The Collector

Again, with documents for verification, he produced an ancient dagger. It was not adorned with gold and jewels as most of the old decorative weapons of yore. This one was plain, almost crude in appearance. It was clear that the intentions of its owner were to use this weapon and not to decorate with it. The blade was tainted with a dark stain, and when I asked why the stain had never been removed, the old man replied that it had come from the heart of that ancient despot, Julius Caesar.

Great were the many treasures in his possession, time and language hinders me from describing them all, but it was what he was to show me next that was the most amazing, as well as the most repugnant. He escorted me into a small, closet-like room. He pulled a frayed cord from the ceiling, and illuminated a single, dirty light bulb above our heads. In the dim light I could see two folding chairs, separated by a single little table. Upon this table, there resting a film projector. There was hung a white screen on the wall facing the projector. The old man motioned silently for me to sit, which I did obediently. I was filled with great anticipation, my mind was reeling, intoxicated with wonderment, anxious to behold what great manifestation was about to be revealed before my waiting eyes. The light mysteriously began to dim, and the old man turned on the projector, which began to hum with vigor. The screen began to flicker with light. Soon, an image began to fade into the screen. What I saw was footage of a dilapidated street corner. Trash flew about and collected in the gutter. Darkness covered the scene like a heavy blanket. A crooked, iron street lamp afforded the only light for the picture. As the camera approached the scene I could detect a figure leaning against the post. As more detail came into focus, I could clearly surmise that the figure was a female prostitute. She was impish and unattractive. Sweat glistened under her meaty arms, and she stood as one whose posture was listless and undisciplined. She was altogether a rather pathetic sight, and yet she stood, selling herself as if she were fine linen. After some time, the camera never leaving her, but hovering over her like some ravenous bird of prey, a well dressed man approached her. I looked and noticed that I was not my gracious host. There was no sound, but judging from their mannerisms, it was quite obvious that the deal was being negotiated. They turned and walked out of the camera' eye. The screen faded to black. When the projection returned, the same man and prostitute were seen sitting on a bed in some rundown motel. The dirty light from a fading neon sign fell across the room like a dripping hemorrhage of blood. They were talking, but I could not surmise what was being discussed. Suddenly, three other men came barging into the room. The woman scream a silent cry of terror, and the "john" shoved her backwards on the bed, ramming a wad of cloth into her mouth to stifle her wailing.