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Next to the chemicals, Fylox has a range of tools for any vengeful man to use. If I wanted to slice somebody up, I’d grab one of Fylox’s knives—knives that the best chefs in the world recommend. Sharp. Cutting through bones.
We do… We did a lot of that. Not anymore. Stabbing and chopping people up exhausts me. It’s Fylox’s favorite way to do his job, but I prefer my hands. Guns. Chemicals.
“Think big fat Mountain Dew,” I tell him, and he beams. “Two liters or a gallon. Whatever you have. The more, the better. I’m in a mood.”
“Give me a minute,” Fylox says. He rubs his hands, disappearing into the dark corridor that we came from.
Nobody has access to this dungeon, and there are no cameras down here either. Virtually, it doesn’t exist. A long time ago, Aram used to host secret sex parties down here, the ones Kamila wasn’t invited to.
Or Felicita.
Those parties included minors.
Minors like Fylox when he was a prepubescent boy.
It suffocates me to think of a young Fylox in a room full of older men and women, disgusting pigs that raped him, tortured him, for their perverse pleasures.
During our first months on Katantia, Fylox renovated the place to enjoy his downtime rather than float in the memories of his past. He’s in the epicenter of his emotional torment when he’s down here, but with the help of Ivy as his therapist, his romantic relationship with Kamila, my son’s friendship, and our young king Kendrick, he works through his pain. Fylox uses this basement dungeon for fun. He works on it intensely. No mold. Dust? Non-existent. He cleans it every other day. He shines his toys, from knives, guns…
My throat burns, and I decide to distract myself before I lose it.
I play with the other toys in Fylox’s dungeon while he’s finding me what I need. I’m never invited down here these days because we don’t have any enemies like that anymore. When people attack us now, it’s not personal. It’s Katantia-related.
Fylox and I are too busy to disrupt any people’s peace for them to want revenge on us.
I don’t have any downtime.
Well.
Now, I do.
But my downtime is my little doe and everything she’s up to.
Murder used to conquer my every thought, but little does are better for my health.
“It’s going to be Mountain Dew,” Fylox calls from wherever he’s snuck into. “I don’t have any other bottles left. Kamila let the palace gardeners take a share of the acid we confiscated from those terrorists that were planning to hurt some Hole Store employees.”
“Pity we can’t just buy sulphuric acid. You’d get as much as you need to feel safe,” I reply. Fylox reappears, a huge black plastic bottle in his hands. “They should be thankful that the state has money problems or else.”
Fylox chuckles because he knows… If the state’s finances were on point, and we didn’t have to provide welfare for half our island, we’d stack up our weapons.
Instead of expensive weapons of murder, Fylox spends his time designing bottles to match the protective suit going along with the usage of such chemicals.
Fylox cheerfully hands me the bottle. It’s full, and it feels good in my hands. Like water. Like it can’t kill me if I inhale it. Like it won’t burn me to crisp if I pop the lid open and test how the clear liquid feels against my skin.
“Let me get the protective suit,” Fylox says, leaving me in his dungeon with my companion for the next couple of hours.
“Do you have my size?” I ask him, calling after him. “I don’t want to look like one of those mumble rappers.”
“They’re baggy, you grumpy old man. Kamila let me buy new suits for my birthday,” Fylox explains. I hear his frantic steps, the thudding of the shelves he’s combing through. “You’ll love it.”
I hold on to the bottle of acid like they’ll take it away from me.
The reality is they can’t forcibly remove it from me.
This bottle’s contents will free my little doe.
And the kid that the motherfucker dared to drag into this whole mess.
