The alarm clock which sat on his bedside cabinet went off ringing loud and clear in his aging ear. He flailed his arm in the right direction and with his hand, he managed to hit the off button of that annoying alarm clock. He very nearly dozed off again as he turned and made himself comfortable, but Myrich's thin eyes opened as he roused from a heavy slumber. He noticed the coolness in the room, he should have closed the window. Through the slit in the curtains, he noticed the sun was just beginning to rise as well. He heard a bird or two no doubt vying for the early worm. He leaned up in his king-sized bed and stretched his limbs.
He picked up a tray that was in his bedside cabinet. The tray had a rolled up hundred Kroaling bill and a rock of cocaine the size of a marble, but there was already a line ready to be snorted. He felt a sudden rush and immediately he woke up, his shoulder jutted upward, his eyes widened further, he was high again as he sniffed his nose for good measure. He heard a tick at the back of his head, that was his sanity being eaten away. His sanity had gone long ago. He would have you know. He had been down the dark rabbit hole many a time before. He was after all a frequent visitor, if you will.
Myrich slept butt naked and he got out of bed feeling awesome. He stretched his limbs and then sat back down on the bed and listened to the news that blared out from the radio. There was something about a missing child, something about a jamboree in Verkudul, and then there was the news he was waiting for. Rogue Seasonals had been released from Incarkeraz. Myrich smiled elatedly. "Goodman," he mumbled to himself referring to Cain Magia. I only hope Cain can handle, them.
Hans Myrich then walked into the ensuite bathroom. He relieved himself, washed his hands and splashed some cold water on his face. Vigorously, he brushed his teeth. Then he walked over to his walk-in wardrobe, on the other side of the room. All his clothes were neatly arranged. Flashy suits were to the left. Military attire to the right. And on the other side were regular, everyday clothes, clothes he rarely wore except for perhaps his grey tracksuit which he put on. He picked up a pair of trainers, blue in colour with a white stripe and put them on also.
He walked downstairs and noticed there was a message for him on his answer phone. He pressed the button and listened to the message play. "Doctor Hans. The meeting has been arranged for tomorrow at twelve, my good friend. " Meaning twelve today he figured. "We look forward to hearing this master plan of yours. Over and out Doctor. . . Stefan."
"Ja, you will discover the master plan alright," Myrich mumbled.
He then looked at his wrist watch, it was now pushing seven o'clock. He walked into the modern spacious kitchen and got a plain ceramic bowl and some bran cereal and poured himself a glass of orange juice. He was not overly hungry, but he forced himself to eat up at the breakfast bar. When he was done eating, he went to the back of the garden to get Waldo, his Great Nord.
"Hello, Waldo," Myrich's mut excitedly jumped up on him and barked. "Sit!" Myrich ordered and the obedient canine with a tongue lapping out of his mouth sat. Myrich tied a red walking lead to Waldo's spiked black collar. "Come on," Myrich urged his mutt. He would walk Waldo at least twice a day if he was home a stroll around the block.
This time Hans Myrich decided to go to the local shop which was quite a distance away. He liked the walk, made him feel good. Obviously kept him and his Great Nord fit. Whilst he was out, he bumped into the local postman. He wore a light green uniform and he had these weird piercings. He had a huge hole in his ear. Myrich did not get it. The friendly postman gave Myrich his letters which he put in his pocket.
Myrich continued downhill passing residential areas in the process. Once he reached his destination, he tied Waldo to a post and entered the small dimly lit shop. On a large rickety table was a stack of newspapers piled up almost as high as he was. He looked at the front page of a paper and the headline read in bold lettering; "Prison Break." Myrich bought a copy and made the long walk back to his home. He felt great even as the rain fell, not only was walking on cocaine fun, but when the endorphin rush kicked in, he felt amazing. When he got back to his front door however his legs had gone to jelly.
He tied Waldo up in the backyard and went into the kitchen and in a cupboard below the sink he had a big red bag of dog food. Steaks chunks. Waldo only ate the best. Myrich poured some food into a silver bowl and the grateful mutt began to eat. "Good boy," Myrich said patting him down. He took care of Waldo and spoiled him. "Good boy."
Myrich then spent the next couple of hours in his study. He had briefly read the paper to see what was being said about the "Incursion of Incarkeraz." He especially liked the segment regarding the guard who had survived. That he liked. Now and for the last few hours, Myrich was reviewing his set of Bills, going over them with a fine toothcomb. These Bills were going to be the crown jewel of his legacy. He had been working on them for the past eighteen months. He was conceited as he put the hundred-page Bill into a safe that was behind the portrait of his deceased wife Sofia. "We will meet again," he always said. Yes, we will.
He then went over to his gramophone and put on some classical music as he made his way to the kitchen. As he was listening to the peaceful music, he was humming along and imitating an orchestra conductor. He took out a well-used frying pan then added some butter and began to hear the pan sizzle. His voice had a husky drawl as he said, "Diederich, Diederich, Diederich," Myrich was fondly remembering the previous night as he went over to the fridge and took out some plump sausages, three in all, and a steak and placed them in the sizzling pan.
Once the food was cooked Myrich carried the plate to the cellar door. Again, he locked that door and put the key into his pocket, no way was Eliza going to try and flee this time, he hoped she had learned her lesson. Hans Myrich made his way through the warren of rooms and opened the door to Eliza's prison. "My darling Eliza," Myrich greeted his daughter.
She was still naked lying on the couch the duvet wrapped around her. Eliza just about had the strength to raise her head and curl her lip upward. Her eyes were red and puffy. She had cried all night. She probably cried herself out of tears. The whip lines were even more noticeable then yesterday.
"I have food for you, Eliza," Myrich said. His soothing voice didn't mask his sinister smirk. She looked at him with loathing eyes, but she dared not attack him, not after what happened last night.
