Tied to hooks in the ceiling and flogged with whips of scorpions, Mister Fury suffers, he repents, he questions the depths of his soul. He cries out his sins, the litany of murders, tortures, broken hospitality and calumny.

Irons and heat, stink of burning hair. He screams his voice raw, does Mr. Fury. Beyond words, beyond confession, fleshless wail of torment. Body taut and trembling against his chains, blood running down his wrists.

A dark period then, of silence and isolation.

He sleeps and wakes to agony and the slow drip of water. Mr. Fury throws himself against his bonds, struggles, always struggles.

He is fed by mutes and foreigners. They speak and he does not understand. He weeps and they dry his tears. He bleeds and they clean his wounds. He heals, but alone. He is exiled beyond all humanity. He cries out, and his voice is that of a beast. They feed him, and his mouth is filled with nettles.