Sweat poured off Dalton in sheets, making His skin glisten in the low light of the garage. The speed-bag above Him sounded like a fully auto machine gun, as His fists met it, practically a blur to the eyes. The look in His eyes was furious, and it seemed whatever He was feeling was being taken out on that poor bag. 

He stopped for a moment to catch His breath, turning His attention instead on the training dummy behind Him. One-two punch followed by a stiff knee to the side of the dummy's head, His feet reconnecting with the floor with a loud thud. There was more than one way to take out aggression, but this was the safest. He didn't really want to hurt anyone. Well.....maybe He did.

He heard the garage door lifting slowly, but He didn't turn around. He didn't care who it was. "Will you please come eat?" Her soft voice pleaded.

"I'm not hungry..." He growled.

"You have to eat. I'm so worried about you." She sobbed.

"I'll eat when I'm fucking ready to eat. Leave Me." He commanded.

"Of course. I'm so sorry." ​She softly whimpered as she slowly closed the garage door behind her.

Dalton swung hard, roundhousing the dummy into the wall, then collapsing into His chair to pour a drink. He took a long drink of the whiskey before lighting a cigarette and leaning back with His eyes shut to let the exhaustion take over....  

He woke a few hours later, slightly chilled in His sweaty damp clothing. He pulled His shirt off and rubbed Himself down with a towel. His cigarette had burnt away, and His drink still sat on the table. He quickly finished it, to send some warmth once more through His veins, then proceeded to turn off the garage lights and head inside. He'd had enough for one night. Maybe it was time to get something to eat after all.

As He strode towards the house, He noticed quickly that the side door facing the garage was left open. His brow furrowed as He entered, closing it tightly behind Him.

"You left the door wide open!" He shouted, making His way toward the kitchen.

The refrigerator door was also open, as He could see the spooky glow from the door light. The fuck was she doing leaving all the doors ajar? As He neared the fridge, He saw her, laying prone with the fridge door jammed against her still frame. His mind quickly snapped awake, and He reached for the .38 in His wasteband.

That's when everything went dark....

Searing pain brought Dalton back to consciousness, His eyes struggled to focus, but they were flooded by a bright moving light. Mumbling voices could be heard, faintly. He was bound tight, hands behind Him, sitting upright in a chair, in what looked to be a small room with no windows. A hanging lantern swayed overhead, accounting for the moving light He saw when He first came to. Footsteps drew close, and Dalton quickly closed His eyes again, feigning unconsciousness again.

"He'll be waking soon." (Thug #1) said matter-of-fact like.

"Aye, and he ain't gonna know what hit him!" (Thug #2) replied, cackling with laughter.

Two sets of footstep, and two voices. Dalton needed to keep calm and focus, if He was going to get out of this alive. He had no idea where He was, or if anyone would be looking for Him.

Dalton's right eye was slightly swollen from the beating they must have given Him before He came to, so it was relatively easy to peek out of the slit that was left without giving Himself away.  The real fun part was going to be releasing His hands from these ropes that bound His wrists behind the chair. He watched the men closely as He maneuvered His hands this way and that without moving His arms, so He would remain unnoticed. 

"Go grab some water. We need to wake 'im up." (Thug #1) commanded.

"Why the fuck do I gotta do everything?" (Thug #2) whined.

"Fucking DO it!" (Thug #1) roared.

As thug #2 begrudgingly headed off to get some water, Dalton noticed His feet had not been tied. This would help if He could not get His hands free in time. These thugs messed with the wrong guy tonight. He wondered about His housekeeper, whether she was alright, as the last time He had seen her, she was unconscious by the fridge. He'd make that His second priority, besides getting out of this mess. 

By the time thug #2 returned with the water, Dalton had almost freed His hands, only taking as long as it did since He was trying to be as discreet as possible. He saw His chance, and with a mighty wrench, pulls His hands free and made a leap from the chair straight at thug #1, pulling His head down as He raised His knee, shattering the poor guys nose in one sickening crack. 

Thug #2 stood holding a bucket of water, shocked. He just stared, lips moving but no sound coming out. Dalton walked towards him slowly, then sent a kick to his midsection that laid him flat against the wall, the bucket leaving his hands hovering in the air for a second as Dalton reached out to catch it. He brought it to His lips and drank greedily, then tossed the rest toward the back of the room. He checked both men for weapons, finding His own .38, and two blackjacks, He slipped His gun into His waste-band and headed out in search of His housekeeper. Hopefully they hadn't hurt her.

Dalton hand't had much time to think about where they might have been holding Him. Once outside the room, He realized this was definitely not part of His house. It was a dimly lit hallway that went both left and right, leading to staircases on both sides. He didn't see another door, nothing in the hall, just a couple hanging lanterns like in the 'cell'.

He had to pick left or right, and He couldn't take all day to do it. Who knows what they had done to His housekeeper by now. He started down the hall to the right, heading for the stairs at a brisk pace, trying to soften His footfalls as much as possible. He kept the .38 trained in front of Him, and slowed considerably once He reached the stairs, straining to hear any movement from either direction.

Confident that the way was clear, He started up the stairs, only to realize they kept going up. He counted as He climbed, 5, 6, 7 flights. He was getting winded, as He hadn't eaten in quite some time, He decided to take a short breather. He tried slowing His breathing and calming Himself. He certainly didn't want to give His position away to anyone that might be near.

As He sat there, trying to catch His breath, He felt a warm sensation on His right hand, but saw nothing when He looked down. It quickly got hotter, right between His two fingers. He woke with a start, back in His garage, His cigar had burnt down to a stub, still clutched between the fingers of His right hand. He dropped it quickly in the ashtray and looked at His surroundings, startled.

Jesus Christ....it was all a dream? I've got to stop drinking on an empty stomach. He rushed to the house and in the door to find His housekeeper putting food on the table. "Finally ready to eat, are ya?" She smiled, and went back to the kitchen. "Fucking hell, you wouldn't believe the dream I just had..."