They sat me down, and gave me an unlimited canvas space, along with unlimited artist's tools. They said I would have unlimited time to create, then they closed the door on me. The space I had was a room of any size and scope I could think of; it could be enclosed and it could be open, it could be both simultaneously.

Day 1

It took me a while to find them, but I went into the section of more unconventional art tools and found some deli meats and some bread. I ate a pretty gourmet sandwich, actually. Great mustard, some pickles, I even managed to find some toothpicks to stick on top. There were plate-making materials in the ceramics area, but I much better, more complete stuff in the area marked, "Found Art."

Day 2

Brush in hand I started to think about what to paint. I urinated on the canvas. Then, I went back to "Found Art" and got the tools necessary to build a functional plumbing system (I even found a book on plumbing).My toilet and sink up and running, they would contain my next "inspirations". 

Day 3

I'm bored out of my mind. I accepted this job with so much to say, but I look back at the tools (just from grabbing a rather extensive palette of pre-made Big Macs for lunch) and look forward at the canvas, and just want to cry.

Day 4

My back sore, I drag some pre-assembled IKEA furniture out of the back and decorate a room to my taste.

Day 5

Kitchen.

Day 6

Electric.

Day 7

Entertainment center of my dreams. I even build a nice arcade using a bunch of cool machines I found.

Day 8 - Day 73

Watching movies and playing games.

Day 74

I decide to look, again, in the back. I find a section full of women of all shapes and sizes.

[Days 75 - 182 are stricken from the record]

Day 183

I find a woman who has a lot in common with me. We watch some movies and eat some popcorn in my freshly cleaned theater (I found some employees back there, too).

Day 184 - Day 280

I hire all kinds of folks in the back (who knew I had plumbers and electricians all along) to build places for me to go with this aforementioned woman).

Day 281

I get sick of the woman and tell her to leave. She does.

Day 282 - 364

Just like days 8-73 and 184-280, but with depression.

Day 365

My benefactors open the door after a year, and catch me offguard. I'm embarrassed beyond belief, but they all drop their clipboards and simply applaud. 

A magpie once spoke to me. He said, "You will not obtain wealth by." He was unable to finish his sentence when my gun went off. My subconscious didn't want to hear what the bird had to say. Is it because the bird was going to misinform me, and I would be incapable of personally withstanding its sly words? Or was it because the less forthright parts of my self don't want me to know the secrets. 

It's conspiracy of the lowest level, truly fowl with only a hint of the intended punnishness. That night, I dreamed of the bird.

I was, myself, flying, and the bird was looking up at me with a deep-seeded jealousy. It said, "Nevermore," but I remembered that wasn't quite right. I flew higher.

A new space station was being built by the Russians. "Colder than Serbia," they all said to me, inviting me aboard. They spoke in wild Scottish accents and danced gleefully in their fur hats. The station held the same general shape as a bird. A magpie? No, a swallow. But how many would it take?

That last question seemed to perplex these red gents, still angry at the way things have gone over the last 100 years or so. It's to be expected. But I left them with a peace offering of Apple Pie, crust in the form of baseball stitching and left.

Further out I went, stopping to pat Pluto on the head. Further still. Why so cold? Why so hot? Why still alive?

I woke up covered in sweat. It wasn't my own, which terrified me... and sickened me. I wasn't sure which feeling was more intense. 

Another tournament won, the champion lifts both arms and smiles to his fans. They are adoring towards him. That's what he wants. For all that tough chatter, for all the flexing, all the workouts, all the sweat. Love is all he wants, and he can't get enough, there is no limit for him. It is an elixir that cannot quench, but only promise quenching. 

An iron skillet red with heat, butter burned off, bacon seared black.

 The owner of the butter, the bacon, the skillet, the renter of the stove, apartment, the borrower of the body. 

Borrower of the body.

"Borrower of the body."

He looks at his arms, down at his pasty legs, his body wrapped only in underwear. His eyes are red from the realization that he is alone.

He walks out onto his balcony, several stories up, looks down.

In his minds eye, his life is taken away in one neat leap over the edge. He imagines falling. He imagines a dull thud. He imagines... what?

"Blackness?"

He's gone over this.

"But I won't be there to experience the blackness. So nothing? But nothing requires something. What then?"

In his mind's eye, he tries it on for size a few more times.

"It doesn't make sense. It just doesn't..."

He takes a deep breath, then shouts at the top of his lungs. "IT DOESN'T MAKE ANY GODDAMNED SENSE!"

He turns around, arms flexed, eyes lubing up, hair frazzled, and sees his housekeepeer staring at him wide-eyed.

He laughed. She tried to laugh with him.

"I'm sorry Marta."

"S'OK, it... it happens."

"Ha, I think I've lost it."

"I turned off your oven, you were gonna start a fire."

"I don't know what it means."

"I TORNED OFF YOR OVEN, YOU WERE GONNA STARTA FIYER."

He laughed again.

"No Marta, I mean life... nothing seems to make any sense."

"No one said it had to. Now go get some sleep, I'll come back tomorrow."

"Thanks, Marta. I'm really sorry about this."

"Jus' don't forget to pay me." 

*creak*

Aha, a secret trap door. It's almost eerily contrived. I mean, this house was built in the 60s along with every other cookie-cutter piece of shit in this neighborhood. In order to install the door, the spiral staircase underneath, and the highly sleek series of tunnels and control rooms without any of the neighbors noticing must have been insanely expensive. 

Seriously, the first question I'm going to ask this guy when I catch him, and I will catch him, is, "Hey buddy, who did you hire to design your basement?"

Is that was a serial killer expects to hear when apprehended? I'll be honest when I say I have no idea. Just think, I've captured 4 of them, and I still get sheepish around them when I take them in. I try not to let it show, but I get tongue-tied, the way some folks might get nervous around a celebrity.

I know my steps are quiet, but I also know this place is just rigged with alarms and cameras. I'm sure just opening the trap door notified Johnathon "The Baby Slasher" McGinnis that I was coming inside. So, either he's bolted through a clever escape hatch (and I wouldn't doubt there are several such things in here) or he's about to ambush me.

Or, as I turn cautiously into what appears to be a bathroom (very nice: stainless steel everything and tasteful decor, just wow), perhaps he slipped in the shower about 3 weeks back and broke his back.It looks like he was able to turn off the water, but little else.

Maybe I can find the blueprints for this place in his office.