sound of a hardback being closed one-handedly. It was not a surprise that Bernie would be calling but there was always intrigue when he did.

“Fiendish.” Bernie confirmed with feigned pleasantness. To be accurate, his name was Dr. Henry J. Stevens DDS, but he was known in a particular circle as Dr. Fiendish.

“Manifest?” The question was implied in his tone but Fiendish elaborated anyway. “What could possibly be troubling the golden boy?” He said, failing to conceal the intentional barb. Even amongst friends, there was always at least a shred of pointed or poorly veiled chiding.

Bernie caught and swallowed the verbal jab. He was in too downtrodden of a state to spar. “I just don’t love it anymore. I feel like I’m going through the motions. I just finished torturing this black kid. I mean… he was in his thirties, not an actual child.” He corrected himself.

“No judgement, of course.” Fiendish interrupted.

“It was exquisite work. I was a tactician in there. The kid yelled profanity at me, insulted me then wailed like a newborn baby. He passed out and regained consciousness twice! I used your forceps and when I popped out that fourth or fifth tooth, I don’t think he even realized it until I showed it to him. It was that smooth. It was pure exquisitry and I felt virtually nothing. I got more satisfaction from cleaning up my mess.”

“I wish I could say that I understand but I do not. You have the dream gifts, Manny. Somehow nothing sticks to you: not capture, not imprisonment, not public scrutiny, hell, not even death has managed to find you. You operate with complete impunity. And, what? You want to call me licking your wounds because you’re bored? Do you want to be me? My only gift is somewhat heightened precision. I had to trudge through four years of dentistry school just to have license to get my fix through patient after boring patient of micro-tortures. That is a goddamned grind, my friend!”