Translation for French at the end.
A month after his last victim (Jean-Pierre whatshisname), Grantaire is at an old college campus in Paris. The grounds are deserted, save one man walking home late from working in the campus café. It has almost midnight and Grantaire had been keeping an eye on him all day, listened to his conversations, knew what path he would take home that night and when he would walk it. He now was at his van, parked conveniently right where the blonde man would pass. The back of the van was opened and Grantaire put on a show of struggling to lift a coffee table into it.
Right as the man was within ear shot, Grantaire made the table slip from his grasp and began swearing at it. The man stopped and turned to look at Grantaire, just as Grantaire looked up to see the man. He ran over to him and said, "Pardon*, but could you please help me with this table? Normally my roommate would help, but seeing as he's the one that kicked me out."
The man took a moments pause before saying, "Yeah, sure. Of course." He shrugged off his messenger bag and dropped it outside the van before helping Grantaire lift it up into the trunk. When they were both standing crouched in the van, Grantaire clandestinely grabbed a crowbar hidden in the corner and hid it behind his back.
He held out a hand for the blonde man. "Thanks for the help."
"Sure, anyti-" He was cut off by Grantaire swinging the crowbar around and knocking him out with one blow. The man hit the floor with a soft thud.
Grantaire hopped out of the van and saw the man's bag lying on the ground. (Why not have a little fun). He took out a notebook and a pen from the bag and wrote "Bonsoir, mon ami.* - Skoll." He signed the name given him, figured he should at least be courteous and take away the guesswork for the police, and in any case, he always did like a little mischief. He tore out the paper, his sleeve covering his hand so as not to leave prints; he used his sleeve again to wipe the pen of prints and bent over to stab the paper into the earth with the pen. It wasn't windy, it should stay until morning.
He replaced the notebook in the bag and threw it into the back of the van and shut the doors. He climbed into the front and drove away.
It was a three hour drive back to his house, and he drove the way peacefully, taking occasional sips from the flask he kept in the glove department. The road was quiet and dark and he felt content to know that no one suspected him of kidnapping the man in his trunk.
About thirty minutes before they arrived at Grantaire's house, the blonde man awoke and began banging on the walls of the van. Grantaire could hear the muffled protests and occasional swearing through the thin metal barrier between him and his victim. He sighed, taking a swig from his flask, and pulled over on a dirt road.
Grantaire hopped out of the drivers seat and began banging a rhythmic, mocking beat on the van, slow and loud. The man inside continued his relentless protests. Grantaire stopped his banging and yelled, "Strong-willed. I like that. Keep it up and you might live longer than I was going to give you."
The man stopped when Grantaire spoke and replied, "You're a sick piece of shit, you know," punctuated with another bang against the van.
"I've been told that my entire life," Grantaire yelled, "Do you really think you saying it will affect me?" He got back in the driver's seat.
He drove the rest of the way home with nothing but silence coming from the back. He figured the man gave up his protestations, but would probably try to do something when he opened the back. When Grantaire pulled into his garage, he turned off the car and waited a moment before going to open the van.
He walked quietly to the back and quickly opened the doors. The man was surprised at the timing, but he still lunged at Grantaire. Grantaire, prepared however, quickly grabbed onto the mans neck and squeezed. He shoved the man against the door jamb and held him there until he passed out again.
Grantaire hoisted the man on his shoulder and carried him inside and to the basement. There he chained him to the blood stained wall: a chain around his neck and one for each wrist with a chain going opposite ways into the floor. He propped the man upright against the wall, as comfortable a position as could be afforded in such a situation. He walked up the stairs and turned off the light.
Notes: Pardon: Sorry/Excuse me Bonsoir, mon ami: Goodnight, my friend.