author's note: H'ooookay, so this chapter is...very bloody. I think I told you that it would be, but just to be safe I'm saying it again :P


When Phil woke up, he was tied to a chair.

Trying to get his bearings was proving to be difficult. He felt groggy, and not just from the blow to his head. Someone must have slipped him something – because he couldn't feel anything in his legs. Local anesthesia, his mind supplied. He remembered the feeling from back when he was first admitted to the hospital.

Blinking several times, he started to take in his surroundings.

He was sitting in a kitchen, that much was clear. He was still in his hospital gown. It looked like it belonged to a restaurant, or a diner – the room was full of several ovens, burners and working tables in polished steel, utensils and knives carefully placed in their respective containers. But there was no staff to be seen. Bright lights from the ceiling shone down on every surface, even a radio was playing some cheerful music. It was almost uncomfortably loud.

"Hello?" he called out uncertainly, looking from left to right. Maybe whoever it was, had just tied him up and left him here. And maybe, a staff member would find him and set him free.


An hour passed by like this, the empty kitchen and dark windows, instead of calming him down, made him more and more anxious to get out of there. He was just beginning to think that it was all some kind of elaborate prank. But then the radio started acting up, playing only static.

He hadn't looked in that direction for awhile, and therefore it gave him a jolt to see that he was no longer alone in the room. By the radio, a tall, somewhat gangly young man was watching him. Phil hadn't heard any footsteps – perhaps because of the loud music. But that was not what scared him at present.

What scared him was the fact that he recognized who the man was.

Though, some things were very different. Last time he had seen him, on television, he had been bearable – he did not frighten him, a kid barely out of his twenties that the media took a liking to because he led a gang of crazies to do his bidding. It was fodder for attention, for psychologists to chew through as a major topic for discussion on talk shows and radio specials where parents could call in and ask what to do about teenage rebellion. He had been nothing but a tip of the iceberg that was Gothams underbelly, hardly the worst of the worst.

Standing there now, in that kids stead, was someone else. A thing wearing human skin. That's the only way he could describe it. It looked like a man, and walked like one – but that's where the similarities ended. Black eyes the color of tar; slick and reflective, were watching Phil in a way that was making his skin crawl, and every instinct he had told him to run. Only, he couldn't. It was then he noticed the pot full of boiling water on the stove. The sharp knives laid out by the empty cutting board. Pieces of a puzzle he couldn't fathom just yet.

He glanced back at the thing standing at the stove, turning knobs on the heater. It was no longer looking at him, but there was a knowing smile on his scarlet lips, a secret dancing in its eyes.

"Wha-whats going on?" Phil asked. It was a miracle that he found the voice to speak at all.

"It's so good you happen to be awake now Phil. I was starting to worry that the drugs might have kicked you over the edge – prematurely that is. Ah, there you are kids! The food will be ready soon, just sit down."

Just behind where Jerome was standing, three figures appeared through the kitchen door. Their faces were covered in animal masks – a bear, a chicken and a pig. They said nothing as they entered, and sat down at a small dinner table laid out with plates and cutlery that Phil hadn't seen before. It looked so surreal that he had to look away. He wondered what his role was in all of this.

"Just let me go, I won't tell nobody about you!" he yelled, but Jerome just shook his head and pointed a finger at him.

"See, that's the problem. People don't talk about me. Well, they do, but they do not fear me, understand?" he asked, tilting his head strangely, as if it didn't fit on his neck right.

"So what do I have to do with it?" Phil asked somewhat rudely. Jerome looked away and shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, besides raping my wife you haven't done squat, have you." he said very casually, before turning to face him again, his face contorting into that..that thing that made Phil's breath catch and the air in the room turn chilly, " Inactivity is a crime in itself – look at all that fat, you slob." Jerome said in a low, rough voice devoid of emotion.

Jerome poked his stomach roughly, then out of nowhere, delivered a punch to his side that had Phil coughing and wheezing for breath. In the background, the people in the animal masks made strange noises, like wild, laughing jackals. They were pounding their fists against the table, making the cutlery bounce with each movement. Through the sizzling noise of the frying pan on the stove, along with the boiling water and the rough noises of the masked men, an old song played on the radio, wafting in and out of Phil's head like a bug buzzing around him.

Jerome carried on talking merrily, loading the pot with spices and chopped vegetables as he did. He gestured to Phil with one precise hand.

