He'd had big plans before his arrest. Was only months away from creating the altar,

a shrine to behold from an opulent black throne

through the yellow contact lenses he'd wear when hunting, a place to remember and be remembered,

revered by the underworld.

To display the skeletons he so diligently liberated from the guck in his barrel.

Not an easy task, though he'd never complain about the work, the process. Of course many had

complained about the smell but in a rundown area like the one he'd chosen to

trap his prey nasty odors were commonplace.

He'd been free to pursue his human experiments behind the door of apartment 213, drilling holes

in the heads of his comatose captives, injecting hydrochloric acid, boiling water on at least one occasion, with a baster, into the matted blood-ringed opening he bore in an effort to create a zombie.

A living breathing yet thoughtless companion who would never think to leave,

because they've been rendered and capable of thought.

Something that would always be there when he returned from long shifts at the chocolate factory,

some naked thing and different and helpsly available.

Bumping into walls, defecating on the couch, eating handfuls of dirt from the potted plants.

He'd have gladly put up with that odd behavior in exchange for something to come home to,

a thing that wouldn't prior to ban anything of them, and with which he can satisfy himself at will.

All without the efforts he'd sloppily employed near the end, well, completely wasted.

But these trials, these experiments, had all failed.

One young man came to life after the drilling procedure and offered a moment's hope,

had asked numbly what time it was before lapsing back into a fitful slumber,

then eventually escaping the apartment through death,

...