II: Strap

The night that Bro took him home, Dave learned his name was Derrick. He also learned to never call him Derrick unless he wanted to be handed the chore of cleaning blood off of Lil Cal’s suit jacket. Lil Cal was that stupid puppet that had been on the TV while Bro listed the rules of his traps. The puppet always gave Dave the creeps, and his nightmares got worse that night.

Maybe Dave should’ve thought much harder, and much longer, about accepting Bro’s deal. He didn’t even give it a day to sleep on it. The man told him all about his ideas for how Dave could fit into his plans and he barely gave it a beat before basically throwing his cards down on the table and screaming “Sign me up!”. In actuality it was much less obvious and obnoxious, closer to a “Sure, dude.”

All Dave had to do was stalk people of interest, take photos of them, and occasionally help Dirk and Bro test things with their trap prototypes. The demands didn’t seem all that taxing, and the storage closet across the hall from his new bedroom could easily be turned into a dark room for his new job. Dave had an eye for photography as far back as he could remember- which wasn’t very far- but passing a highschool photography class was a sign of interest to him. He’d even bought his own camera out of pure impulse.

Unfortunately, Bro didn’t exactly have any potential victims, or at least ones he trusted in Dave’s hands, yet. So, that left Dave in Dirk’s personal section of the workshop the next morning. Bro had said something as he sent Dave on his way, but he hadn’t been paying much attention.

Down the dingy hall, and past a few shut doors, was a room more akin to a garage than anything else. The cold cement floors were incredibly clean, though. Dave could only pick out imperfections that were scrapes left from moving something heavy.

“There you are. I was waiting for you. Some sort of late riser?” Dirk’s voice cuts the silence.

Dave shrugs his shoulders. “Somethin' like that. I did get kidnapped pretty late.”

“You knew this was coming up last night and you didn’t think to set some sort of alarm?”

Dave frowns. Did Dirk really have to antagonize him first thing in the ‘morning’? “You didn’t exactly give me a time to be here? I just went to see Bro as soon as I was up, and he pointed where he wanted me.”

“Whatever, sit.” Dirk moves to the left, and Dave finally notices the machine that had been slightly body-blocked.

The rig is massive and reminiscent of an electric chair, but it’s also clearly haphazardly thrown together from some 2x4 planks someone swore they should keep “just in case” and gutted sofa cushions. Two drills sit, poised, on both sides of the head rest. Inferrably, they’re meant to eventually close in and turn the brain between them into scrambled eggs.

“I can see the drills, Dirk. You’re not bein’ slick if you’re tryin’ to kill me on my first day.” But, Dave still sits.

If he had to guess from Dirk’s hostility, then the man hadn’t sanded down the splinters on purpose. Tiny wooden spikes stab into his arms as Dirk straps him down by the wrists, and cuffs a leather band around his neck. He was kept pressed against the equally dangerous chair backing. Maybe the cushioning was actually the cotton candy found between walls: it looks fluffy, but damn does it hurt.

“I mean-” Dave’s eye twitches as Dirk invades his personal space even further, leaning over him to fix something with the angle of the headrest. “Like I know Bro’s not in the room right now, but it’s not the time to pull out and show off your massive murder boner.”

“I should tape your mouth shut,” Dirk muses. “It’s not like I need your opinion, and it’s not live, Dave. I’m just testing the restraints. The last thing we want is for someone to magically slip out all because I didn’t tighten the damn seat belt.” He pulls the restraints at Dave’s wrists slightly tighter. Enough that he can't feel his fingers.

“Then maybe get rid of the straps? Find a replacement?” It wasn’t meant to be real advice, but Dave can feel the second Dirk realizes his idea just might be a good one.

He’s left in the chair while the other man abandons him to lean over his workbench, posture tight as he scribbles and sketches on his current project’s pages. “Metal cuffs could add a harsher chafing factor too.” Dirk mutters to himself, probably finding that adding another sadistic edge to the design might help with the visual appeal and the effectiveness.

