— Thank you, Mr. Pitt.

The door buzzes and I push it open and step into the foyer. It's a hardwood-and-muted-colors kind of a place. The weasel that made me strip is sitting at the security desk. I'd like to say that

he's big, but that's just not the case. I'm big. This guy left big several workouts ago and has been living in huge ever since. He comes out from around the desk and looms at me.

— Sorry about the inconvenience, Mr. Pitt. May I take your things?

I pull off the robe and the headpiece and he takes them over to a coatrack while I check out my face in a mirror by the door. Yeah, I can see myself in the mirror, big deal. My face is a little pink just from being out, but there's a violent red streak across it from pulling open the veil. I can already see where the skin is turning white and flaking. It hurts like fuck. The steroid king comes back over and looks at my face.

— Hmm. I could get you something for that if you like. Some unguent or Bactine perhaps?

I stare at him.

— What happened to the guy used to be here?

— I'm sorry?

— What happened to the guy used to be here that knew who I was and didn't need to see my face? — Oh, him.

The giant walks over to his desk and sits down so that he's back on eye level with me.

— He was executed.

No playful euphemisms around here, boy. No. He was retired or dismissed. Just get it out there, He fucked up so we dragged him outside and staked his hands and feet to the ground and waited for the sun to come up and burn him dead from advanced skin cancer in about twenty minutes. How do I know they did it that way? I said they were traditionalists. That's the way traditionalists do it.

— Too bad, he was alright.