjoy!


The two men made their way down the hallway; the only sound, the creaking wheels of the cart on the rough wood floor. Simon trotted ahead of the doctor and pressed the button for the elevator. The doors slid open and Trager pushed the cart in, running over two of Simon's toes in the process. After hobbling into the elevator, Simon pressed the button for the 3rd Floor and the doors slid closed. It took a few seconds for the old elevator to begin its decent. It was slow going, and Simon became even more uncomfortable with each passing second. He was extremely aware of how close he was standing to one of the most deadly men in the entire asylum.

Ding.

Phew. Simon absent-mindedly wiped a bead of sweat from his brow as the rusty elevator doors creaked open. They had made it to the third floor of the Male Ward where the doctor kept the bulk of his "patients."

"Ladies first," mocked Trager. Simon exhaled silently and stepped out of the elevator. The doctor followed behind with the cart. There were several doorways that led to rooms much like the one connected to Doctor Trager's "surgical" room. Simon stopped at one of the doors on his right and held it open for the doctor. Simon stared at an interesting crack in the paint, keeping his gaze locked on that, and not on his boss's backside as he entered the room. Once it was safe to look away, he entered in after him and shut the door.

Simon's stomach seemed to drop, as it did many times when he caught sight of the malnourished, deformed men. He had long since gotten used to the copper tang of blood and the putrid, bitter aromas of human excrement, but he could never get used to the visual imagery that accompanied the smells. The room itself was dimly lit (like a majority of the asylum) and packed with beds and gurneys that held the patients. The luckier ones had just been fastened down to their gurneys, while the more unfortunate ones were hooked up to contraptions befitting the Spanish Inquisition.

The patients were a good deal more quiet than they had been fifteen minutes ago when Simon had come to "take stock", as the doctor liked to call it. Upon seeing Trager and his assistant, many had quieted their shouts and whimpers, although several continued to struggle against their bindings and cry out. Others just lay there, motionless.

I could have been one of them, thought Simon, suppressing a shudder.

The two walked down the aisle making their way to Patient 109. Trager stopped next to a struggling man in one of the first beds and spoke something quietly to him. Simon continued walking, but caught the words ". . . or I'll remove the other one." The patient silenced his cries, and Simon cringed. He really did not want to know what organ the doctor was referring to.

From somewhere in the crowded room one man called out, "The Angel of Death! Don't let him get me! Please . . . don't take me yet! I ain't ready to die!"

Several other men began whimpering; some were openly sobbing. Simon felt their pain, he really did, but there was simply nothing he could do for them. He tried not to look at any one of them directly. They were all disfigured beyond what seemed humanly possible. After several weeks in the doctor's care, there was no man in the room that was complete. Dr. Trager had a sick habit for collecting body parts in some grand delusion that he would make a fortune selling them on the Black Market.

"Okay," said Trager. He stood from his bent position next to the man he had spoken to and clapped his hands together. "I'm here on official business. Which one of you poor saps knows where Ivan is?" His question received no response.

"Really? Not even one person knows where he is?"

Silence.

Trager sighed in frustration before continuing. "Six-foot five-ish, two-hundred fifty pounds of muscle? Goes around disemboweling people for fun? No one?" Well, in the patients' defense, that last trait could have applied to nearly anyone. The doctor was becoming irritated. Simon, seeing the danger, hurried over to his side.

"Sir, maybe you should make a deal with them," he offered, looking at the frightened patients.

"A deal?" inquired Trager, casting a sidelong glance at his assistant.

"Yes sir, something they would want in return for their information," Simon explained. Trager rubbed his masked chin in thought.

"Hmm. Yes . . . a deal. You know, you are absolutely right, Mr. Poleski," he said, perking up. "I think I know just what these poor, unfortunate souls want." He turned to face the room's occupants. With his attention now directed to the patients, he spoke in a louder tone.

"Okay, listen up 'cause I'm in a sour mood, and I am not going to repeat myself! I'm going to cut—" Several of the patients gasped. "—one of you lucky sons of bitches a deal." Sighs of relief filled the room. Trager clasped his hands behind his back, amused by the effect his words had on his pets. There was a dramatic pause, and Simon wanted to roll his eyes at his boss's unnecessary theatrics. The doctor brought up his right hand and placed it over his chest.

"Whoever tells me where Ivan is first will receive an early discharge from my care." Upon his proposition, the room erupted in shouts and incoherent mumbling. The doctor's eyes darted around the room, trying to catch any sort of legible answer. "Quiet!" he shouted. "One at a time, one at a time!"

