The Detective was a solemn, and lonely man, living through his work, the only way he knew. Yet it was not the only way he had known. The old ways of life, the ways one would consider normal, had been rounded up, and shot in the back of the head behind the garden shed. The executioner was his nightmarish past; an unreal demon that lurked in corners of his mind, yet obediently followed him as a shadow. The Detective, although composed of hatred for the Demon, had learned from it, and the beast had made him knowledgeable of both life and death, as well as the irreversible reaction brings one into the other. Such knowledge had been the Demon’s gift to Detective, a gift and a curse. The gift had been his job, his popularity, the demand for his skills, and his welfare. The curse, which haunted his dreams, had been the gruesome eradication of his kin, his bloodline, and his genes outside of himself. The Detective could only watch when he received his gift, but he had learned to live with such regrets.

Now the Detective descended the dark stairway downward toward the domain of the Demon’s master. The security guard yawned as he stood at the glowing computer monitor. After checking the detective’s badge, he flipped the switch, and said “You’ve thirty minutes detective, sorry to rush you, but this is the psychiatric wing, we have security precautions to keep up. You know which room it is by now.” The Detective nodded, and departed for his destination. On his stroll down the sixth floor of the psychiatric wing, he passed other demons, some with faces pressed up against the glass as they breathed heavily, some muttering streams of obscenities dipped in sweet religious blabber, while others touched themselves in grotesque ways, as while some just sat in their cells, laughing under their breath. When the Detective stopped at cell 65, he entered without thinking, something he rarely did.

Inside, the Demon’s master stood, restraints binding his arms, legs, elbows, knees, and neck to a wall. The Detective paid these measures very little care, and took up a chair no more than three feet from the bound master of the Demon. Removing a digital audio recorder from his pocket, the Detective activated it, and setting it down on a table between himself and Demon’s master, the conversation began. Each word passing from the stubbly mug of the Demon’s master made tightened the clenched fists of the Detectives. An aura of respect hung in the room, similar to the respect water feels for fire, and vice versa. When thirty minutes passed the Detective deactivated the digital audio recorder, stood up, thanked the Demon’s master, and left with several sheets of paper.

After the Detective had long left, and door had locked, the restraints of the Demon’s master were automatically loosened. Sitting down on a metal chair, the Demon’s master put pen to paper. No Tyrant Shall Find His End Tonight.