Eliza looked at the plate and licked her cracked lips. "You have not eaten for a week, Eliza." Myrich pointed out. "I have cooked you some plump sausages and a steak. I laboured all morning preparing this for you, my sweet child, you're not going to turn down a meal, are you?"
"N - no," she quietly stuttered that one word and kept her head down.
"Good," Myrich said through gritted teeth and then he set the plate down on the cold concrete floor. That is where Eliza belonged. Without cutlery, Eliza started to eat the sausages and then the steak. Myrich smirked as he watched her eat. This was entertaining him, immensely. In no time at all Eliza had devoured the food put before her. "Ja," Myrich said, "very good. I hope you liked your meal, Eliza. Diederich is tasty. . . no?" Again, he smirked after he told Eliza what she had just eaten.
After hearing his admission, she immediately threw up most of what she had digested all over the floor and Myrich's new shoes. She looked at Myrich as he just stood there and laughed hysterically. Eliza stood to her feet to confront him, but Myrich wrapped one hand around her frail throat and forced her back to the floor. "Eat it," he said forcing her head down to the ground.
"No!" She spoke. "No!" She said again as tears began streaming down her eyes in rivulets. "You cannot make me! No, no, no!" she was defiant as she sobbed.
"Eat it," Myrich demanded through gritted his teeth.
"No!" She said repetitively. "No! You can't make me!" She was making sickly sounds.
"If you want food tomorrow you will eat." He looked down at her without empathy.
Eliza continued to cry, she didn't have a choice. Slowly she began to pick up some of the lumps and started eating. She was bilious, but she would not throw up again.
"And of my shoes, Eliza," Myrich ordered her and she licked the putrid puke from his shoes. "Good Eliza," Myrich still smirked. "Very good." Myrich then picked up the plate and walked toward the door. "You might be pleased to know my master plan is coming to fruition. I know, I know, you would love to hear more about it, but not even I know the details, yet. Relying on others makes me uneasy. Look at you - you rely on me." Myrich pointed out. "I will see you, Eliza, maybe tomorrow, and then again maybe not." Myrich went to the door and then he stopped. "I have a busy day ahead of me Eliza. I'll see you soon," he left the deeply traumatic Eliza alone and locked all the doors behind him, he heard his only child wail. She will rue the day she killed my beloved. She is no child of mine!
Myrich checked his silver watch, it had just gone eleven o'clock. He was behind schedule. He didn't drive, but he did have someone who drove him to events, and so forth. Two dopey henchmen, dumb and dumber as Myrich called them.
He walked over to the house phone and dialled a number but was left waiting. Finally, and fortunately, on the seventh ring, someone picked up. Hans Myrich could hear heavy panting and the sound of someone getting their morning horn on in the background. "Hello," Myrich said, but to his utter bewilderment no one replied. "Hello," Myrich said again in a sterner tone, but again no one responded. "You are testing my patience," Myrich said calmly, tapping his foot on the dark lacquered floor. "If this is you, Pa, you dumb dopey inbred hick put Che on the phone." Pa Graves was a mute, couldn't say jack, but he was a good listener all the same.
"Mother fucker," Che Stone spoke, "hello." he sounded rather grumpy.
"Call me a mother fucker again and I will rip out your tongue!" Myrich spurted out these words almost as quick as his mind constructed them.
"Yes, Doctor, em-eh. . . sorry, Doctor," Che immediately apologized. "Doctor shit! It's my condition," Che Stone reminded him. Che had Tourette's, you see, he would shout out obscenities inappropriately.
"Ja," Myrich said, he comprehended Che's bothersome tick and bizarrely showed a slither of empathy. "I will be needing a lift," he informed Che.
"Sure Doctor, sure, just give us an hour - "
"I will give you fifteen minutes!" Myrich bawled into the phone and then he popped some pills to calm himself down.
"Yes, Doctor," Che Stone replied his voice had a reluctant disappointing tone.
"See you, then," Myrich said in a more buoyant manner and just like that, he hung up the phone leaving dumb and dumber a measly fifteen minutes to get to his residence.
Myrich decided to have a quick shower. He turned up the record player to eleven so he could hear sunlight sonata, a favourite of his, lyrics provided by Ilya. When he was done with a quick shower he walked to his walk-in wardrobe. He got kitted out in his full military attire and from a drawer, he took out his armband it was black with a white circle and in the circle was a red hand. This symbolised he was part of a near extinct society commonly known as the "Order of the Red Hand." He wrapped this band around his left arm and then made his way downstairs.
Myrich left his house and saw a black limo pull into his drive. Dopey Pa Graves was a skin-head, old and fat, more gums than teeth and had his tongue out to the side mimicking his dog Waldo. Pa saluted Myrich and opened the back door for him to get in. Che was a skinhead, but he had a muscular frame and was much taller and leaner than Pa and younger too. Che also dressed more appropriately.
"Where to? Bastard!" Che asked. "Stupid - stupid," Che hit the wheel in frustration.
"The Estate," Myrich informed him.
"Sure, shit cock!" Che said, "I'm so sorry - so sorry cunt!"
"Just drive," Myrich spoke firmly. "And if I hear you talking, I won't be happy."
Wisely Che Stone had decided to just shut up, as best he could.
Hans Myrich had not met his fellow peers for a year, but now he was going to a secret summit, and those he would be encountering were members of the "Red Hand" who believed in his vision. His right, in a nutshell, was the belief in the perfect gene, someone free from diseases. There would be no place for a mute like Pa or Che and his Tourette's. Hans Myrich was quietly excited for he was going to relay his master's plan to his peers. A plan that would come across as his own. The Order of the Red Hand will rise once again.