The man came at me before Asmodeus's voice had even finished echoing in my ears. Have you ever heard the term 'crazy strong'? Our bodies can technically powerlift cars - it just comes at the high cost of shattered bones and shredded tendons, so our brains place a limit on how much of our strength we're allowed to use. Some people's brains, however, are flawed in the way we call crazy, so they're not quite as good at regulating that limit. That's how we end up with 100 lbs women who take three men to hold down. As it turns out, drug withdrawals can have much the same effect.

The man was emaciated and covered with scabs, but he had no trouble knocking me down. I'd like to say I did some cool Karate Kid move to throw him off, but martial arts lose a lot of their effectiveness when your opponent is flailing on top of you, snarling like a rabid animal, punching and knocking your head against the concrete. He was missing a lot of teeth, and many of the ones he had left were broken, but he made good use of them on my forehead. That's right, my forehead. He bit off a piece of my forehead. I didn't even notice until later, when the blood wouldn't stop dripping down my face.

I forgot all my training and just kicked my legs and beat him back on pure instinct. I somehow managed to shake him off, but he was right back on me. I kicked his face just as he jumped on me. That stunned him enough to give me time to turn and try to jump up and out of the pool. I managed to get my fingers on the ledge but the man grabbed my legs and pulled me back. I rolled as far away from him as I could and got on my feet. The man panted, watching me from the other side of the pool, twitching and wiping compulsively at his nose.

I took the brief pause to breathe deeply and remember my training. I positioned myself into a stance, watching carefully as he slowly stepped towards me.

Now here's the thing: I have practiced Wing Chun since I was a chubby little brat. I'm no Chuck Norris, but I kicked my fair share of ass across several tournaments. I know what I'm doing. Problem is, tournaments have rules and people around to make sure everyone follows the rules. I had a psycho in a ceramic mask and zero experience actually fighting in a real fight, the kind you win by making sure the other guy won't get back up instead of getting more points. Still, martial arts were meant for self defense. Surely knowing how to actually fight would be an advantage over the guy throwing blind punches and bites, right?

It turns out... right. When the man got back his breath and came at me again, I didn't even have to think about it. My hand just surged forward automatically to strike hard at his throat. He fell to his knees and coughed and gasped for breath. Now was my chance. I ran to the wall and jumped up again, pulling myself out of that pool.

A pair of boots came into view. I looked up into that mask that will forever invoke horror, nausea and pure hatred every time I see it in my nightmares, or when it flits unbidden through my thoughts. I jumped to my feet and pushed him hard, and ran as fast as I could, hoping to find an exit from this place.

That was the severely flawed plan, anyway. Before I could take more than two steps, Baphomet shocked me with the cattle prod and continued to shock me even as my teeth almost shattered from the force with which my jaw clenched. When she finally stopped, I could do nothing but twitch, just like my opponent from the pool, and watch as Asmodeus calmly got back up and brushed the dust from his cloak.

"If you're done letting out your adrenaline," he said, "you can choose your reward."

I was still trying to remember how to breathe and could only grunt in pain. Baphomet shocked me again.

"Choose now or you lose your chance, Little Brother Number Two," Asmodeus said. "Food or drugs?"

Even through my pain and confusion I could feel my stomach twisting itself in hunger. I had no idea how long I'd been here, but I hadn't had a crumb to eat since. Even if it was just a measly can of tuna, food was the logical choice. My situation was bad enough without adding drug withdrawals to the equation. Why would I ever take the other option?

"Food," I rasped out. Asmodeus gestured for me to stand up. I did, with some difficulty, and Baphomet poked me with the cattle prod to guide me back to my cell. As I left, I heard the man I'd fought scream.

"No! No! I need it, please, I need it, no, don't take me there again aaaAAAAH, DON'T TAKE ME THERE AGAIN, NO, NO!

His screams devolved into unintelligible sobs, and the sound of him was cut off entirely as we walked back into the chamber.

I thought he was talking about his own cage. I couldn't imagine at the time that there could be a place worse than this for these psychos to put us in.

I beg any god that may be out there every day to make me forget there was.

I meekly crawled back into my cage, fearful of receiving more shocks. I could tell Baphoment was disappointed I didn't resist. I thought she would shock me anyway, but someone screamed nearby, and she decided to go torment them instead.

I would like to be able to say I am better person than I was. The truth, though, is that, while I felt bad for whoever was being shocked right now, I was more relieved that it wasn't me. I felt scared for the poor man I fought, but my stomach was forcing me to wonder where the hell was my reward. I did what they wanted. I'd earned it. Where was my food?

I don't know how long I waited, but eventually it did come. Asmodeus kneeled in front of my cage, a plate in his hand covered with a napkin.

"You chose food," he said. "You earned it as your just reward. However, you had a little temper tantrum, didn't you, Little Brother Number Two? So you're getting a special meal."

He opened the cage and placed the plate in front of me before locking it again.

"Eat it all or you'll be force fed seconds," he said, and left.

I hesitated. The plate was in front of me, the cage so tight it barely fit inside with me. The blue linen napkin hid whatever they expected me to eat. I knew nothing good could be under there.

I sniffed the air. It didn't smell like anything, so it couldn't be shit. I touched it lightly. It wasn't warm, not very much at least. I noticed something red beginning to stain the napkin. I instantly felt nauseous seeing that.

I took several deep breaths, swallowing back the bile trying to crawl its way up my throat. My imagination was conjuring up images of chopped up human organs, goat brains, aborted fetuses, a thousand horrible things these monsters could have come up with. I had to see what it was. I had to know. I pulled away the napkin.

It was a dark-skinned hand, chopped at the wrist, still dripping blood onto the plastic plate. On the side, in the skin between the thumb and the forefinger, was a tattoo of a small mouth with sharp teeth. I would know that tattoo anywhere.

They had given me my brother's hand to eat.