“I think the splinters are helpin’ with that already.” Dave laments. The scrapes on his arms stand to testify in his favor. “How long do I have to sit in this thing?”

“As long as it takes, and it’s not a thing. It’s called the Drill Chair, and it’s a modern day Michelangelo… Right up there with the Sistine Chapel ceiling and Risen Christ. That is, as much as tools for improvised lobotomies can be considered works of art. Which, they are- they are.” Dirk adjusts his triangular sunglasses, dismisses any of Dave’s attempts to prove him wrong before they come with a point of his pencil tip, and inhales as he continues. “I consider all traps art. I mean, don’t you see me sketching here? If you can’t appreciate the art of the trap, then you should make yourself scarce.”

Dave isn’t focused on Dirk’s eccentrics, more so the use of the term “lobotomy”. It goes without saying that he’d rather not get some kind of major brain surgery in an abandoned butchery. At least, not today. He could stand to go a few more months or years without removing his frontal lobe- or whatever it was that happened during those procedures. He somehow doubted that this thing was even aimed at said lobe. Talk about a knock-off. “I don’t know what all you just said, but I don’t really want a lobotomy..?”

Suddenly, the drills whirr to life on either side of Dave’s head. “You said it’s off.” But, he wouldn’t put it past the fan boy to lie to him. “What did I just tell you about killin’ me day one?”

Dirk doesn’t react, and Dave stares at the back of his head.

His eyes flick down at his restraints, testing them, and digging his nails into the chair's arm rests. Too tight. Dirk had just tightened them.

Are there rules? Do unfinished, unfinished, traps have rules? Do unfinished traps have solutions?

“Dirk-”

Dirk doesn’t react as he holds a little remote in the air. With a click, the drills spin faster.

Dave kicks his feet up, but the other apprentice is just barely out of range. “Dirk-”

The drill bits aren’t nearing, though. It’s been half a minute. They spin, but they stay a few feet away.

Dave squeezes his eyes shut and sighs. As he relaxes his hands, splinters from the chair remain in his fingers. “You fuckin’ asshole.” He murmurs, fighting against the band on his neck to slowly tilt his head down until his chin hits his chest. Dave sighs as relief fights adrenaline, and leaves his body confused.

Dirk ignores his words, but at least he speaks at all. “Bro told me I couldn’t put you in mortal danger just yet. It is off. If the machine was on, then the drills would be closing in. I’m just checking that they trigger at the same time.” There’s something underneath his words that Dave can’t name.

“You talk like a cartoon villain.” Dave blurts. He can barely hear himself over the electric whirring near his ears. “Sorry, I mean- this just feels really… I dunno, supervillain?”

Dirk pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering about how Bro made a horrible mistake. Dave can only guess that he is the mentioned mistake.

“Okay, so it’s just me who thinks that? The whole ‘traps are art’ monologue…” He anxiously glances between Dirk, who's straight ahead, and the drills that slowly power down after another click. “No..? Well, either way you’re obviously on some sort of sadist streak or a power trip since the chain of command here got shaken up a little bit, but you don’t have to hate me so much and try to kill me. You already got your chance. There’s no second chances when it comes to attempted murder.” It perturbed Dave, being so disliked right out of the gate. “I mean, if there’s anythin’ I can do in particular to get you to be a little nicer, just name your price. I’m goin’ to be here for the predetermined future and like- I’m willin’ to sweep last night under the rug. Those words were really hurtful, you know? Didn’t your Daddy teach you how to play nice? Didn’t Bro say somethin’ about us havin’ to play nice?-”

“You could always go find something better to do.” Dirk turns, finally tearing his eyes away from his blueprints in order to shut Dave up.

It doesn’t really work. “Unlike you, I’ve not been here long enough to know how things work. I don’t exactly know when the mini-golf, or whatever, is scheduled in this damn Country Club. Bro said to help you, so I’m helpin’ you.”

