Jigsaw, the exceptionally well organized serial killer from the Saw series, discusses his pending order with customer service.
“No, no, you don’t understand, that’s not going to work. You guys promised me this order would be ready . . . no, don’t tell me about back-orders, I’ve got a schedule to keep. I need those bear traps . . . no, the ones you sent were just regular old bear traps. I need reverse bear traps. Reverse. Yeah, they open outward. Why? Don’t worry about why, just send ’em! And I still am waiting for that scrap metal, all three tons of it. I also need fifteen gallons of hydrochloric acid, three canisters of nerve gas, four coils of razor wire — are you writing this down? — a bakers dozen of rusty saw blades, extra rusty this time, a couple of Bunsen burners, plus maybe, oh, say two thousand infected hypodermic needles . . . No, I need all of it. ALL of it. It’s all interconnected, don’t you see?
Do you know how many balls I’ve got in the air at the moment? Do you have any idea of how much logistical planning goes into kidnapping eight complete strangers (or are they?), drugging them, transporting them to my lair, chaining them up, fitting them in various sadistic torture devices, then keeping them drugged so they’ll wake up precisely on time only to go on to either die horribly due to their own capriciousness or survive as a shattered hulk but finally able to appreciate the rare and precious gift that all life is? Well, do you? And now you’re telling me that my cattle prods are not going to be here on time?! This is entirely unacceptable. Rest assured that this will all be mentioned in my scathing Yelp review.
What is your name? How is that spelled? Is that with a t or . . . okay, I’ve got it. Well, I hate to say it, because I’ve been a customer of yours since before there was a single sequel, but I just may need to take my baroque industrial torture business elsewhere . . . well that’s more like it. Tuesday, you say? You can guarantee that? Morning or afternoon? Let me look at my organizer. It looks like it’ll have to be afternoon because I’ve got something in the morning — I’ve got to record a cassette tape that will be coated in wax and sewed into the stomach of a petty criminal who will be found dead in a room where another ostensibly unrelated man (actually his bastard son) will be chained to a radiator and will need that cassette because it provides the combination to the safe that contains the key to the lock that binds him to the radiator, all before he’s killed by electrocution, but I should be free by noon. Okay, that’ll work . . .”