Victor's landlord said there was an envelope of cash in the office mailbox the first of every month. Quote: "I never heard a single complaint from the tenant in apartment 306, and nobody ever complained about him. He's the best tenant I've ever had." End quote.
Yeah, a landlord's dream: a paralyzed tenant with no tongue.
Who pays the rent on time.
I'm sick of all this waiting!
This is the job.
Why aren't we out there, huh? Why we gotta sit here, rotting, waiting until the lunatic does it again?
It's dismissive to call him a lunatic. Don't make that mistake.
Come on, he's insane. Look, right now he's probably dancing around in his grandmother's panties, yeah, rubbing himself in peanut butter. Ooh. How's that?
I don't think so.
His luck will run out.
He's not depending on luck. We walked into that apartment exactly one year after he tied Victor to the bed. One year to the date. He wanted us to.
Don't know that for sure.
Oh yes, we do. This note he left, his first words to us: "Long is the way, and hard, that out of hell leads up to light."
**** him. So what?
He's right so far. Imagine the will it takes to keep a man bound for a full year, to sever his hand and use it to plant fingerprints, to insert tubes into his genitals. This guy's methodical, exacting, and worst of all, patient.
He's a nut-bag! Just because the ****er's got a library card doesn't make him Yoda.
