In a dim room, a young woman lay on a cold metal table. Naked. Chains and ropes looped tightly around her arms, legs, torso, and neck. A harsh fluorescent lamp dangled from the ceiling, highlighting her sunken cheeks and dark circles. Though she looked as if she hadn’t slept in weeks, she was perfectly alert, watching from the corner of her eye as a man in a long white coat marched towards her.

The man was tall, blonde, good-looking, and sported a big white grin. He had good posture and a commanding presence. Blue latex gloves covered his hands, which were clasped neatly behind his back. A golden watch encircled his wrist. He walked purposefully towards the trembling woman, stopping when he reached the right side of the table.

He carefully removed the restraints from her left arm before grabbing her wrist with both hands. He lifted her arm slightly and shuffled his hands around a bit, making sure that he had a secure grip.

Then he twisted. And pulled. And twisted. And yanked. And twisted. Her shoulder started making an unnatural popping sound. The woman’s eyes bulged and her face contorted into a silent scream. She bucked and flailed and fought. The chains wrapped around her rattled and clanked, but held firm. There would be no escape.

The man continued to pull. His grin hadn’t faded. He looked as if he was playing tug of war with a puppy.

With one last big twist and tug, as well as a horrific ripping sound, the arm detached, leaving a grisly stump in its wake. Blood spurted out of the wound in an arc, and a gory puddle began to form on the floor.

Plop. The man let the arm flop into it.

The woman writhed in agony. Her screams were no longer silent. In fact, they were guttural and loud. Really loud. The man winced slightly, scrunching his face. The sound pained him.

His smile returned quickly, though.

He reached to his right and seized a blowtorch off the lid of a large green bin on the floor. He whisked it over to hover just above the woman’s wide-open mouth. She was still shrieking. Her eyes were darting around, and whenever she caught sight of the place where her arm used to be, she screamed louder.

“Shhh,” he whispered, “Quiet down. You’re hurting my ears.”

She didn’t stop wailing. For an instant, the man frowned.

Then he slammed the bottom of the blowtorch onto her mouth with all of his strength. Her teeth shattered with an audible crack. A few pieces of enamel flew across the room. The woman let out a muffled screech and started thrashing around violently. Her stump flailed, spewing blood everywhere, and her remaining arm fought desperately to reach her mouth.

The man exhaled almost blissfully as he pounded the blowtorch back down. He smashed it down over and over and over and over and over and over again. His pearly white grin seemed frozen on his face.

After a long while, he let the blowtorch clatter to the floor. He breathed heavily, chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm. He peered into her now quiet mouth and noted that her teeth were gone. Crushed into dust.

Perhaps he went a tad overboard.

He extended one slender hand and gently patted her face, observing that she didn’t seem to be in good condition. Her remaining limbs were twitching sporadically, her eyes were lolling back into her head, and her stump was still leaking red ichor. The puddle on the floor had grown.

She looked like a mess. And not only because of her missing teeth and shredded gums. Rivers of blood flowed out of her mouth and spilled onto her cheeks and chin. Some blood had also dribbled from her nose, which seemed to have been broken in the onslaught. The man was not known for his killer aim… Most of the blood had been washed away by tears, but her face had still been stained crimson. Her blue hospital gown looked like it was drenched in cranberry juice.

The man studied his work, clucking his tongue and tilting his head almost theatrically. “I got a bit carried away, didn’t I? Don’t want you passing out or dying…”

Without tearing his eyes away from the woman, the man reached back and delicately plucked up a syringe the size of a small snake from the plastic tray. With one hand, he skillfully twirled it in a circle. Showmanship. With the other hand, he grabbed the woman’s remaining arm. He then plunged the needle into it and injected the fluid into her bloodstream.

Almost immediately, she started screeching. Clearly, she had regained some of her lucidity. Her pale face also started to regain some color, and she looked more like a few hours away from death rather than a few minutes.

He clasped his now blood-drenched hands together and did a little shimmy. There was a pleased expression on his face. He twirled in what almost seemed to be a blissful reverie.

“You’re back!” he exclaimed.

“I’m so thankful for this magical concoction,” he held up the syringe, “Because of it, you won’t be leaving me so easily.” He tossed the syringe over his shoulder.

The woman flailed wildly, face contorted in raw agony. Blood flew. The red puddle on the ground grew.

The man shook himself out of his trance.

“Silly me,” he loomed over the woman and stroked her face, chuckling, “We should really fix up that stump of yours, shouldn’t we?”

She made a pathetic choking noise and started crying harder.

The man quickly turned and opened the green bin on the floor, rummaging around before procuring a lengthy piece of metal. He bent down and snatched the blowtorch off the floor. He brought it up to his cheek and his smile twisted maniacally. Then he ignited it. It bathed his angular face in an eerie glow.

“Good news! It’s still in perfect working order!”

She really started sobbing then.

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He leaned over her, blowtorch in one hand and metal piece in the other. Her eyes widened and flickered around the room frantically. The man slowly inched the flame closer to her wound. The bloody lesion glistened in the firelight. He moved the blowtorch until it was only a hair's breadth away from her.

Her eyes widened in horror.

He moved the blowtorch back.

She let out a sigh of relief.

Forward. Back. Forward. Back. Forward. Back. He was playing with her.

She started wailing hysterically again. Loudly.

He fought back a grimace and stared at her sharply.

“You’re no fun.” The man caught a glimpse of his dark expression in the mirrored portion of the wall. He quickly morphed his face into a joking pout.

She didn’t respond. He rolled his eyes playfully and started to heat the piece of metal.

“Let’s just get on with it.”