Dirk rolls his eyes as he steps back from his designs. Dave shrinks up the closer he gets to the chair, only relaxing when the other man starts loosening the straps. “Well lucky for you, I’ve decided that I don’t need your help anymore. You can leave.”

Newly freed, Dave rubs at his wrists, and then his throat. Both areas feel unnecessarily tight, like the leather straps had gripped his skin with enough force to shrink-wrap it around his blood and bones. There were indented marks left just under the heels of his palms. “Oh great. Now I have to find my own entertainment because you’re kickin’ me out, aren’t you?”

Dirk says nothing, simply pointing at the door. The ”get lost” was already implied.

“Good. I didn’t want to be in here with your torture chair anyway,” Dave huffs.

Even if he really doesn’t know his way around yet, finding Bro’s office is easy. It’s the heart of the building, centralized and full of importance.

Importance apparently shares a striking resemblance to a bunch of loose papers, mechanical pieces, tools, and dark monitor screens. “Bro?” He calls, standing in the doorframe. The light is on, but nobody seems to be home. “Bro-” Dave steps past the threshold and up to the plush desk chair, turning it to be met with Lil Cal. Bright blue eyes stare into his soul, making him shiver. “I literally hand-washed you last night… don’t look at me like that.”

The puppet ends up shoved out of the chair and onto the floor for Dave to steal its place upon cushioned leather. “Creepy ass. Of all the things a guy could mysteriously be fixated on: a fuckin’ whack-ass puppet.”

Cal’s eyes seem to stare at him from the floor, causing Dave to slowly kick it under the desk and out of sight. He can almost hear that dreadful HEEHEE HOOHOO.

“None of that, thank you. Now, if I were a serial killer, where would I put my super-duper secret plans that I’d be really proud of my new apprentice for doin’ for me while I’m away...” He trails off as he jiggles the mouse, watching nine different screens all light up.

Unfortunately, the computer is locked by a password, so Dave has to rule out checking the one place he actually expected to find something. There’s nothing in the papers, either, just sketches. Something about filling a pit in the ground with needles catches Dave’s eye and he whistles, the noise low. “Fuck jumpin’ into that…” It wasn’t like he was worried about all the little pinpricks, more so the sheer amount of syringes that’d probably be stuck to the victim after.

With everything on the left side of the desk being a bust, Dave turns to the right. There’s electronics scattered about, some with their guts exposed as if caught in the middle of surgery. Among the scrapped bits and pieces lies a classic Game Boy Advance with the back torn off, but the battery still in place. After a little fiddling, the Tetris theme greets Dave’s ears and he hums along.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat down to fiddle with something that wasn’t a lighter and spoon. Not that there hadn’t probably been times that he had, there were just none that he could recall. Dave’s thumb certainly remembered the flick and burn of a lighter.

Time wastes away as Dave just can’t sit still as he plays. Row after row of colored blocks clear, and his shoes keep bouncing against the floor in time with the music.

He’s so absorbed that he doesn’t notice a shift in the air around him. The first time it happens, he acknowledges nothing and nothing responds back. The second time, a hand lands on top of his head and flattens his greasy, blond mop.

Dave pushes away any pressing thoughts about taking a shower to look up and check who decided to pester him. The motion only makes the hand squish his hair further down to the point it covers his eyes, making it harder to see.

“Dave?” It’s not Dirk. Even if they sound similar, Dave could already pick between them in a lineup. Bro retracts his hand, an eyebrow raised. “The fuck are you doing in my chair? I thought I left Cal there. What’s he doing on the desk?”

That couldn’t be right. If Dave’s memory didn’t fail him, which if often did, he threw the creepy thing onto the floor when he waltzed into the office earlier. His eyes weren’t deceiving him when they slowly slid to follow Bro’s gaze, though. Lil Cal sat upright and proud at the other end of the desk. Puppets didn’t move. The only thing that made sense was that he misremembered.

