UNGRATEFUL

The housekeeper flinched as Thompson's booming voice shook from the living room nearby.
"Where is my breakfast! I asked for it fifteen minutes ago!"
She nearly dropped the tray containing his eggs, toast, and juice as she slowly recovered her composure and entered the room.

Sitting sullenly in an electric wheelchair was Franklin S. Thompson III, the luckiest man on earth, and perhaps the nastiest one as well. About two years earlier, he had been a victim of a multiple shooting. Thompson claimed it was a burglary attempt, and that he had driven the robbers back as far as he could before dropping to the floor, unconscious. Of course, anyone who knew Thompson knew differently. He had just ticked one of the people he came into contact with off just above what a rational human could take, they snapped, and walked in on Thompson, guns blazing. Of course, nothing was stolen or missing from the manor.
Thompson had a lot of money, you see, and he desperately clung to the notion that life wasn't worth living if one had to die. His greatest endeavor was to achieve eternal life, and he would stop at nothing to gain it. After the shooting, which had left him in a coma for months, Thompson may have gotten what he wished for; the world's most advanced bionic heart and circulatory mechanism. Some doctor had apparently cared more for a second estate in the Hills than for the miserable lives of the acquaintances of Franklin S. Thompson III.
Unfortunately for Thompson, however, technology couldn't quite master the neurological damage sustained from a shattered spine and severed cord, and so the wealthy grouch was confined to a wheelchair.

Thompson grumpily grabbed the tray from the distraught maid and waved her off with a rumbling growl. It wasn't long, however, before he summoned her back with an ear-splitting holler, "You incompetent wench! What is this, leaving an eggshell in my food? You want to kill me slowly, don't you!"
She shrunk before him like a withering leaf, shaking and red-faced with embarrassment and hurt. "But sir...." she murmured.
"Shut up and let me finish, you inconsiderate - I want you to take this disgusting crap and shove it where it belongs, in the garbage can! Then you're going to make me an entirely fresh breakfast with eggs done the right way, understand?"
She meekly took the tray and turned to go, but not before Thompson could insert one last comment.
"Oh, and by the way, don't be so sure you can kill me. I'll be around long before your children and grandchildren rot in a swamp somewhere. If, of course, you have any; your looks aren't exactly stellar, you know."
The small light steps broke into a sprint as she exited the living room. Halfway down the hall, she almost ran into Claude, the chauffeur, who saw her panicked face and held her steady as she broke into uncontrollable sobs.

"I know how you're feeling, Janelle," he said soothingly as he comforted her, embracing her as he walked her into the kitchen. "I'm not sure I can stand it for much longer, this abuse."
She sniffed and nodded. "It hurts so much."
"I know," Claude said, "But is it worth all the money he gives us to live in a hell of his choosing? Surely there must be others who would be more grateful for our services, or at least polite to us."
"But he can ruin us if we leave," Janelle replied. "He can destroy us and all we have worked our whole lives for."
"What have we worked for? For this filth? This is not work, it is abuse. And I'm not sure the solution is that we just leave."
Janelle looked at Claude quizzically. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, we take matters into our own hands and never allow Master Thompson to harm anyone else again."
"You mean -"
"He says he's invincible, that he can't be killed. The man's lived for ages and has always pursued a long life. Let's test his theory. And tomorrow we leave."
"But how?" Janelle asked.
Claude closed the door to the kitchen behind them. "Let me explain..."

A cold and dreary afternoon, turned into a gloomy evening, rain pounding against the roof of the mansion, echoing fervently throughout its spacious chambers in a persistent drumbeat. The chandelier in the great hall winked on as Janelle wheeled Thompson to his bedroom on the opposite end.
"NOT SO FAST!" he screamed. "Why do I have to remind you every day.. has anyone ever told you how worthless - watch where you're going!"
She carefully wheeled him into the bedroom and positioned him next to his four post bed. Manipulating a series of levers, she got the wheelchair seat to tilt and swivel, then lift Thompson's paralyzed form to bed-level.
"-Be careful, idiot! You drop me, I dock your pay for six weeks!"
She gingerly eased him into bed, ignoring the grating comments from the bitter old man. When he was positioned correctly, she unfolded the bedcovers over him. Then she punctuated her effort with, "Would you like anything else, sir?"
He looked at her rudely, giving her slender form a sweeping glance. Like a wolf on the hunt, he licked his lips. "Er, no. Just get out of here... you bother me. Maybe when they find a cure for my paralysis..."
She shuddered, suddenly sick to her stomach at his leer, turned, and quickly stepped out the door, shutting the bedroom door as she left. Claude was waiting there, hiding in the shadows nearby.
"Do not worry," Claude whispered. "We will be out of here before dawn. Life will be much better soon."