"He's in the Pit! The Pit! Please, just let me outta here!" came a raspy cry. Trager's spectacled eyes traced the room, like a predator looking for its prey.

"Who spoke?" he demanded.

"I-I did! Me!" a man in the third gurney on the right shouted anxiously. Everyone that was still conscious was looking at the man now with wide eyes. Trager walked towards him, making the patient's lone eye widen, and his body tremble against his bindings. The mad doctor stopped next to the trapped man and crouched down to his level.

"What'd you say there, buddy?" he asked, putting his hand to his ear and leaning closer. "I didn't quite catch that." His voice was unusually soft and welcoming, which only seemed to frighten the patient further.

"I . . . I said—" the man's scarred lips were quivering as he attempted to speak. "The P-Pit, doctor. That's where I last heard of 'im, I swear! It's like 'is personal playground down there."

The doctor stared silently at the man in the bed, gauging whether or not he was trustworthy enough to believe. Apparently satisfied, he reached his scarred and bony hand towards the patient's head, causing the patient to flinch away violently.

"Shh, now. Don't be such a little pansy," Trager scolded the patient as he patted the man's bandaged head like an owner would his dog. The doctor removed his hand and stood back up, turning to Simon. "My shears," he ordered. Simon immediately grabbed the large rusty bone shears from the cart and handed them to the doctor, who then hooked them onto his apron and started stalking to the doorway, motioning for Simon to follow.

"W-Wait! Where are you going? You said you'd let me leave!" rasped the patient from behind. Trager turned to him.

"Yes . . . I did, didn't I?" he replied coolly.

The patient began to shake and whimper. Not one to pass up an opportunity to scare the shit out of his patients, Trager walked towards the distraught man, opening and closing the bone shears as he did so. "No! PLEASE!" shrieked the man. "Please let me go! I don't wanna be here! I don't wanna . . . I don't wanna be here! I-I wanna get OUT!" He was struggling against the leather straps holding him to the gurney, causing the whole thing to shake while he lashed out. Although his mask completely covered his mouth, Simon could almost feel Trager smiling darkly beneath it. The mad doctor placed his left hand over the patient's scarred lips and pressed the man's head back into the mattress. He brought the shears up in front of the man's face as he leaned in closer. In that moment, the only sound in the room was the muffled whimpering of Trager's victim. Simon brought his clipboard up to his chest and clutched it with both his hands. He had almost forgotten how to breathe.

The doctor spoke in a hushed, barely audible tone. "Once I'm finished with my doctorly business, I will come back and release you. Just as I promised." There was a very uncomfortable pause before the doctor continued. "And since you are just so impatient, that shows me how much of a fucking ingrate you are," he growled into the man's face. Had Trager's hand not been clamped down over the man's mouth, Simon was sure his screams would have been heard all the way to the asylum's basement. No wonder this man—this sadistic maniac—had half of Mount Massive in a cold sweat at the mere mention of him.

"Ooh, I know just what this situation calls for," perked the doctor. "What's that old saying? 'Spare the rod and spoil the child'? Well, do not fret, good sir. Despite your previous display of shit-headedness, I will be most merciful." Trager's grotesquely long fingernails were digging into the man's face as he spoke, his voice becoming more taunting and dark.

"I, your humble and just doctor, have forgiven you. When I return, we will have a little, ah, Going Away party, for your early release. I am sure all of your comrades would love to celebrate in your good fortune." The doctor lifted his head to face the petrified patients. "How's that sound, boys? A fucking party!" His malicious laughter resonated through the entire room. "Oh—" he said, looking back down at the frightened man on the bed, "—and I'll make sure the party doesn't end too soon. Premature endings are such a drag." With another dark chuckle, Trager removed his hand from the patient's mouth and gave him a pat on his cheek before turning and heading to the door. The paitent began to sob as Simon hesitantly followed suit, shutting the door behind him before following his boss into the elevator.

"But sir," spoke Simon. "What about 109? Isn't he the reason why we came here?"

"You need to get your priorities straight, Mr. Poleski," the doctor scolded his assistant. "I think fifty bucks is a tad more important than an already deceased patient. I mean, he's already dead, what else can we do?" Trager reasoned as he pressed the button for the 2nd Floor with his bony index finger. As the doors slowly began to close, Simon was able to catch the sorrowful cries of the sobbing man. This last visit would most likely be the last time he'd ever see the man again.

Well, at least alive.