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HANNIBAL CONDUCTS

Hannibal sat very still watching as the men stood in a circle arguing over the crate of wine.

"Why can't we drink it now? What's the harm? It isn't as if Chavez is coming."

Good. They all believe the texts have been coming from Chavez. The trap is set.

The information Hannibal had been providing led them to believe the dock approved the loaded containers for shipment. Though it was untrue, Mario assumed the harbormaster must have already been paid off. As long as the material was received on the other end, their work would prove to a very profitable venture. There was no more they need they believed. A celebration seemed perfectly logical.

Not suspect, but for practical purposes, Mario complained, "Because none of you have eaten and the catering company won't be arriving to set up the food for another hour. On an empty stomach you'll all be drunk before the food arrives."

Stroking his long greying beard as if the gesture might lend weight to his words, an old man offered, "So what if we are? Drunk tonight or not, the pallets have been loaded. The only thing left is to hook the last container up to the cab for transport and that isn't expected at the dock tonight. Tomorrow the drivers can leave bright and early. There is nothing more for the rest of us to do other than to break down the equipment and store it for future use."

Mario, hands folded defiantly across his chest argued, "I don't know about Chavez, but I don't want to deal with a bunch of you idiots puking tonight and stumbling around with hangovers tomorrow."

The old man continued, "Hangover or not, even a monkey could accomplish that much and anyone not man enough to hold his liquor doesn't deserve to call himself a man. We are not children. There are no nipples on those bottles and you are not our father. Chavez sent the wine. He didn't send instructions."

The old man ripped open the box and as he tugged a bottle from the parcel, he continued, "I haven't asked another man's permission to take a drink since my testicles dropped and I don't intend to wait for yours."

Mario wanted to wait for the meal, that was obvious, but was quickly overruled by the thirsty workers. Pushing him to the side the men ripped open the case and quickly withdrew several bottles. Though Hannibal had neatly affixed a corkscrew to the box within an ornately tied ribbon, none of the workers bothered to look at the carefully attached accouterment. Instead, they stood about, mouths agape, staring at the corks as if they'd come up against an unsolvable mystery.

Mario shoved them to the side, tugged the utensil from the parcel and began by opening the bottle for the old man.

"You speak of monkeys, but you fail to see that aside from you, they are all pathetic. So greedy for their share of the alcohol not one bothered to think that it would take more than your desperation to remove the corks from the bottles. I will open no more than six bottles now. That should be enough to quench your monstrous thirsts until the food arrives. Once the meal is served you can drown in the remainder for all I care."

Huddling in a herd they argued back and forth, and after much debate they finally agreed to follow Mario's suggestion. They would drink six bottles now and save the rest for the arrival of their meal. All work was suspended as they sat in a wide circle toasting the perceived success of their endeavor.

Barely attending to the action below, Hannibal sat very quietly. There was time to enter his memory palace. He indulged himself with a quick visit. Walking through the expansive halls he passed many rooms. Some contained pleasant memories, though not all. He passed an area he refused to enter. There were sounds. Great heaving noises where large monsters wrestled one another. Mighty sounding serpents crawled and twisted within. He moved quickly past. These were areas Hannibal would never go. He'd barred himself.

Instead he moved to another corridor. One with lights and sounds that were joyful, where his son played and his wife sang. He sought the door marked, MY LOVE. This room was now huge with great soaring ceilings and music reverberating within. Throwing open the doors he breathed deep. The scent was theirs. His favorite: the aroma of their lovemaking. He'd chosen to revisit the first evening he and Clarice had visited the opera in Buenos Aires. She was captivating. He'd purposefully taken her to see an opera he'd seen dozens of times, as the performance, for him, was secondary. He had no interest in the opera that evening. He wished only to watch her responses. He had purchased a private box for the season to avoid prying eyes and distractions. He closed his eyes and sat in the dark listening to Turandot, watching the love of his life. It was heaven. His mind continued running parallel to Chavez' production facility- he barely attended the drunken men. His mind's eye was elsewhere. He was elsewhere.

