Roland enjoyed luxury. Anyone who knew him or one of his aliases knew as much. Brunch along the French Riviera seemed commonplace to him, though to some the concept of brunch itself was pure fantasy. Gilded cutlery and crystal was laid out before him. The service seemed to be slow or nonexistent. But on such a cool day, a few moments of waiting would hardly be suffering. Roland stepped out on the balcony and inhaled deeply, placing his hands on the small wall before him.

A sharp pain caught his right palm as he pressed it against the cool bricks. He pulled his hand away and looked at it instinctively. A small wound on the ridge of his hand was appearing, blood breaking the surface and trickling down his forearm. Roland cocked his head in inquiry. His finger touched the wound and it opened wider, the flow of the blood increasing a bit. A staunch smell of decay and rot crept into his nostrils and an oppressive amount of heat followed.

His eyes snapped open in the half light of the box. Its aluminum sheet metal walls were shimmering in the heat. Roland sat up as much as he could manage, keeping himself balanced on his elbows. The wound from his dream was still open, small drops of blood scattered across the dirt floor of the box. He suspected one of the many extra residents that the locals dropped in for entertainment. One of the many maladies affecting Roland escorted him back to this hell's version of sleep.

A shock of cold water hit Roland like ten thousand bricks. He vomited reflexively, much to the delight of the locals. Laughter and odds began to form in the conversations around him. His usual dirty rag was tied to his head, which was a blessing to him as he wondered how damaged his eyes were from the darkness. His hands were once again bound with the lovely hemp like vines of the local flora. Gershon had taken special care to put him here in the jungle. Roland imagined the pleasure of returning such good wishes upon its owner.

While Number Two was barking something about airplanes flying over, Number One was doing his writing. Roland could hear the slight scrathcing of a writing implement against paper. It was a source of usual accompaniment for Number One, so named for his apparent leadership role here. Number Two, his lackey and right hand, received his number both by logic and disrespect.

A sharp pain ripped through Roland's innards. The package was definitely in the mail now. He had not been given much time to make a decision on the package's delivery. Basically a condom and a half second alone had been all the planning he required. Now the precious Kabal communicator and its only hope of his rescue made its way through his intestinal tract.

After a lovely beating or three, Roland retired to his aluminum suite, escorted by some lovely gentleman with monstrous B.O. His head swaying, a bit of blood and drool stringing from his mouth, he considered the possibility that he was the odoriferous beast. It made him grin. Porky didn't see it or he would have had it promptly beaten loose. He hit the ground hard as he was tossed into the box. He perked up for a moment to receive the last breeze as the door closed.

Home at last. Although the box was a nightmare of its own, the lack of large Spanish speaking men punching Roland made it seem all the more homey. His mind wandered in the growing oppression of heat. Images cycled through his mind's eye. His Nubian goddess, her white eyes looking down at him in scorn. The cat girl, trained well for her purpose, now sitting alone in a cage. Surely she could escape. Her strength was unmatched. He hoped she would still be there when he returned. Then Meow Meow, friend of his masked rival, would definitely have her hands full the next time they met.

A shudder went through his bowels. The water of the region was working its bacterial magic on Roland's innards. His hand gingerly moved across his torso as he considered the possibility of removal via mutation. It was a possibility he had toyed with for some time now. The problem being that should his aim be less than perfect, he could easily cause a hearty hemorrhage, one that nothing short of surgery could fix. He didn't believe that any of the men present were doctors. In a way, that was also good, since doctors made profound torturers.