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Torsten tried in vain to calm himself by arranging his massage oils in alphabetical order. Apricot, Castor, Emu, Olive. He usually found the task soothing, but nothing could quell the anger he was feeling right now.

For the past three years he'd been working in this hotel, enjoying the women who worshipped him for his fingers, his blonde good looks and his killer abs. Abs so rippling they reminded one of a guy who's been working on building rippling abs for a really, really long time.

In those three years he'd almost been able to forget his past in Hudiksvall, the city of his birth, from which he'd fled after eluding the Swedish police. Back home he was known as the "Keesterngen Killerenen", which roughly translated to "Ass Man Murderer", a moniker he'd earned after brutally slaying a string of proctologists.

And now this hotel was about to be descended upon by hundreds of the bastards. The very idea made him shudder in a way that a person might after they've driven over a racoon in the road that's been run over several times already, but only recently, and you know that some of the goo has got on your car. How could he continue to suppress the memory of his childhood proctology exam gone horribly wrong with these monsters at every turn? Monsters. That's what they were, with their monstrous tools and long, fat, probing, rubber-glove encased fingers. The mere smell of that rubber would send him into a fit of vomiting so violent and awful it was like, well, suffice it to say it was really gross.

He simply could not endure this. He'd have to think of something.