Emma was uncertain of how much time had passed since he last used her. It didn’t matter. What mattered was The Collector would come searching for her eventually. When he did, his eyes would be brimming with pain, his hands would tremble as he brought her to his lips and…With a shiver she forced herself to stop thinking about the inescapable future.
The door crashed open. Dust drizzled from the doorframe like grey nuclear snow. It settled in The Collector’s hair as he staggered and limped into the room. Dragging his left leg behind him, he painted smears of blood across the floor with his foot.
At the sight of his blood Emma knew she was needed at last.
His face screwed into a grimace as he squeezed his fingers into the pocket of his jeans and, with a flash of triumph, produced his newest prize. The glass bottle he held between thumb and forefinger was unremarkable. It might have been a shot bottle of liquor, but it was hard to tell since the labels had been peeled away and the previous contents drained. He held the prize up to his eyes, his hungry gaze glittering.
“We’ll see what makes you so special in a minute,” he said to the bottle in his upraised hand. He limped forward and winced. “But first I need to see Emma.”
She watched as The Collector pulled open a drawer and tossed aside the sundries it contained, searching for the bag that was hidden there. Soon they would share the magic, he would feel her, cold against his lips, and she would take the pain--
* * *
Marcus Welt looked up from the page and peered at his client. "So let me get this straight," he said. "This is the story of a man's descent into reefer madness, as told by Emma the Sentient Bong? What is it, exactly, you've been smoking?"
Opening: Beth Light.....Continuation: Anon.