His van cruises into the neighborhood silently, gliding sharklike through the heavy darkness. The streets are empty; the only ones about at this time are slaves and gods - the rest, the cattle, all sleep. His tools lie on the passenger seat beside him - glass cutter, gloves, knives, a small silenced pistol.
The houses drift by unseen. The toys in the yards, the minivans in the driveways - he sees none of them; they are nothing to him. His mind is singularly focused on his house.
He turns onto his street. His house is there on the right glowing like a beacon in the night but he drives past it and parks at the back of the lot at the neighborhood pool several houses beyond. He remains motionless in the driver's seat for several minutes willing calm on the raging fire in his chest. When he moves it is with quick confidence; he gathers his tools and slides smoothly from the van and turns to walk along the path that runs through the woods behind the houses. A minute later he is there.
The house. His house. Those within, his servants - his slaves. Every object in the house, every molecule of air, every dust mote - his. The fire in his chest threatens to burst free but he wills it quiet. He selects the glass cutter and moves to the patio door.