The Pain Artist

Pain was his art form. Pliers, needles, rude machines, all were something
he
understood on an intuitive level. Fear made it all that much better, and he
loved the smell of it, the way eyeballs bulged, the screams and moans, the
way some of his victims tried hide it, all the time cowering inside and
screaming for mommy or making deals with god.
Not that it did them much good. Between the pain and squirming, the smell
of
burning organic material, the grinding, the tearing and the blood, his
victims got what he felt like they deserved.
Of course, emptying their wallets was a side benefit, and had paid for lots
of nice things, like the video recorders and the fast internet connection
where he posted his rude glorious efforts on line.
Yup, life was good. Worth all that expensive schooling to become an oral
surgeon, for sure.