Thompson awoke with a start. At first, he did not know what had awakened him, but soon his senses caught up with his consciousness and he noticed the smell, a faint sharp odor of burning wood. He looked around, still dazed.. a smoky haze filled the room, getting thicker with each passing second. His eyes burned. A cough forced itself out of his lungs.
"Wha- Janelle! Get up here now! Are you deaf? JANELLE! I think something's... burning!"
Fire.
He could hear it creeping up aggressively, licking at the door. He could see the flickering of the hungry flames as they reached through the cracks of the door frame. He struggled to catch his breath, looking through the smoke to see if that stupid girl was doing anything to put it out. There was no sound but the crackle and pop of the fire just outside his bedroom door.
He had to do something. Propping himself up on his good elbow, he slid himself out of bed and plopped noisily on the floor. It was a long drop, and his right shoulder streaked with sharp pain. Wonderful, he thought. The shoulder was probably dislocated.
With his hand, trying his best to overcome the pain, he creeped along the floor, slowly, just under the cloud of smoke that continued to build. The temperature in the room was stifling, and the flames were making short work of the door. There was a fire extinguisher propped up on the wall in the near corner; he only needed to be able to reach that with his crippled body, and he would at least have a fighting chance against the raging fire.
He inched closer, closer...
CRACK. The door gave. It fell to the floor with a loud thud, and the flames spread to the surrounding rug. The heat was barely tolerable. A lick of flame emerged on the bed's blankets, and soon the whole bed was engulfed. A sheet that was aflame fell to the floor, landing on Thompson's leg.
Paralyzed, he did not feel his pajama pant leg catch fire.
He did not feel the skin peel away from his legs, or his pubic hair singe to dust.
He did, however, feel the sting of burning flesh as the fire advanced above his waist, blistering his stomach, consuming him.
He screamed for a long time, as long as it took before the intense heat shriveled his tongue and blackened his eyes. There was infinite pain, infinite suffering, until the blackness caught up with the agony and he finally lost consciousness.

Two heavily protected men in yellow firemen's uniforms walked through the smoking, steaming rubble, panning their flashlights around what looked to have been a master bedroom.
"Joe! Over there!" one shouted to the other.
Joe walked over to where his partner was pointing. A blackened husk of a human figure lay on the floor, charred and barely recognizable.
Joe walked around the body, and said, "This must be Thompson. Looks like we're in his bedroom, Steve."
Steve replied, "Poor guy. Looks like a pretty painful death."
"Well, from what I hear, a lot of people aren't too sympathetic. I hear he was an arrogant turd."
"Whatever, it's too painful of a death for anyone to have to endure."

In the blackness, he heard voices.
What did they call me?
It would be their jobs when he got well again. He would wait, bide his time, get the feeling in his legs back, and teach them a thing or two about respect when he was healed. He had plenty of money to get it all done. Plenty of money, and all the time in the world.
He wanted to shout out to the men, show them he could hear everything they were saying, but he could not manage to speak. He wanted to flail around and show them a hand gesture or two, but could not feel his hands. There was no sensation but his consciousness and his hearing.

TWO DAYS LATER

How could they insult him like this to his face... all those people calling him perverse, nasty names behind his back. It was a matter of time, he knew. His heart still pumped furiously like it had always done. His thoughts were lucid, complex, and focused on revenge. Revenge on all those fools who thought they could do him in by lighting his house on fire. That Justine! She needed a man who would be more powerful, more domineering than she had ever dreamed. He knew his iron grip turned her on.. it turned him on. He could almost sense the pleasure, what it would be like when his nerves and sense of feeling were restored.
He felt motion. It was eerie, as if he were being lowered. The sounds had grown muffled and faint, as if he were underwater. Then the familiar sound of rain pattering on the roof... a steady thump thump that echoed above him, a comforting sound that always seemed to lull him to sleep, as the voices grew fainter and fainter and fainter, until there was no sound at all.
No sound, for a long, long time. Nobody dared bother him, not until he healed and was able to wreak vengeance.
Silence.
Timeless silence.
Then a faint click, and another. A rustle. A wet, slippery sound. The sounds slowly multiplied, grew louder, a cacophony of chorus, a symphony of hums, clicks, and clatters. They drew nearer and louder, nearer to his ears over time, until...
.... he felt something for the first time in ages...
Something had entered his ear.
Strange discomfort, an invasion by something the likes of which he could not describe. It was filling his ear, others followed.
Then, sharp pain.
It fed. They fed.
As his consciousness slipped away, as his brain was slowly being eaten by whatever vermin occupied this cramped, dark space with him, he realized where he was... where he had bided his time for so long... and so futilely.
And as his brain became digested matter to feed another generation of scavenging insects, the sweet nectar of life, his life blood, continued to pump, his mechanical heart beating as hard as it ever had, sustaining the shell of an angry man forever.