“Thanks, drugs.” Dave mutters, which earns him another questioning look. “Forget it. Hah- that’s my motto, at least- I was lookin’ for you, Bro. Dirk basically told me to ‘go on and git’”—he exaggerates his accent, even though Dirk lacks one to begin with—“so I wanted to see if you had anythin’ you wanted me to do… You just weren’t here, so naturally, I snooped a little bit.” Dave snaps his jaw shut, grinding his rotten teeth hard enough to hurt. Was he trying too hard to suck up and earn brownie points? Maybe, but good things go to those who kiss ass.

“There’s nothing you could snoop into…” Bro’s level tone feels like a threat. “I told you I was going to your old apartment to pack everything up this morning.”

“Did you?” The question is genuine.

“Some motto of yours, huh?” Bro muses.

Dave glances away, eyes cast down at his shoes. “Well, I-”

Bro’s hand rising between them cuts Dave off. “Let’s follow it. Forget it. I don’t really care.” He makes a so-so motion. “I see you found my Game Boy. I was trying to find a way to rig it into a bomb.” Of course he was. He’s a psychotic genius. Why wouldn’t Bro rig a handheld game to explode? “You can keep it if you want, I’m not really too attached to the idea. It just became simple busy work in a sea of the rest of the work that keeps me busy.” Bro motions for Dave to get out of his chair before taking his place.

Dave finds a new spot to sit on the edge of the desk- far from Lil Cal- tilting his head to get a better view of the monitors next to him. This is his chance to find something to do that hopefully isn’t a second round with Dirk. The drills might move next time. “Like..?” He doesn’t manage to catch Bro's password as the man logs in, but he banks on the possibility of an opportunity for him to find out later down the line.

“Plushrump.com, my magnum opus.”

“First Dirk waxes poetic about his shit, now you…” It must’ve been where the other apprentice got it from. ”Weird name aside, the fuck is it?” Dave was getting a little too comfortable as he idly kicked his feet where they hung off the edge of the desk.

“Originally, I showcased puppet snuff. I’ve since taken the liberties of using live subjects instead. Those who need our help.” As Bro types and clicks to pull up the webpage, all of the monitors sync. “You’re on here.”

The webpage is a total neon-orange and black eyesore, but Dave can appreciate the design. Lil Cal’s face is plastered almost everywhere, including a looping GIF of him on that retro TV screen. He’s thankful that the godawful doll is on the opposite side of the desk.

Dave looks away, if only so he doesn’t have to see Cal on every screen. “Am I?”

“Oh yeah. Dirk came up with a high quality title and everything.” Bro logs in with a single touch of a button, and Dave’s no computer whiz, but he can only guess it triggers some program to do it for him. It takes maybe three clicks to pull up the video in question.

“So that’s where it goes after you record it.” Dave hums. He sees himself, a filthy mess, centerframe. It’s just the same thing he recounted, and watched last night. His eyes flick down to the mentioned name. “Uh- I wouldn’t say ‘Blond Twink Survives Brutal Oral Treatment’ is a high quality title, let alone any other measure of quality that isn’t ‘dogshit’, Bro.”

“Fuck are you on about? It’s a great title.” Just like last night, Dirk manages to walk in and ruin everything. “Every title is meant to sound like a bad porno. It’s part of the brand.” He holds rolled papers, shoving Dave aside to smooth them out over the desk top. Hostility would be a recurring theme, apparently. “Look at this, Bro-”

Dave huffs as he realizes he’s being silently told to “get lost” again. He got here first, Bro was talking to him first. Where did Dirk get off on butting in? “Right, I know when I’m not wanted.” He waits a beat, and upon realizing that the two have started ignoring him, his face falls. “It was supposed to be a joke, damn.” Tough day at the office.

Dave rounds the two and heads for the door, only looking back over his shoulder to hear Dirk rambling. “-change the leather to metal then things would be a lot more secure.”

