He examined his crop. Wonderful. They were not pure, well not yet, but still so beautiful. Suxamethonium had at first seemed the perfect drug. Unfortunately, the paralysis effects were short and fatal. It was not that being fatal was an issue; it meant the process was over too soon. Then he saw the note. Just a small sheet of paper pushed under his door. Not through the letterbox as he might have expected, but under the door. The note had contained one word, ‘Tetrodotoxin’; it had been signed, ‘The Tall One’. Who, or what, The Tall One was, held no interest for him. What did interest him was the word. He had researched and then tried ‘tetrodotoxin’, but it too came with problems. It always came down to breathing, how to keep them alive and still but unable to move. After a failed attempt, he threw the idea away. Threw it into the wastebin of failed ideas. The following day another note had been pushed under his door. 

‘Sometimes, the old ways are the best’; it was, this time, just signed, ‘tTm’. He mulled the idea and decided that the note was correct. He had been striving for perfection, looking for the best solution to a problem he had created. Yes, he had wanted things to be perfect, but sometimes you can’t have what you want. You can’t always have what you want ringing through his mind, a lesson from childhood that he had forgotten. A song that the Stones would sing at the end of the decade. But, he thought, with just a slight variation from the Stones, sometimes you have what you need. He made his way to the workbench and his two subjects. The floorboards creaked as he walked, but the noise did not matter here. He had the perfect hiding spot. His bones could crack, the boards could creak, and his projects could scream. The outside world would hear none. He tightened the ratchet straps as the first subject groaned. 

He looked at his current crop, perfectly formed, wonderful! He pushed the hanging fishing line out of the way. The straps could have been better; they had previously caused problems. He’d had to pad each strap. Too tight, and it caused swelling; too loose, and the subject could move. A movement could cause cuts, and cuts were imperfections and were not to be tolerated. Bruising was also a problem, though much less of one. He had taken his time and padded the straps. Enough padding to still be secure, but it was soft enough to stop the worst of any bruising. He also needed to expand his workspace. Everything had to change just because he could not find the perfect drug! It was so infuriating. With drugs, he had been able to use a smaller area; with straps, he had to position his work in the most immodest positions. 

He ran his finger along the leg of one of the batch. Running it over her stomach, he leant over and looked into her eyes. There were, however, the upsides. The eyes, the window to the soul as it had been said, held no glassiness. With drugs, there had always been that vacant stare; worse, the eyes had rolled as he had peeled back the eyelids. But, with just bindings, he could see it all. He could see the despair in his prize’s soul. The fear burrowing away into their minds and tormenting their imagination. The best part of today? That he had two. “What do you want?” this one asked; they would always ask similarly. It was always the same. What do you want? Why am I here? What are you going to do to me? He ignored her questions as he started to clean and wash the crop, inch by inch, taking his time. He does so enjoy the process. He leaned over the body and placed his hand into the bowl of warm water that was ready for him. He had prepared and readied it just before. He squeezed the cloth in his hands and let the water flow through his fingers. He never once took his eyes from his prey, scanning their four eyes as his hands worked without visual direction. 

He ran the cloth along the naked body of his first victim. The girl tried to move, but the straps held it firmly. The skin and hair damped, and goosebumps plucked up along her flesh; he chuckled and asked, “Too cold, my dear?” He ignored what she said. Does a fisherman listen to the fish? Something else had caught his attention. “What is wrong with you?” he asked the second girl and made his way to the head of the table. He leant over the table and stared into her eyes; they were not what he had expected. She was not afraid. He had always seen fear in his crop’s eyes, in hers? He saw amusement. He asked, “And what, my dear, is so amusing?” She smiled a toothy smile back at him. “She is coming, and she can’t be stopped,” was all she said. She closed her eyes as she spoke and kept them closed. “Who? Who is coming?” he asked her. A moment of distress revealed itself in his otherwise calm voice. He stood upright and looked over at the door. 

The door stood locked and closed, just as he had left it. He would have heard if anyone were outside. He was alone; screams from inside did not matter. Sounds from outside were often just animals or passing cars in the distance. He considered going to check. He thought about opening the door and peering across the field, but what would have been the point? He knew he was alone. He could feel that he was alone. Save, of course, for his victims. He turned his attention back to the one who had spoken. She lay on the table, unable to move, with her eyes closed. “Who is coming?” he demanded to know. She lay there and said nothing; he grabbed her strapped head and pulled the eyelids open. Her eyes now displayed what he would have expected. She was terrified, eyes darting from side to side. The look of someone who knows not where they are nor what will happen. “Who is coming?” he shouted at her. She said nothing; she opened her mouth and screamed. 

