The cocoon-like tent had been his response to the dice’s chosen cause of death: asphyxiation, and it had proved to be a trickier endeavour than he’d originally thought. After a number of failed attempts, he had settled on a construction consisting of two bicycle wheels fastened to either end of a six-and-a-half-foot-long steel pipe.

The unconscious man lying on the living room floor hadn’t measured more than five feet ten inches, so he had fitted nicely between the wheels, and he had secured the man’s neck, arms and legs to the steel pipe with various straps.

Then he had put a big, transparent plastic bag over one wheel and the man’s head and another one over his feet and lower half. He had taped the openings of the two bags together with duct tape. The bicycle wheels at either end had kept the plastic reasonably taut and after three layers, he felt satisfied it was airtight.

Pleased, he’d sat down on the floor and waited. It wasn’t something the dice had ordered him to do. He had fulfilled its requirements and was mostly just curious how the man would react when he woke up from the blow to the back of his head, and how long it would take for the carbon dioxide to make him pass out again.

The old man had woken up much sooner than he had expected and as soon as the first shock wore off, he’d tried to free himself, until he realized that was impossible. Then he had proceeded to writhe around instead, in a desperate attempt to punch a hole in the plastic cocoon.

Luckily, he’d had the foresight to tape up the man’s mouth, so he wasn’t able to bite, though in all honesty the original purpose of the tape had simply been to spare him from having to listen to his screaming. Because scream is what he’d done, almost continuously, until he had passed out again, three and a half hours later.

The whole thing had been a tremendous success. He’d been so fired up, he’d needed a twenty-kilometre run before being able to relax in a hot bath.

The day after, he’d taken out his icosahedron, champing at the bit to get started on his next mission as soon as possible. But for some unfathomable reason, he had rolled an eighteen. It was the third highest number and meant he had to sit back for eighteen full days before striking again.

But now, it was finally time again, and he had been shaking the icosahedron for so long the cold marble had warmed to the same temperature as his hands. This was a step he didn’t mind drawing out. It was like the seconds before an orgasm, and once the die was cast, there was no turning back.