He decides quickly that he's heard enough, and shuffles into the hall. “Fucker could have at least credited me. I suggested it, asshole...” Dave drags his feet. The longer the walk to his new bedroom takes, the more time he has to nearly trip or stumble. Thankfully, he’s scrapeless by the time the door is shut behind him. It doesn’t lock, and he was only scrapeless if he didn’t count the splinters that were still in his skin from before.

Dave tosses his new Game Boy on the mattress in the corner before sitting on the floor amongst boxes that weren’t there earlier in the day. He should definitely unpack.

Thankfully, Bro had the bright idea to label each box: Necessities, Trinkets, and Miscellaneous.

The room is bare besides the mattress, blood-stained desk, and a giant drain in the center of the floor. The thought of animal carcasses being hung up at some point in the past has Dave looking to the ceiling for evidence of hooks, and there’s two high up in opposite corners; they’d probably be perfect for stringing up some photos later down the line.

Though, nothing really implies that the blood is animal. Unless he asks, there’s no way for Dave to tell if one of Bro’s tests are to blame for the long-dried puddles. He elects to throw a towel over the drain and large stains. Out of sight, completely out of his mind.

Eventually, Dave has almost everything out of the boxes, and all he’s left with is the struggle of spreading his sheets over the bed whilst kneeling on them. Certainly not his smartest moment, but nothing else came to mind as evidence of something stupider.

Except heavy drug use.

Dave frowns as he gives up on the comforter. It wasn’t like things had to be perfect anyway, he put up with just a dirty blanket the previous night. He’d put up with less many nights before that.

The mood picks up when Dave finds his sunglasses and camera in the Necessities box. The aviators sit right on his face where they belong, and he pokes at all the camera buttons, smiling when it shows it’s at half battery. He spins on his heels, snapping a quick freeze frame of his newly decorated room. If a messy bed and drawers full of clothes count as decoration.

He sets the camera on the corner of the desk near the Game Boy, flopping backwards onto the bed with pure boredom. Big mistake on Dave’s part, because his back pressed against the bed makes all the splinters noticeable again. He swears under his breath as he pulls his shirt off and lays it out in front of him.

Each little wooden spike is plucked by Dave’s brittle, uneven fingernails: both the splinter and his finger tips stained with blood. He hadn’t noticed that he’d dragged his fingers through the arm rests in his struggle.

Dave doesn’t bleed, the punctures left are too small for that, but the red dots well up to the surface in a pattern that mimics the freckles on his skin. They’re tender too, stinging every time he pinches too close to thin hairs.

When he’s at least 90% sure that he’s gotten all of them, Dave gets up to dump them all down the hidden, large drain. He huffs as he pulls a new shirt out of his drawers, and decides to leave his hair tousled and messy. He’s been in worse shape.

“Dave.” Fuck, there’s that voice again. He turns to the now-open door when called. “I like what you’ve done with the place-”

The words were like magic, holding Dave’s attention like a moth to flame. Bro approved of his new room, and the way he’d placed everything. He hadn’t felt in-home approval in so long, preening with the realization that a ready source stood right next to him- living in the same place as him.

“-noticed that you walked off earlier.”

Dave blinks. “Sorry, repeat that last bit? I wasn’t listenin’...” He regretfully admits.

Bro doesn’t give any indication on if he’s upset at the notion that his new apprentice was ignoring him. He simply obliges. “I was chatting with Dirk, but it only took a few minutes, and I noticed you wandered off. I was in the middle of showing you Plushrump, right?”

Dave nods. “Sounds right.”

“Come on.” Bro tilts his head back, motioning towards the hallway. Dave follows like a lost duckling. “As I was trying to explain earlier before you decided to leave, Plushrump.com is where Dirk and I upload edited recordings of the traps in action.”

Dave chooses not to comment on the fact that he had announced his exit, in what he would consider pretty dramatic fashion, and Bro hadn’t batted an eye. “Right. Like my beartrap… what about wire-maze-guy?”

“Him too. Now-” Bro motions at his monitors, and takes a seat in his office chair. “-this is the backbone of our entire operation. These are the basics that I should’ve told you last night. I could tell something you wanted to ask me from the moment you walked through the Butchery front: How do you fund all of this, Bro? Helping people costs a lot of money. How do you pay for it all?”

