The poison in the cup would give the aging man stomach pains so severe that, coupled with his crippling arthritis, he would almost certainly pass out from so much agony.
Mr. Fraser was the kind of man who found pleasure in causing other people suffering, particularly psychological torture, even if he couldn’t see it. He perceived it as entertainment of the highest order that was restricted to those of high social standing and immense wealth. When the occasional victim accused him of being a sadist, he corrected them, saying he wasn’t sexually aroused by seeing people miserable, he was passionately in love with it.
The thought fuelled the long strides and quick pace of Mr. Fraser, who carried a cup consisting of ground coffee, two teaspoons of sugar, some water, some antifreeze and some milk. Signs of childish excitement infected each of his facial features the more he pictured the old man in pain, and his day was made better by the ghostly faces of miserable commuters. His eyes glassed over as he reached the corner of the street, and he felt a shove that sent a shock through from his elbow to each of his fingers, which instinctively spread out, dropping the cup which fell and spilled over the Armani leather toecap shoes he bought to go with his Armani black and grey pinstriped suit.
Fucking slum rat.
The Indian man apologised sincerely to Mr. Fraser and offered him some money for his coffee. Mr. Fraser held his shoulder amiably and politely declined the money, (“It was a mere accident my friend, your money is no good here,”) and finished with a hearty laugh. His hand dropped down the man’s arm and reached swiftly into his pocket to remove the man’s mobile phone. They exchanged false wishes for good days to one another and parted.
Mr. Fraser pocketed the phone, swore under his breath and reached for his own phone. His fingers trembled with outrage as he slid through his contacts to find the number of one of the offices he owned, the number available to customers. A nervous woman answered the phone and he, pretending to be a customer, shouted at her until he could detect a submissive quiver in her voice. He then hung up, angrier than he initially was. He scrolled through his contacts again and caught the number of the subordinate who was running the phones he had just called. He told the man to sack the woman he had just called. He had had eleven other people fired earlier that month.
He replaced the phone in his hand with the phone of the man who had ruined his day. He rifled through the messages for a while to find out that he was a plastic surgeon. He opened the “Gallery” folder and Mr. Fraser’s hands began leaking with sweat. A grin split his lips like a long, thin scar as he browsed.
One corpse. Another corpse. And another. The faces all carved up.
He felt a rush of vigour and hope as his sweaty fingers sloppily tapped the contact name of the hospital he assumed the man was working at. The doctor was busy. Five more calls in the next three hours. Busy. Two hours later, his secretary answered the phone and he was put through. He told the doctor that he wanted him to perform his art on a living subject that Mr. Fraser would send to his hospital with the doctor’s phone. Yamraj swore angrily, but of course he complied once he realised the threat of his livelihood was at stake.
Evening had come and Mr. Fraser was on his way to the old man, the phone tucked away in his blazer. Tonight, he was eager the old man suffer. After meeting him over a week before, he had unknowingly evaded Mr. Frasers influence and malevolent perversion.
He spotted a woman sleeping in the parking lot of the same office he had called earlier that day, the anticipation of his night stimulated his desire for immediate pleasure and he knocked on the window on which the woman’s head rested. As she shuffled a bit, he racked his brain for something to do to her. She fell asleep again, the bitch, he knocked again and then moved his face closer to the woman’s through the window. He saw vague movement and in another moment, he felt the tip of his nose slam against his face and the loud crack seemed to deafen him, then make him unconscious.
Fifteen minutes passed before an ambulance was summoned and Mr. Fraser was hurried through to A&E, with the phone still tucked away in his blazer.
Life in a Television Show 