It was a scream to pierce a lesser man’s eardrums. She had lungs and a scream that many her age did not possess. He let her scream; they usually scream it out and again start begging and pleading for freedom. She did not; she just kept on going. Breath after breath of screams that could have shattered a thinly blown glass. He tired of her noise after a while and reached onto the table. He was always prepared; he would never be caught out and had everything ready in the centre of the table. He grabbed the ball and then her face. He pushed his fingers into the joint on her jawbone, where the rear molars were. Her mouth was forced to open wide with the pain, and he shoved the cue ball into place as she opened. He had tried cloth and all kinds of rags for gags. He liked the ball. It was easy to clean, slipped into place nicely, and did not break. He turned to the second one and did the same. One with a white ball, and the other with a black one. They were both gagged and tied and ready for him to purify. 

 He watched the eyes, the life still shining so brightly from them. He continued to wash and start the cleansing process. He cleaned and then dried the places he did not want damp. The razor came next. With this, he had to be extra careful. In the early days, he had once cut a man doing this, which ruined everything. He had learnt to be patient and to take his time as he worked. That was one of the other reasons Suxamethonium had been problematic; different crops needed different doses. Have a crop wake and struggle whilst performing your art, causing you to ruin it! It was just not on. Did Da Vinci have to mess about with this nonsense? No, so why should he? He used the best shaving soap and always his own silvertip shaving brush. The excitement if he was caught, using his own brush! His shaving brush that he had also used on so many others and himself! Every time he shaved, he had the memories of his crops flooding back to him. He gently soaped the areas on the body with hair, leaving the pubic area until last. He enjoyed shaving there, but it had to come last. If the rest is perfect, that had to be better than perfect. “Now, to make you pure again,” he said with cheery happiness as he worked on the legs. 

The legs were the most tedious part. Straddled immodestly as they were. He hated the fact that he had to keep them that way. That was one reason he had looked for a medical solution. But still, beggars can’t be choosers. Straight and direct for the legs, something he had long mastered. The knees and ankles occasionally gave him some trouble, but he could get it done quickly enough. The arms and especially the armpits would take a little longer, but finally, he had them done. It was hard not to look into their eyes as he did it, seeing the fear and feeling the crops suffering. It leaked from them like a smell from an oven or the colour from a prism.  

Stop! Stop that. That is for later. 

Now onward to the part that he enjoyed. The part that gave him the biggest thrill. He covered the pubic area in soap once again and started. Gently going with the grain and slicing at every hair. It took him longer than all the other elements combined, but finally, he was done; it was perfect. As smooth as the skin of a perfect apple. He grabbed the talc and began to cover the bodies carefully. The white skin would be the final touch this time, living dolls! He went to the clothes rail and fingered through the dresses he had collected. He looked for the ideal match. He found just what he wanted; the colours were also correct, and the contrast would be magnificent. He lay the clothing beside his newly created dolls. Checking the sizing as he did so, trying to imagine what they would look like once he was completed. 

This was the part that he detested. It was not the taking of life that he hated, as he could not have given a damn about that. He wanted his prizes to be alive as long as possible. Using medication was supposed to have been the solution to that. Paralysing his victims so that they were malleable and alive for the longest of times. He fed on their fear; the terror turned him on, and having to kill them so soon took that from him. He pulled the liquid into the syringe, watching as it flowed and tapping the needle with his finger. He needn’t have bothered with the tap; it was a habit formed over the years. He moved to the first one, drove the needle into her neck, and pushed the plunger halfway. He then repeated the process on the second and placed the syringe on the table. It still hurt him to do this, to kill them now and not later. He had to do it as he was not one to take risks. The bodies quivered and pushed against the straps as the poison took hold. The life was draining from them, tremor by feverish shiver. 

Five minutes passed, and then he checked the pulses. Once satisfied, he removed them from the bindings, and they lay flat on the table. He pushed the beams that they had been straddled on to one side. They moved with effortlessness as he had built and designed them to do so. The bodies lay on the table motionless as he dressed them with the ease of an old mortician. Sliding the dresses onto them one by one, rolling them to the side and zipping the zip before laying them back on their backs. He then used his fabric brush to remove any excess talc before moving on to the next stage. 

He pulled a drawer under the table open and removed the needed items. A large needle, a hand-cranked drill, the moist towelettes he had imported from the USA, and a tub of PVA glue along with its brush. He placed the items on the table and checked to ensure the long thin drill bit was tight before moving to the hand. He cleaned the knuckles on the fingers and placed a dab of PVA on the centre one. He then picked up the drill and placed the bit in the middle of the PVA. Slowly he turned the handle. He had to move slowly to prevent too much damage, and as the bit turned, it soon found its way through the thin layer of skin. He could feel the drill biting through the bone as he used the handle. He held the drill steady as it cut through the bone and gristle of the finger, applying just the right amount of pressure as he rotated. 

Once through, he reversed the process, rotating the handle anti-clockwise gently and slowly to remove the bit from the finger. He had to move slowly for many reasons, the main one being to keep the PVA in place. The glue held most of the blood and made tidying his crop just a little easier. He moved on to the next finger and repeated his ritual. It took hours, but he was willing to spend the time. He needed the bodies to stiffen anyway; the time flew past as he drilled the 20 fingers. He threaded the fishing wire from the roof through the needle’s eye and set to work. He pushed the needle through the hole he had drilled and tied the wire once through. He then moved on, as he had done before with the drill, to the next finger. 