Dave stays silent. He hadn’t actually thought about that before, but money does make things happen- he can attest to the fact, actually.

“It’s simple. Some people out there are willing to pay a hefty sum for their gore torture fantasy. Now and then, some people want something custom. I’m a little less willing to give up Dirk and I’s creative liberties, but sometimes it’s doable. Someone says ‘try a motorized drill to the skull’, I tell Dirk, and we make shit happen for the right price. We help people, and make enough to keep doing it.”

Shit, does Dave get paid for any of this? It wasn’t included in the terms and conditions, but then again there was no outlined contract in the first place. “If you’re makin’ money off it, does that mean I’m like… a porn star? Snuff star? Shit, am I gonna get paid?” He voices the questions as soon as they come to mind so that Bro can tell he’s been listening.

They walk past the office into an area that looks like a poor impression of a home. It’s like someone just slapped an IKEA furniture display in the middle of a dingy factory. Bro is unreadable as he approaches a brown-stained fridge, and grabs an orange soda from inside. “Think of your position as… an internship.”

“So that’s a no..?” Dave fishes for more, but the mock set up around them holds his attention more than the conversation does.

“It’s a ‘not right now’. You don’t even need money when staying here, so I really don’t see a p-”

“What is this supposed to be?” Dave cuts Bro off, motioning at the room. When he’s not interrupted in return, he continues. “Playin’ house in your murdershop? The more I see of this place, the more it feels like a glorified man cave.”

“I told you to not interrupt me last night.” There’s importance behind his words like Dave should remember them. “But, it’s not a man cave. You know, I’m trying to lay out more of the basics for you that I didn’t get to last night.”

“Could’ve done it this mornin’.”

“I was busy clearing out your apartment and faking your disappearance.”

“Well, you could’ve been givin’ me a tour instead- now couldn’t you, Bro?”

The back and forth ends as the aforementioned man cracks open the can in his hands. He stares at Dave, eyes boring into his through two layers of tinted glass. “Fine. I can give you a tour.”

Shit. Dave was losing brownie points, wasn’t he? “Not that I’m unappreciative of you gettin’ my things for me, Bro! Trust me, I am, I am-” He steps back, hands held up defensively. “-thank you for doin’ that for me. But, I just think maybe we should’ve done all this before?”

“Ha.” Bro tilts his head back as he sips. “You say that as if you weren’t catatonic after having to spend a bit of time with Lil Cal. Couldn’t’ve explained more to you if I tried. Oh wait, I did.” He punctuates his sentence by clicking his tongue. “Had to send you to bed after. You’re really scared of him, aren’t you?”

This wasn’t the direction the conversation was supposed to go. Dave was expecting things to end with him getting shown around like they’d talked about, not feeling more intimidated by his new mentor than before. He stays quiet. If he opens his mouth now, he’ll most likely say something wrong.

“Yeah, you are. Cal freaks you the fuck out.” Bro leans closer, tapping Dave’s boney bicep with the side of his can. The tension dissolves as he laughs. That has to mean something good, right?

Dave awkwardly chuckles along, nodding his head at a slow and unsure pace. “Yeah, he’s one creepy guy... who I think might move on his own, but-”

“I thought you were staying out of the drugs, Davey.”

Oh. Bro’s fucking with him, isn’t he? First Dirk, now Bro. Dave’s not been around long enough to properly decipher either of them yet. “I am, but seriously he-”

“I’ll spare you the misery.” Bro claps Dave on the shoulder, steering him out of the kitchen. “Let’s walk and talk. You’ll get your tour and the spiel of everything we had to forgo last night.”

Dave could agree to that. His feet took him wherever Bro led. Which was only two feet to the left, already visible thanks to the open floor plan of the space, and reminded Dave of a living room. The futon looked disgusting, oil stains ruining what was probably once a cream fabric.

