The Sadist

The sadist departs, fully clothed. His body covered in layers of wool. His face, veiled. He mounts his vehicle of convenience, nothing fancy, mind you, but a humble bicycle, his goods fastened to the rusted metal holder. With a sharp “tring” of the horn, he pedals away.

Hills, valleys, highways, marshy roads seem not to deter him. He is determined. Determined to reach his destination; to complete the task that he set out for. He stops at the sight of a mansion. A beautiful, sprawling mansion in the middle of the city. An upscale mansion whose inhabitants are probably asleep at this unearthly hour blissfully unaware of his existence. He pulls out a little slip and examines the careless writing. He then looks up and studies the sparkling new name board that hangs at the entrance. Satisfied, he stuffs the paper in his breast pocket.

He calmly unmounts from his bicycle and with practised hands, unlocks the metal shutter. Nimbly, he unties the carefully guarded goods. He pauses for a minute to inspect it. It is important that he chooses the right weapon. His eyes then scan the porch to find a suitable target. His mind momentarily wanders to think about the smug inhabitants of this villa, who don't seem to care about anything. The heartless rich who think that the entire world can be bought with money. Those who would probably nurse a secret hatred for anything frugal. Ah!  how he would have loved to drag these narcissists to reality, to witness the plights of the underprivileged! Alas! He knows that there is very little that he can do. Yet, he knows that deriving sadistic pleasure will energize him. For maybe a few seconds, he knows that he will be the victor. For a tiny slice of time, he knows that they are at his mercy. He steps back silently, looks around and then with agile fingers, hurls the weapon into the air.

Taking a projectile path, the newspaper hits the heavily ornate front door and lands on the doorstop, slightly waned.

Satisfied, the sadist walks away.