So lovely you are, my Clarice, the elegant line of your neck gently sloping toward your strong shoulders as if you were carved for me by the hand of God himself.

He had never felt the loving hand of God before. He'd felt the Deity's scorn, or perhaps it was his negligence, but, now, sitting within the box at the opera, he believed Clarice a gift from God himself. A request, perhaps, for forbearance, recognition that God had neglected Hannibal, injured him even. He didn't mind the years he'd walked in darkness now that he basked in her light. He'd been gifted this goddess…his Clarice. His wife. His lover. His family. He thanked God for this magnanimous gesture. His life, now, was perfection.

The men were drunk now, swearing and sloshing as they swilled from the bottles. Hannibal stepped back behind his eyes to join with his conscious mind once more. He didn't want his memories sullied by such belligerence. He would entertain the thoughts again when he joined his wife in bed. Such memories were calming. He would often hold her at night and join his past and his present. She made him complete.

Watching from his blind, Hannibal was now much more intrigued by the movement of the spider he'd sighted earlier. The animal stayed on the ground scurrying around the men's feet. There was no web.

Ah, not a weaver? Perhaps you are a ground arachnid? Yes, you are a fortunate find, my friend. After Mario's comments about my sex life I shall enjoy the irony.

Hannibal was thankful for the presence of the spider as now he had additional entertainment. He'd identified the area the spider seemed to prefer, a cracked timber in a dimly lit corner. The animal backed slowly into this darkened hiding place. It occasionally scuttled about on the floor, but each time it returned to the crack in the timbers.

Might you be there in tomorrow, little wanderer? Perhaps we will be friends?

After making certain the men had their fill of drink, each continually toasting Chavez for his generosity, Hannibal retreated. The caterer would be arriving with the food and Hannibal preferred the company of his own family for dinner. This situation was costing him precious time with his son. He begrudged the lost hours with his family. They would pay.

Stopping a final time at the stall he confirmed the needed equipment, along with a growing pile of refuse, remained in place. He would have the benefit of surprise for only a few seconds after which he would be forced to trust the men would follow the directions he would provide under the guise of Chavez. Everything would have to be perfectly placed.

Mario is independent and might not be as easily led. He may prove troublesome.

Hannibal was now behind the wall of the main area. Though he remained in full darkness he could see the men clearly through the slatted wood panels of the wall. One of the men stood. He was particularly brutish in appearance. Squat and hairy, his arms seemed too long for his body. Hannibal peeked through the thin strips of roughened boards making up the wall. Here he could both watch and listen to the conversation as he gathered tools. He could smell the man's approach.

Mario's voice boomed, "Where are you going. Peter?"

"To take a piss. What? Do you want to hold my dick for me?"

Dick? Hannibal winced. You are a very poor excuse for a man.

Seeing the man was staggering about in a drunken stupor, Mario corrected, "You drunk idiot! The bathroom is the other way."

Waving him away, Peter stumbled toward the door, steadying himself by gripping the handle, countering, "Not that it's your business what I do but I'm going to piss outside."

"Just because you look like a fucking Neanderthal doesn't mean you have to act like one. Piss in the bathroom like an adult you disgusting bastard."

Off-balance, the man tugged the door intending to exit but couldn't get the door open. Instead he was forced to reach for the wall planting his hand mere inches from the exact spot where behind Hannibal stood. The good doctor closed his eyes. He could smell the stench of urine on the man.

Your undergarments are already damp. Better hurry or you'll ruin my plans.

Hannibal reached for a shelf and grabbed a large industrial electrical cord. As the man spoke, Hannibal used his Harpy to very slowly carve the sheathing from the cord, exposing the wiring beneath. He gathered all of the shavings careful not to let any fall to the ground.

I shall meet you outside. Let us see if you change your mind and thus redeem yourself or if your rudeness costs you your life.

