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Prologue
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It feels as if my insides are vibrating as I near my destination. I’ve waited all week for this.
The streets are nearly empty except for a few pedestrians making their way down the sidewalks. Every now and then, the honk of a horn or deep laughter breaks the night’s silence. It’s close to midnight and only a few shops remain open. There’s an occasional siren blaring in the distance, but not close enough for me to be concerned or to hinder my plans.
Most of the shops are locked up tight, or so they think.
No building is safe if I decide I want in.
As I near the entrance to the alley, I slow my stride.
I need to be careful. I pull my hood up over my head and adjust the strap of my backpack slung over my shoulder. It’s a dark, cool night, so I put on a simple black hoodie and pants, trying to stay under the radar.
I keep my head down as I walk, not looking anyone in the eye, so they don’t get a chance to see my face. The hoodie also helps keep it hidden from the many CCTV cameras around.
It adds to the thrill of what I’m doing.
Invisibility is a skill I’ve acquired and mastered. One I’m proud of. It’s when I do my best work.
Just like every masterpiece I create, tonight will be no different.
When I’m sure no one is looking, I slip into the alleyway and head for the busted door. With every step, adrenaline courses through my veins, and the sound of gravel crunching under my shoes fills my ears.
I’ve been scoping this place out for a couple of weeks, learning the traffic pattern of pedestrians, surrounding businesses’ hours of operation, and police presence in the area.
I’ve mapped three different ways out of the building, always needing a contingency plan in case things go south. I never leave anything to chance.
It’s been vacant for almost a year. The owners fell into financial trouble and couldn’t keep the doors open. With no potential buyers, the bank foreclosed. About three months ago, the police came and cleaned out the drug den it had turned into. Now the windows match the condition of the door, with broken glass still on the floor.
The squatters kept trying to come back but were met with more police resistance until, lucky for me, they finally gave up. It’s now been empty for a week.
I’ll do a sweep through first just to make sure there’s not some lone straggler still present inside. Wouldn’t want an innocent person to get hurt. That’s not where I get my gratification. No, that comes from the fire. When the beautiful mixture of red and orange intertwines, putting off heat, the blood pumps through my veins straight to my cock.
The crackling sounds of the fire as it weaves its monstrous strength through the building, breaking the bones that are holding it upright until, eventually, it crumbles to the ground, tipping me over the edge of an orgasm.
My cock stirs in my pants just thinking about it.
Stopping in front of the broken door, I take one final look down the alley back to the street, making sure no one is in sight. When I’m positive there isn’t, I duck down and slip through the hole.
Glass crunches beneath my feet as I move through the darkness, the small flashlight in my hand my sole source of light, guiding me through the darkness.
Slowly, I make my way through, stepping over broken furniture and trash, amazed at how anyone would want to live in these conditions. Syringes litter the floor and I’m suddenly grateful for my boots.
I move further into the building, taking my time, checking every nook and cranny for any sign of life. The only living beings I’ve found so far are the family of rats taking up residence in a holey, stained mattress that has seen better days.
The overwhelming stench of piss hits my nostrils and I try not to gag. With all the time I’ve been doing this, I still haven't got used to it. At least I haven’t encountered any human feces yet. That’s the worst.
The building is only two stories, so it doesn’t take long to check the whole place. I’m delighted when I find it empty. Now I can do what I came here to do.
Squatting down at the door of the last room, I tug my bag off my shoulder and set it on the dirty floor. I’m careful with all the broken glass littering it, not wanting to accidentally cut myself. I look around and the only thing in this room is an old, ratted, stained mattress in the corner, long abandoned by its last owner. Stretching my arms above my head, I crack my back, easing some of the knots and strained muscles from carrying so much weight. I learned early on that people get suspicious of you walking around, carrying gas cans in your hands.
Some buildings I’ve made masterpieces out of had places to hide my accelerant. But the slight chance of the police returning to check if the former occupants had re-inhabited it made it impossible for me to leave it here.
So bottles packed safely and neatly in my pack is my only option. Picking my bag up, I pull out the first bottle, and one by one, spread them through the top floor, dropping a match as I descend the stairs.
I’ve mastered this process. It’ll light up, but I’ll still have time to spread one final bottle on the ground floor before making my escape. But I won’t leave; I’ll hide somewhere nearby to watch my masterpiece in its full glory.
