Devil's Night

                  "Let me go! Let me go! You fucking bastard!" Hoover flailed his legs, but that only made the chain around his neck tighten. "Let me go you fucking asshole!" 

                    "Phillip, I assure you this is not a game. Obscenities are not your ticket out." A low voice, natural, not simulated, not mechanized or digitized. Hoover would know, he worked with those devices, and sold it to all sorts of weirdos. Like this one guy, was wearing all these funky rings and chains, and had teardrops tattooed all over his face, bright red. He wore a hoodie, they all did, and really scuffed-up jeans. Hoover didn't care; as long as he sold what he had to to support himself. 

                      "How do you know my name?" Hoover's voice squeaked. He wanted to think that the chain was causing such a high pitch, but the truth was he was scared shitless. 

                        "That's right," amusement, "you go by Hoover. Why is that?" Hoover could hear the smile in that voice; the son of a bitch knew the answer to the question. "Is it because you know people will find out what the infamous Phillip Hoover did? You thought no one would know; you thought you could keep that secret," the voice adopted a sneer. Hoover couldn't see anything through the black bag--Hoover thought it was nylon; he recognized the smell---but he sensed the owner of the voice lean down, and Hoover could hear the low rumble as the man hissed in his ear, "But I know your secret." 

                      "Let. Me go!" Hoover flailed his legs again, hoping to kick the owner of the voice, but instead a hand, firm and with a vise-like grasp, snatched his leg and twisted--hard. Hoover let out a strangled yelp, like a shriek from a dog when you step on its foot, and fought to wrench his leg out of the clutch. The man's grip didn't falter. Another strangled, gurgling cry escaped from Hoover's lips. 

                              Hoover said shakily, "Let me go or I'll..." I'll what? he thought. The man with the low voice repeated his thought. 

                               "You'll what, Phillip? You own a store which receives profit off of mechanical device sales. You don't know me; you don't know anyone who knows me...." the voice trailed off suggestively. "Ultimately, you have no leverge over me." A low, throaty chuckle. "Phillip, I have watched you...for so long..." Hoover heard the whoosh of wind as it ruffled through cloth, and then soft footsteps and a grating sound: gravel. Yet Hoover could barely feel only a smooth surface  beneath his work boots. Wood? He tried to tap it but stopped, letting out a pained shriek, when the movement made the chain squeeze around his throat. 

                               "Aaauuugghh..." 

                               "Oh, Phillip, don't choke yourself now. I have your end all planned out, and I do not want you taking yourself out of the equation." More footsteps. Then, "If you expect an explanation, you are not going to receive one. I don't do that shit; it gives the victim, you, too much power, and I'll tell you..." the man leaned down to Hoover's level again, "...I like control." 

                                  The grating sound started up again. Then a sloshing sound, like liquid in a jug.Then a sour, chemical liquid was poured over and on him, seeping into the nylon and tightening it so all Hoover was breathing in was potent, bitter air. It soaked into his clothes, but wasn't sticky. Hoover's breaths were coming out in short huffs, and at regular intervals he erupted into choking coughs, wheezing afterwards. For a while he heard nothing. Then a rustling, and a scratching. 

                                  Wet, uncomfortable, and scared, Hoover shouted in a gasping voice, "Release me you damned son of a bitch! Let me fucking go! I'll kill you, I swear! I'll kill you!" A hearty, genuine laugh echoed around Hoover. 

                                      "You'll kill me, Phillip? With what? How?" More laughing, which made Hoover feel like a four-year-old being scolded. "Phillip, you are such a unique creature, making threats you have no hope of following through.  You know what, Phillip? You started out so well, so...silver-spooned. Yet you threw it away, Phillip. Tossed it out the window. You had such a great opportunity at life, Phillip..." 

                                     Then a ppphhhhffftt sound, and before Hoover could recognize the sound of a match being lit, before he could associate that orange glow through the nylon bag as a flame, his body was engulfed in hot, searing agony. First it was like needles being slammed into his skin, then little bugs biting him, then the pain was too unbearable to connect to any physical situation. He screamed, louder than he ever had before, screamed as loud as he could even though he could feel the smoke filling up his lungs, choking him. He screamed and shrieked for his life, and above the cacophony, he heard the low voice: 

                                      "Such a great opportunity..." 

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So this was just an idea triggered by the smell and taste of gasoline; I don't know if I'll continue it. This is more of an experimental story, but I hope you readers like it.