The man stared at the door for a long moment as if trying to figure out exactly how to operate the exit. He was still irate that Mario would dare to question him, admonishing, "Why is it your business where I piss? It's a cool night. So what if I want to air it out a little bit."

The men laughed. The old man, his head and shoulders shaking with laughter, mocked, "If what your wife says is true, it's a very little bit."

Peter grabbed an empty bottle and hurled it at the wall. As the glass shattered, he waved his arms and stumbled, screaming, "Why don't you all go fuck yourselves!"

Unaffected by the reaction, in fact entertained by the man's anger, Mario taunted, "If we could fuck ourselves, we wouldn't need your wife!"

He then pressed one finger on the door that Peter had been desperately pulling at. With just this slightest touch, the door opened with ease.

Realizing Peter had been tugging on the door with all his might when the mere press of a finger opened it, the men roared with laughter, some falling to the floor holding their sides as Peter pushed himself out through the door.

On the other side of the wall Hannibal followed. Racing through the back corridor of the building, without stopping or slowing, he grabbed a galvanized bucket that had been hanging from the cell. Still at a dead run he began unfurling the coiled extension cord.

Hopefully your drunken state will buy me precious seconds.

Most likely in an effort to avoid splash-back Peter paced outside for a few moments kicking at the rocks on the ground. Seeking an acceptable spot to relief his bladder he unzipped his fly and began turning in ever-tightening circles like a dog preparing to bed down for the night.

Time of the essence, Hannibal dashed along the exterior of the building careful to keep close to the wall. While running, he snapped open his Harpy and continued to deglove the outer sheath baring an even larger section of wire in the center of the cord.

All is nearly ready, my friend. Take your time. There is no hurry.

Aware his movements would be detected if he were not conscious of his body moving through space he squatted low. Walking on his haunches he remained close to the ground and edged ever nearer. His target: a heavy-duty outlet servicing the exterior of the building. Reaching the plug, he quickly slotted the cord into the receptacle and stepped back.

That done he dipped the bucket in a water trough and set it down as the man tugged himself free from his trousers. Hannibal pressed himself low. Planking, he tilted his head, cheek almost level with the ground as he calculated the slope of the terrain like a caddy lining up a shot. Satisfied, he straightened himself, lifted the bucket and tilted it very slowly as he meticulously poured. Having been methodical in his measurements, the fluid followed the expected path and began streaming toward Peter, now in full flow.

Excuse the additional fluid. Unless your member is as thick as your neck your urine will offer needed salinization but won't provide sufficient conductivity.

Waiting, Hannibal held the chord careful to not only attend to the exposed wire, but to stay away from the wet ground.

The water reached Peter's feet within seconds and began pooling around his shoes.

Peter's urine stream began to sputter, the man groaning as he bounced on his heels to shake the last drops from his phallus.

Hannibal cleared his throat. Peter turned, still urinating, as Hannibal spoke, "Was there a problem with the plumbing that you feel the need to pollute the environment with your waste?"

Peter's mouth dropped open, his fountaining penis still in his hand, he stumbled forward, one foot landing squarely in the bucket.

"You're…You're…"

"I'm Hannibal Lecter and you are Peter, I think. I must say you might at least tuck that pathetic excuse for manhood in your trousers. I'm offended by the discourtesy of your actions. When you see him, please give my regards to Chavez."

Looking around as if the man were in the immediate area, Peter questioned, "Sure...why? Where is he?"

With a malevolent wink, Hannibal hissed, "In Hell."

With that, the good doctor tossed the stripped section of the exposed extension cord into the metal bucket still partially filled and surrounded by the puddle of water.

The arcing electricity surged through Peter's system. He shook in place for several seconds, dancing like a puppet on a string until the spasms knocked him off his feet. Splayed on the ground in a puddle of water and waste the open circuit surged sending relentless paths of electricity racing along the man's nerve endings.

Burning flesh and singed hair have a very distinctive scent. Not one to Hannibal's taste per se, but as he ran from the area he enjoyed sensory output nonetheless.

Until the next chapter, my friends,

LH