His footsteps creak as his ascends from the basement he calls his home. He is weighed down; laden with the implements of his satanic pleasure.
He slowly slinks past his sleeping mom. She has a particular snore when she's a fifth past drunk. Still no reason to risk waking her. He is careful to quietly, ever so silently, close the door behind him.
He locates his car by the glint of the street lights off the windshield.
He pops the trunk and unloads his cachet of torture. He giggles like a little girl at the dark visions of pleasure invoked from their imagined misuse on his next victim.
He sits in the car. Checks for mom's registration in the glove compartment. Inhales deeply to steady his breathing.
Now, start the car. Check the gas. Watch for traffic when pulling out.
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