Mortimer stood rigidly outside of the dilapidated house. Discarded appliances littered the yard, a rancid sofa on the front porch. The place was revolting. He recoiled at the thought of entering.
They wouldn’t want to give it back—they rarely did—and he found these repossessions more difficult with the destitute.
Mortimer entered through the half-open door and found an unconscious heap on top of a beer-stained mattress: his quarry. He was covered in puke; a hypodermic needle hung from his tattooed arm.
Curling a lip in disgust as he approached, Mortimer set to the task of reclaiming the man’s soul.