Amman lay on his bed, in the dark. *Hurts…* Mother would come soon with the morphine. It didn’t seem to do as much good as it used to. Hurting, always hurting. The pain was a constant companion, and a constant reminder. *Singh did this to me.*
Amman felt unease in addition to the pain. The television people had been chattering all day. The lion-man had escaped. The lion-man was free. Suppose that Singh should be killed before the man, Hamm, could capture him? Then Amman would never have his revenge.
No. That would not happen. The culmination of the story, his story and Singh’s, already was written, woven into the fabric of the Universe before either of them had been born. It would end as it was destined to end, as would it all. Amman would have his vengeance.
A seizure gripped his body. Amman writhed atop the mattress, the clear white sheets coiling around him like a shroud, his single hand trembling, his fingers squeezing tight and then uncurling like the legs of a dying spider. He tried calling out for Mother but did not have the breath. Amman lay alone with his pain. *You did this to me, Singh! And you are going to pay! Oh, how you are going to pay!*
Footsteps on the stairs. Mother. Bringing the needle, the morphine. The spasm eased. Amman gasped in relief.
Patience. He must have patience. Soon enough the beast would answer for its sins. In agony would it beg for forgiveness, to find nothing save greater suffering. Such was destined. So must it be. And when Amman had at last taken his vengeance upon the beast, then would the peoples of the world have their turn.
Soon, Amman would make them all suffer.
