So there I was, smothered in motor oil, strapped to the headboard. I tried to scream out, but my attempts were thwarted by one little word. It began as a whisper, barely audible over the hum of the fan blades. It gained intensity and momentum as though it were an '89 Cutlass Sierra left in neutral on a gradual incline. Finally it poured from my mouth in a desperate attempt to escape. "LUNCH!" I screamed. In the blink of the eye, I was gone, nothing but bruises of a belt on my wrists and the bitter taste of fuel in my mouth, enjoying a bologna sandwich with my tormentor. His name was Axe.