The room is damp and warm and smells of mold. A pipe drips somewhere. The girl blinks in the dim light, meets the eyes of her "pizza delivery driver" and knows she's in deep shit. She tries to move her arms and feels ropes. "Is this a sex thing?" The man shakes his head, a strange smile spreads on his face. The girl tries to hide her relief. "Well shit, it must be a surprise party for little old me then. And I didn't get you a thank you card or nothing." The man doesn't say a word. He pulls a long, angry looking knife from the waistband of his cargo pants. She knows that she should be scared, that that's the proper response here, but something about the scene strikes the girl as comical. There's a cartoon mouse eating a piece of pizza on his blazer and here is this middle management looking Carl (or maybe Frank? He does look like a Frank) brandishing a big-ass bowie knife. She starts to giggle, despite herself. "Is that a fucking machete in your pocket or are you just happy to see me? I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I swear I'm not trying to laugh. You were doing a good job of being threatening, honest, it's just- you know, you could have taken off the uniform. I mean, at this point, I know that you're not going to deliver the pizza I ordered- which, by the way- poor service much? Anyways, you can get back to it, I swear I'll be solemn." He narrows his eyes, sets the knife down, stands from his chair, and produces a small tool box from a locked cabinet in the corner. He meticulously lays the tools on the plastic sheeting in front of her. They're either rusty or bloodstained, she can't tell which. He meets her eyes, expecting to find fear. She looks bored. "Oh. Was I supposed to-? Oh I mean, those are nice. Real nice. Listen, this is awkward, but I think I should probably tell you now-." Her lack of reaction angers him. He grabs an ice pick off the tarp, holds her knee, and thrusts it deep into her the back of her calf until it cracks against bone. A small stream of blood flows warm and sticky down his hand. He pulls it out, slowly, slowly, and smirks at her. "Ok. Well that was rude. As I was saying-" There's an emotion blooming in his chest, one he had forgotten he could feel- fear. People aren't supposed to act like this. They're supposed to scream and cry and beg. They are supposed to suffer and he is supposed to win. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. He thrusts the pick into her leg and foot and thigh. He jams it wildly at her over and over until he's splattered with blood and there's a dozen little puncture wounds weeping blood and all that's left is the sound of his heavy breathing. The mouse is still smiling at her through the crimson. "Ok. So we established you're into stabbing and you're pretty damn rude, but what about me? It's like you don't even listen to me anymore. You know Carl, can I call you Carl?, I really think we're getting off on the wrong foot.... Maybe-." she laughs," Maybe try the other one?" He is as white as a sheet as he calmly stands up, wipes his hands on his cargo pants, and runs out the door. She notices he has left the pick in her upper thigh and she rolls her eyes. Question: what does a girl who cannot feel pain do to get out of ropes binding her to a wooden chair? Counter question: Which snaps first, wood or bone? Either answer suits her.