The fingers were as vital to him as the shaving of the hair. Unlike with the hair, he knew why the fingers were important. He grabbed the first body and carefully lifted her onto his shoulders. He had struggled with some of his victims and was grateful that she was petite and light. He sat her in position in front of the white background and stood back to admire her. She sat stiffly in the chair, and the contrast between the background and her dress and hair was marvellous. He moved to the other girl. Repeating his process and sat her on the floor next to her mate. Positioning them ready for his final act, he moved the legs and bodies, so they looked at each other. 

He took the fishing line and, standing on another chair, threaded it through the loops he had positioned in the roof. He pulled the line slowly until it was tight, hoisting the girl’s arms upright. He climbed down from the chair, repositioned the arms, and then climbed back up and tied the line off. He stood back to admire his creation. The two girls sat looking lustfully at each other. Elbows resting on their knees with twenty fingers standing upright. He smiled at the clothing he had picked; it was fantastic. He was admiring them when he saw the mark on the neck. He cursed himself for being heavy-handed with the needle as he headed back to the table. He grabbed the talc, returned to the girl, and used it to cover the mark. 

He stood back and looked again; this time, it was perfect; the mark had been completely covered. He had the Polaroid model 120 ready to go on its tripod, and he pulled it forwards and looked through the viewfinder as he clicked the shutter. He removed the developing photo and placed it on the table. He then returned to the camera, repositioned it and took another shot. With five shots taken, he returned to the table and waited for them to develop. He had grown used to this wait; he was a patient man. It was still an excruciating wait; he wanted to see his work in all its glory, captured forever in a photo. 

With the photos having developed, he looked them over with an excitable, eager eye. He was like many a teenager the time they found something pornographic. The excitement immersed him as he looked at his work on display. He smiled and chuckled as he fingered the photos, trying to decide what one to keep. He finally settled upon the third one and pushed the other four to one side. He would dispose of them later; for now, he had to complete his display. He turned to face the rear of the room and headed for the curtain there. The women’s bodies sat as they were. He cared no more for them than a junkie does the needle they have just discarded. 

The curtain flew back effortlessly without a squeak on the well-maintained rails, and eighteen other photos were pinned to the rear wall. Each was stuck with a pin in the two top corners to avoid ruining the photo. He took the two pins he had prepared earlier from the wall and stuck the photo with the others. His eyes wandered to his collection, starting with the man in the first photo. The man was positioned on all fours like an animal. It had been his boss; he held one finger in the air. The second was a young woman who held two fingers aloft. So on, and so forth to the final one with twenty fingers on display. It was only during his first that he decided to use fingers. He’d had to start finding multiple victims after reaching ten, and now he would have to find more! His hand wandered to his groin, and he held it there. Would the excitement ever tail off? He hoped not; it had not of yet. His hand trembled next to his awakening penis. He was getting excited for the next one already. He had only just finished this one. Then the noise from behind made him jump. 

Startled, he turned and looked at the other side of the room. His excitement had left him the instant the noise had occurred. He stood shocked; he knew he was alone, yet something pricked at the hair on his arms. Something or someone must be down here with him. It could have been rats or other vermin, but he was sure he had secured his workshop. He turned quickly to the door, and it was closed and secure. He looked back and then noticed something was different. One of the arms on his victims had fallen loose and was now hanging. He eyed it for a moment with suspicion and then went over to the bodies. He looked at the loose hand; all five fingers had slipped entirely free of the wire. He lifted the hand and turned it over; slight indentations were on the underside. It looked as if the arm had been pulled free. He examined the hand; as he looked, the other arm swung forward and grabbed him vice-like around the neck. He tried to scream, but the fingers were digging into his skin and the hand clamping tight. 

“Urgh,” escaped his mouth as the hand tightened. It was impossibly tight, tighter than he had ever experienced. It was inhuman. He fell to his knees and struggled with her hand. Pulling at it with both his hands, trying to pry the fingers free, but they refused to move even the tiniest of margins. He fell to his knees in the scuffle, and the other woman stood upright as he fell. One falling and one rising. She yanked and pulled the wire free from the ceiling as her partner held him by the neck. She then wrapped the line around his neck just above the clamping hand. The line was pulled taut, and he could feel it slicing into his neck as the woman relentlessly pulled. The woman continued to pull. His eyes slipped closed as the darkness overtook him. 

A tall man walked across a field and lifted a hatch in the centre. The hatch was covered with grass, but he knew where it was. He lifted the hatch and descended the wooden staircase into the passage below. He stood near the door and listened as he heard the Puppet maker, “urgh.” He smiled as he pushed the door open, the lock breaking as he pushed.