"I would suggest a better diet or exercise, but those things take time. " he said, sounding sympathetically disappointed, tapping a finger against his chin before he lit up and smacked his hands together, like he'd just have a brilliant idea." Oh I know, how about surgery? And to make that a little more modern, let's do it diy style. Why pay all those medical people lots of your good paycheck, when I can do it for you?" Jerome asked, leaning in over Phil's wide body, a square butchers knife in one hand that glinted in the cool light. The images surfacing to mind was beginning to make Phil shake all over.

"P-please! I didn't know she was your girl Mr. Valeska, I swear! " he cried out, desperate to be believed.

"Liar, liar pants on fire. I heard a different story see, one of your old pals couldn't wait to spill his guts when I mentioned you, oh no, By the way, he sends his regards. His last words were a little choppy, but he did mention wanting to go home to his mother, does that mean anything to you? Didn't think so." Jerome raised the knife again and approached Phil without pause, who had started to panic.

"Mr. Valeska, I have money – you can go empty my account, you can have all of it, I swear all of it just please don't-" he was cut off by Jeromes heavy groan, lowering the knife to rub at his forehead like he had a headache all of a sudden.

"I'm getting tired of that name now, for some reason. You know what that's like, words that leave a bad taste in your mouth like soap? Its that feeling I got." he muttered, before returning to the stove.

Phil thought that if he could distract him long enough, he might be able to ease up the ropes and escape. His bonds were starting to feel loose around the arms, but he still couldn't feel his legs.

"Hey boys, you want salt and pepper with your food? You'll need something to wash the pig down with so I put out vodka on the table."

"Is...is this a joke?"

"Hm. Say that again?"

"Is all this some kind of sick joke? You're not actually going to-"

"Joke. J. J, J, J, Jerome. Hmmm. Phil, I think you're on to something there. Too bad you can't come up with a last name, or else I wouldn't cut off your legs just yet. "

There was a pause, where Phil was trying to come up with a new thing to say, a new distraction for Jerome to chew on. But then Jerome gave him a strange smile, and delivered the punchline.

"Psych, I already did."

Phil's eyes widened, and he tried to look down at his legs. A blanket had been put over his knees, and quickly he shook it off as well as he could. When the blanket fell off, it revealed two messy stumps where legs should have been. It was a messy sight – far from a clean cut, his legs had been severed high above the knee, revealing a mess of jagged flesh underneath, the blood flowing freely and too much for any bone to be visible. Pus had gathered at the edges of his torn skin, and when he breathed, he realized that he could smell iron and his own flesh.


The masked animal people at the table were making wild noises now, as if unable to control their excitement.

It was enough to make Phil sick, and shortly after he leaned over to the side and puked on the floor. Meanwhile, Jerome was watching it all intensely – a bright, burning emotion in his eyes that went deeper than just pure amusement. His response to Phil's agony was one that was almost primeval – a strange purr reaching out of his chest, that slowly morphed into his own voice.

" Don't feel a thing huh? That's what I thought. Isn't it great what medicine can accomplice in this day and age?" he said, bending down to reveal a messy, yellow bucket containing both of Phils legs – some of it in pieces, but the feet were still mostly intact. Upon seeing this, Phil started to scream. It was quiet at first, but was quickly gaining in volume. His face had taken on a chalky pale color, one that Jerome distantly considered handsome.

"Ahh...Ahhh.."Phil moaned, his eyes wide and glassy, tear filled but no tears leaked down his cheeks, as if too afraid to leave his body. A darkened stain was growing on the hospital gowns nether region. How embarrassing. Jerome emptied the yellow bucket in one of the pots on the stove before putting it below the chair Phil was bound to. While doing so, he gave Phil an almost kind smile, as if he was being very generous.

"This is bound to get messier before we're through I'm afraid." he said gently, before picking up the butchers knife again. This time, Phil knew what was going to be cut off. Jerome was hesitating between two places – his gut and the place between his legs. Finally, he settled the knife tightly against his stomach. Right before he started, he leaned in to Phils face and whispered, as if to convey an embarrassing secret;

"Now about that surgery – it won't be quick and painless, because where's the fun in that? But I will make sure you are absolutely dead by the time I get to your face. Believe me, I know what it's like to lose it." he said very seriously. And with those final words, he began to saw downward through his gut, the knife so sharp it cut through the flesh like a weak rubber suit, catching on fat and muscle occasionally which made the knife jump, and made Jerome laugh with wild abandon.

The last thing Phil saw in his life was a toy carousel on the floor, spinning in circles that pulled him into oblivion.