“Went over Plushrump earlier… ah. The teeth. That was the kitchen, obviously. Dirk does grocery runs once a week. This is just… the living room. You’ve noticed this is both our base of operations and home already, yes?”

“I- yeah, I did. What’s this about ‘the teeth’, though?”

“I was getting to that, just let me finish labeling shit first. You wanted a tour.” Bro points out a storage closet near the corner of the room. “That’s where Dirk keeps all of the cleaning supplies. Might have you help him with cleaning until we can properly get you working.” He turns Dave by the shoulder, forcing his apprentice to look at him. “Okay. The teeth.”

Did he have to say it like that? Dave knew they were a mess: yellowed, and full of cavities from bacteria and sugar eating away at the enamel. “My teeth.” He reaffirms, waiting for Bro to continue.

“I might know a guy to help with all that. Have you ever heard of veneers?”

Dave squints behind his sunglasses. “I can’t say that I have.”

“Well, you better find the time to read up because it’s either that or dentures.” Bro drags both his soda and Dave out into the hallway. “Main hall. You can only access the basement through my office.”

“Dentures?” It was hard having to backtrack the conversation, but Dave was warned to not interrupt. “I’ll pass on dentures.”

“You’ll get whatever it is you need. I’d rather not have my new apprentice falling apart at the seams. I said I’d provide you with healthcare, and dental is part of that.” Something in Dave’s chest preens with pride as Bro stares at him for a second. He must show it on his face, because the other man raises an eyebrow over the top of his shades. “I should probably get you checked for diseases like rabies, or something, while I’m at it.”

“Oh, please. Of all the things I’ve had, rabies isn’t one of them.”

“Right. I bet.” They stop outside of Dirk’s workshop, Bro leaning slightly to try and listen for what might be happening on the other side of the door. “...Drills. Good. Anyway, I sleep on the futon in the living room, Dirk has his room through his garage. Your room, and the locked ones, were for trap storage and tests.”

That answers one small mystery. “So, I should assume the blood on the floor was people?”

“More than likely.” Bro walks further down the hall, pushing open a set of double doors. “This is my main tinkering space, and also the main entrance of the entire building. Faces out into the shitty parking lot.”

Dave knows that Bro knows his next question already.

“You’re not a prisoner here, Dave. You can walk out whenever you want.” It doesn’t feel true, but there’s not a single hint in Bro’s demeanor that says his words are false. “I just think you’ll like it better here with me and Dirk than out there.”

Dave sets his hand on the large bar that, when pushed inward, would let the door swing out and open. Bro doesn’t move, just watches.

“I mean, where would I even go..? You already stole all the shit from my apartment, I don’t have any real friends or family to crash with, my wallet is kind of missin’, and you’re not payin’ me-” He turns, and his head tilts downward so his bare eyes can make contact with Bro’s shades. “-Be honest. Where would I go?”

“You went to the police once, you could do it a second time. Could tell them all about how I contacted you again, then you took another visit to Jigsaw’s Workshop. You know my name, and you know of Dirk. That’s more leads than the police have gotten the entire time they’ve had a case on us.” Bro’s schooled expression is impossible to read as he trails off.

Does he want Dave to run? Is this a test? If he opens the door, are there shotguns wired above it outside- all primed and ready to riddle him with holes from the top down?

Dave pulls away, and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “No thanks!” He nips the growing tension right in the bud. “Those fuckers sent me home to get kidnapped, now didn’t they?” He sasses.

“That they did.” Bro smiles, the gesture small. Dave must’ve passed the test. “Now how do you feel about Dirk making spaghetti with garlic bread for dinner while I show you some of the old traps?”

Dave grins as he walks away from the butchery door, letting Bro step ahead of him to take the lead again. “Holy shit. I would kill myself for some garlic bread.”

“Don’t tempt me, Dave.” He clears his throat. “In front of you… is a plate of garlic bread-”

The chilling tone, with the same cadence as the tapes, makes Dave laugh.