Chapter 7

The first time you imagine taking your wife to see Mangler Max, you are sitting across from her at the dinner table. She is telling you about something that happened during her day, and you are listening with the comfortable, imperfect attention that comes from years of marriage. You recognize the expressions that cross her face, the little movements of her hands, and the particular way she raises an eyebrow when she expects you to agree with her.

You have seen these things thousands of times, and there is something reassuring about knowing another person so intimately that even her smallest gestures become familiar. Then, without warning, you imagine her standing beneath the crimson lights of that underground nightclub. The image is so unexpected that you nearly lose track of what she is saying.

You picture her wearing an elegant white dress, nipples pert looking around the unfamiliar room with a mixture of confusion and apprehension. You imagine the heavy steel doors, the exposed brick walls, and the strange collection of sadistic patrons gathered around the edges of the room, waiting to see her brought to ruin.

Then you imagine Mangler Max entering the room. You see him exactly as he appeared in the photograph, with his enormous body concealed beneath glossy black rubber and his massive belly covered by a thick leather apron. His heavy boots strike the concrete floor as he approaches, and the round lenses of his gas mask turn toward your wife. You wonder what she would think of him.

Would she laugh at the ridiculous costume? Would she find his appearance genuinely terrifying? Would she take your arm and ask you to leave, or would she be as curious as you have become? Would she take his hand and go with him, or would he grab her by her hair and drag her to her fate, like the woman in the image?

Your wife asks whether you heard what she just said. You apologize and ask her to repeat herself. She gives you a mildly exasperated smile, and the imaginary nightclub disappears. For the remainder of dinner, you make a deliberate effort to pay attention. Nevertheless, the image returns later that evening.

You are brushing your teeth when you find yourself wondering how Mangler Max selects the women who participate in his performances. Some describe women being approached without warning, while others suggest that the entire performance is carefully negotiated beforehand. The latter explanation seems considerably more plausible, but it is the former that makes your cock traitorously hard.

Surely nobody would permit a stranger dressed like an industrial butcher to seize their wife in the middle of a nightclub without some prior agreement. Even the most unconventional establishments have rules, and the existence of those rules is what allows their patrons to enjoy experiences that would otherwise be genuinely terrifying. You remind yourself of this as you imagine your wife encountering Max.

You picture the two of you attending a private performance with an understanding that everything is theatrical and that either of you can leave whenever you choose. The thought makes the scenario easier to entertain, although it does nothing to diminish the peculiar fascination you feel when you imagine the enormous masked figure turning toward her.

You wonder whether the costume itself is part of the puzzle. There is something deeply unsettling about a person whose face cannot be seen. A mask removes the ordinary signals through which human beings communicate their intentions. You cannot tell whether the person beneath it is smiling, frowning, or staring at something entirely different.

With Mangler Max, the effect is exaggerated by his immense size and almost complete silence. You imagine him standing before your wife, looking down at her through those dark glass lenses, sizing her up like a piece of meat. You imagine her looking back. Then you wonder what terrible things thar he would do to her. The question follows you into bed. It remains with you long after your wife has fallen asleep.