Day 5 (Vincent)

All who witness Vincent's ungainly gait, can see that he is obviously drunk. He sways and he staggers. He whistles a jaunty tune. He carries a bottle of beer in his hand. The contents of the bottle swish as he swings it with abandon.

He is drunk. So drunk that he doesn't see the group of men before him. There are four men, rough-looking to bystanders. Some have scars. All have an air of danger about them. They have their hands in their pockets.

One sees Vincent's inebriated state, points him out to his comrades. They all do a bit a chuckle. And head straight for him. A man, bald and with a sneer on his face, bumps his shoulder into Vincent’s. It is a hard shove, and Vincent stumbles. The bottle falls from his hand and onto the hard ground, shattering on impact. Its contents not much use anymore.

Vincent manages to right himself just as the bald man turns to him.

“Hey! What the fuck man?” he shouts in a show of intimidation, “Why the fuck did you do that? You wanna die man?” His comrades start surrounding Vincent, the sneers more apparent. There is a big guy in green on his left, and a scarred fellow on this right. There is somebody behind him as well.

“You gonna apologize? You gonna give me compensation and fucking apologize?” the bald one screams.

Vincent doesn’t reply. He still stares at the broken bottle. His eyes barely focus on the golden liquid drying on the ground.

“Well? You gonna apologize or what motherfucker?” the man repeats. He pulls out a wicked-looking knife. He seems the type to use it to. Now it is a mugging. Insidious. Common. Vincent still doesn’t respond. So, the man moves the knife nearer to his chest.

“Hey! You listening to me? Motherfucker!” The knife hovers nearer.

Vincent moves. His left hand whips out in a blur and rips the knife out of his assailant’s own. It slashes across the man in green’s throat, a red mist in its wake. Then, the knife changes its angle and impales itself into the bald man’s throat. Vincent pulls the knife out in fluid motion and as the victim claws at his throat to stem the bleeding, stabs the scarred one in the chest. Once, twice. Three times and the man goes down. There is a dark stain forming on his shirt.

There is movement from behind and Vincent sways to the right. A tattooed arm holding a serrated knife ghosts past his left shoulder. Vincent’s right hand grips it, and his left hand slashes down, his weapon slicing the veins of the tattooed arm. There is a cry and the serrated knife falls. Vincent turns to see a man in a blue T-shirt falling to the ground, clutching his hand in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. It does not succeed. Vincent watches as the man slowly joins his comrades on the ground. The whole scene ends in less than thirty seconds.

There are now sirens. And the familiar flashing red lights.

“Police!” someone shouts, and he hears the clicking of readied revolvers. “Hands above your head!”
Vincent decides to comply. He drops the knife onto the pool of blood gathering at his feet, then raises his hand in surrender. He smiles.

An officer with a thick beard runs at him, grabbing him roughly and placing his hands behind his back. Vincent feels cold metal on his wrists as the officer cuffs him.

“They started it,” he said while his rights are being read to him, “They spilt my beer.”

The Police place him in an isolated cell. He has to be treated such, they tell him, as he has just murdered four people. He shrugs at that. The dead men started it. He sits in the cell, and closes his eyes.

He opens them again when he hears the rattling of keys near his cell. He looks at the clock. It’s been almost four hours. This one is longer than normal. Vincent shakes his head. There will need to be words.

The officer with the beard opens the cell door. There is puzzlement and anger on his face. He doesn’t understand.

“I don’t how the fuck this happened, but you’re free,” he says, the rage evident in his voice, “A guy kills four men in public and walks. What the fuck!”

Vincent doesn’t explain. He shrugs, gets up and exits the cell.

When he leaves the police station, he sees a man waiting for me. This man wears a black trenchcoat. Behind him, also in black, is a van. Its engine is running.

“Major Lee needs to talk to you,” says the man, and starts walking towards the van.

Vincent watches the man leave. Then he smiles and follows.

He begins whistling.