With that declaration, unceremoniously, the man pressed the scalding piece of metal against her wound. It hissed and sizzled.

The volume of her shouts increased to a decibel he didn’t even think was possible. He found himself wishing bitterly that he was allowed to gag them. Or that he was allowed to wear noise-canceling headphones. They were always so loud.

The acrid scent of burning flesh filled the room. As a veteran cauterizer, the man was unaffected by the stench. Still, the smell would be enough to make most people hurl, so he sidestepped onto a carefully camouflaged button on the floor, activating the ceiling vents, which started whirring steadily.

After that, for exactly two minutes, the man just stood there, piece of metal in hand, watching the hysterical woman intently.

When the time was up, he removed the hot metal from the stump. It had turned a crisp shade of black.

Click. He turned off the blowtorch. Clang. He let it fall to the ground.

At this point, the woman had stopped crying and was just staring at the ceiling, quivering. Strange gurgling noises were rising out of her throat. She was completely out of it.

The man stifled a groan. His smile was more grimace than grin. She just had to go into shock. Irritating.

His blood-soaked fingertips drilled methodically against his chin. He paused dramatically. Then he reached under the table and procured a saw. A bone saw. He held it under the harsh lighting of the lamp, watching as its polished edge gleamed.

“Maybe this will knock you out of your stupor!” he exclaimed.

The woman didn’t respond.

His expression turned almost comically quizzical. “Which leg do you like more, left or right? Actually, a better question would be: which one would you choose to lose?”

Again, the woman didn’t respond.

“Both it is!” he cheered, hoisting the saw in the air.

~break~

The man wiped the sweat off his brow, panting. After a few hours of hard labor, he had successfully removed all of the woman’s limbs and cauterized the wounds… without killing her! A very difficult feat. Though he was skilled at his work, a relatively substantial mortality rate seemed to be unavoidable.

But he was nothing if not a hard worker.

He cracked his knuckles and checked his watch. Thankfully, the show was almost over.

The man went ahead and removed all of the woman’s restraints. There was zero danger of her escaping, considering that she was just a blackened and bloodied torso. He wrapped his hands around her waist and flipped her onto her stomach. Then, with very little effort, he hoisted her limp, limbless body into the air. The fluttering of her eyelashes was the only visible indication that she was still alive.

With an expert flick of his lab coat, the man spun around to face the darkened side of the room. This side of the room had no mirror. Instead, it had his audience. He grinned at them proudly as he posed with what remained of the woman. He almost looked as if he was receiving an award.

The two men and two women sitting in the dark end of the room had been watching the whole time as he worked. Patiently waiting in silence. With his dramatic finish, though, they suddenly burst into raucous applause. The younger of the two women even shot to her feet, giving him a standing ovation.

The older woman, a plump lady in her mid-fifties, had tears in her eyes. Happy tears. Sad tears. She wiped them away and pressed her hands tightly to her chest. She looked adoringly at the man who had just dismembered a woman in front of her.

“Thank you, Dr. Smith,” she cried, “You did a wonderful job. Truly commendable. My son has finally gotten justice.”

Ah, she must be the victim's mother.

One of the men in the audience, the older one, nodded in agreement at the woman's sentiment. He then roared his own approval, whilst gesturing wildly at the limbless woman: “I couldn’t have even done a better job myself! That scumbag got exactly what she deserved!”

The victims father, perhaps?

Dr. Joe Smith nodded, bowing slightly. While doing so, he discreetly placing the dismembered woman on the floor. His arms killed.

He quickly straightened. “It was my pleasure. A punishment was earned, so justice was served!” His lip curled a bit. The Justice Department’s slogan always tasted sour as it rolled off his tongue.

The younger man in the audience abruptly piped up. “Will you be killing her now?”

The "man" actually looked like a kid in his late teens. But he couldn't be. He was in the Cutting Room, after all. They would never let in someone who wasn't of age.

Joe’s mouth twitched. This kid really didn’t know anything about the system. What were schools even doing these days?

“I won’t be killing her myself, of course," Joe drawled, "Purposeful executions aren’t in my line of work… If you would like to view the execution, I’m sure that could be arranged.”

The older woman placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. Her grip was iron. “Thank you, Doctor, for everything, really. We will definitely be in contact with the Office of Communications about witnessing the execution.”

Joe flashed her a winning smile.

As if on cue, she stood up and started to steer the kid out of the room. The other two audience members trailed along after her. The show was over. Joe caught one last glimpse of the family arguing before the heavy metal door creaked to a close behind them, obscuring his view.

Click.

Almost instantaneously, the entire room lit up as carefully placed LEDs were illuminated. The atmosphere completely flipped on its head. The feel of the room went from “dungeon chamber” to something more akin to… “hospital room.”

If the hospital room in question was covered in blood and had an unconscious woman with no arms or legs on the floor.

Joe’s smile dropped. He squinted his eyes to adjust to the brightness, then looked down at his watch. Ah, it was past one o'clock already. His brunch plans were toast.

When he looked back up, a large mirrored portion of the wall on the opposite side of the room was sliding open. It revealed a well-dressed woman of about thirty and an elderly man clad in blue overalls. Valentina and Bertie. They had been watching from behind the mirror, which was see-through from the other side.

The two walked over to Joe, who had slumped over into one of the chairs meant for the audience. Valentina’s pink pumps made a clicking sound on the tile floor with every step she took. Irritating.

Valentina stopped a few feet away from Joe, clipboard in hand.

She glanced at it quickly before starting to speak. “Overall, Dr. Smith, that was good work. There was just one critici-”

“Can you get me a coffee?” Joe interrupted.