Vincent

Chapter 10

Finale

[Monday, November 16th]

"Do you have anything to say for yourself, Mr King?" The woman looked up from her notepad.

Vincent sat straight-faced, not looking up from the desk or speaking a word.

"I'll ask you again -- what in your childhood had caused you to become so wicked? Or were you just born an asshole?"

Vincent jerked violently in the straight jacket and ankle chains, attempting to lunge at the interviewer. He gritted his chipped teeth under the muzzle they had strapped to his face. The woman grinned, waiting for her answer.

"You have no business asking about my childhood. That right of yours was taken away when people like you used my name and face as a segway to your own shitty fame."

"So you're just naturally this intemperate?"

"Burn in hell."

Four men entered the room, their faces fully covered. They uncuffed Vincent from the chair and dragged him away. The killer scowled again as four more masked figures created a perimeter around Vincent and his guides. The nine characters passed by cell after cell. Numerous dangerous criminals pressed back against the walls furthest from the bars, afraid of the psychotic boy at least ten years younger than the rest of them.

The guards approached a seemingly unreasonably guarded containment cell, readying to open the locks for the first and last time.

[Friday, November 13th]

Vincent sat at the small table in his kitchen in the dark. The motel had been shut down three years ago, so no power was in any of the rooms anymore. No one had known Vincent was living there for at least six years, and he didn't plan on being found out any time soon. Especially not on his twentieth birthday.

Back when he was younger, before the accident with Davin and his mom, Vincent always expected to have a huge celebration when he turned twenty. He'd wanted so badly to be someone important to the world - to make a mark on society. What he hadn't considered was how that goal would be met just eight years later.

Instead, he was sitting alone, hiding from the police in a motel room that smelled like rotting blood and cigarette smoke.

"Happy birthday to me," Vincent mumbled the tune to himself, flicking his lighter on and off repeatedly.

Sirens blared through the streets as everyone was searching for the notorious Killer King. Spencer Maxwell herself had put together the best team of enforcers in the city, and Vincent hadn't been able to set even a foot outside his door without risking getting caught since. He was trapped in a rancid motel room with nothing but a dwindling box of cigarettes, an axe, and a fridge full of expired food.

He could hear the squad cars pulling up outside, knowing he had finally run out of time. But he didn't move. Didn't fight. As much as he hated getting caught, there was nothing he could do now. The door busted in as Vincent was whisked away, an old cigarette falling from his mouth.

He'd expected it for a while and was honestly surprised it had taken so long for them to find him. All it took was displaying one of their enforcers on the busted motel sign outside, and presto, they finally discovered him after nearly a decade of lousy service. They pinned him down and harnessed him with a straight jacket and face muzzle before throwing him in the back of a padded van.

"That's really the best you can do?" He shouted. "I look like some cheap Hannibal Lecter wannabe in this thing!"

"Shut it, King," one of the enforcers shouted back. "I'd say you have the right to remain silent, but it's more of a warning than a legal precaution."