For eighteen years, you've come to this bar every Friday night. For seventy-two seasons, you've stood silent vigil over the emergency exit on the south side of the building. For two hundred and sixteen moments, you've waited with baited breath just feet from the sign instructing you not to block the fire exit.
Your patience is repaid in spectacular fashion.
You notice the smoke before anything else and apparently before anyone else, as it's several minutes between this first hint of a fire and the alarm being triggered. Double lucky for you - your plan would be much more difficult to execute without advance notice.
The first young woman comes tearing down the back hall; you're able to see her because you're holding open the door labeled EMERGENCY EXIT calmly with a welcoming smile across your face.
The smile turns sinister as she and the several patrons following her near the door.
Her face is overcome with unmistakeable horror as you slam the door shut.
Her painful screams as the conflagration takes her are almost orgasmic. The screams of the men behind her less so. You're not gay, after all.