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He recoils and gawks at it, eyes wide and horror-stricken. Apparently I’ve rendered him speechless because he opts for a petrified stare rather than expressing himself verbally. It’s almost as if terror is collapsing on top of the pain; it brings so much more depth to the experience. The man is a statue right now.

We hold each other’s gaze for a beat, and then I fling the fleshy strand onto his forehead, where it sticks like wet spaghetti. Neat. He flinches and that seems to snap him out of his comatose vacation.

Lying on my stomach, half on top of him, I get comfy, kicking my feet in the air while I finish the backward K on his chest. Steve attempts to arch off the mattress; however, I am formidably larger and he’s much too weak to buck me off. After realizing he’s not going anywhere, he discovers his voice again and screams for help.

“If I’m going to turn you into a print, the carving has to be reversed. That’s why it’s backward. I’ve accidentally missed that step many a time!” I explain, even though he’s not listening to a word I’m saying. Frankly, I feel like he’s not appreciating this opportunity. Most people would pay good money for a private masterclass in Casper’s Craft Corner.

He tries to roll side to side but those straps are really fucking tight and he’s not going anywhere.

I complete the A and R with a few rough areas. After the M, I hold it up for him by the pointy tops of the letter. “Look! One piece! M for mutilation! Or MINE—remember carving that into Anna’s back?”

He blubbers. “I’m sorry! I’m so fucking sorry!”

The cuts are all shallow, no deeper than a couple millimeters, just enough to get through the top layer of skin and hurt like a bitch, but not enough to make him pass out from blood loss.

“That whole ‘karma’ thing is starting to click now, huh?”

I continue working through his endless fucking noise. Next time I’m bringing ear protection. I finish the A on the far left, the letters spanning across his chest. Blood drips down the side of his ribs, but thankfully I’m mostly protected by my handy-dandy wet suit.

I rip off one of the shirt flaps, then use my gloved hand to squeegee off the excess blood and give his chest a few seconds to slow the bleeding. Gently, I lay the scrap of cotton tee over the carved letters, then peel it off and hold it up to him, revealing the KARMA print. “See? Such a fun project!”

I toss the scrap of shirt behind me.

His shoulders shake as he tries to wrench away, twisting his wrists and tugging downward to get out of the restraints. All it does is transform his hand from pink to purple. “Let me go! Please!”

I clap my hands together. “Should we try your forehead or shins next?”

His opens his mouth like he’s going to the dentist and releases a bloodcurdling scream.

“Shins it is!” I stand and walk toward the end of the bed. He gives his best impression of stomping, but I sit on his knee, isolating his movements, and am able to carve around the curve of his shin with ease. He pisses himself by the time I slice the R halfway between his ankle and knee. Lovely, now I get to smell that for the rest of the night.

Steve hollers like a fucking banshee. This guy is a broken record.

“Hey!” I boom, catching him by surprise and shutting him up briefly. I press my middle and ring fingers to my thumb, holding up my index and pinky like ears. “Quiet Coyote.”

One of my clients said that technique worked for her kids, but it does nothing but wash his face in confusion for a half a second, and then he’s back to his shrieking. Worth a shot.

He tries to bounce on the bed, since the restraints are too tight for him to go side to side. Dude, give it up already. It’s like his brain hasn’t caught up yet. I scoop up the pile of skin ribbons I’ve acquired, squeeze his cheeks to part his lips, and shove them in his mouth and hold it closed.

“Swallow.”

He curses me through clenched teeth.

“That was uncalled for.” I spit in his eye, and coax him to eat. “You won’t know if you like it until you try it.”

Eventually he surrenders and I give him just enough leeway to chew before he chokes down the flesh spaghetti. I release his chin and he sputters, spitting out what’s left in his mouth. Part of an R clings to his lip; he tries to blow it off but it uselessly flutters and flops at the corner. I can’t pull my eyes away.

“What does it taste like?” I ask. “Some say pork, others say chicken.”

Tears run down his face. Too bad, so sad.

I slice the rest of his shirt near the armpit, opening up the area. “I hope you’re not ticklish,” I warn, nicking the start of another line.

“Noooo!” It comes out warbled and I can’t help but crack up at the comically strange sound. He tries to jerk away from me.

“Stop making me laugh, I need to focus!” I say, fighting back a smile. When he still doesn’t shut up, I take the slice of shirt from his armpit and stuff it in his mouth, hoping it will keep him quiet. It helps muffle the noise, but it’s not great.

I continue working, but with his head so close to me it’s really annoying how loud he is. “Jesus Christ, are you on warfarin? Why the fuck are you bleeding so much?” He’s seriously making a mess. And that’s why I’ve got the plastic.