Goodbye audience. Goodbye dogs. Goodbye "chief". Goodbye etiquette. Have a wonderfully safe trip on your way to hell. I, for one, am not allowed there; hell, of course, doesn't have a use for the criminally insane. It doesn't have a place for the evilly born. It doesn't accept the devil himself. Why would it, though? Why would it possibly embrace everything that it represents? I can answer that, my lovelies; Hell feeds on the weak, it feeds on the poor and mannered soul. Do you have a poor or mannered soul? If the response is 'Yes', then to Hell with you.
To Hell with you Chief Abner and your dangerous curiosity. Curiosity killed the cat, you know. Of course, you, my dear Bulldog, are anything but a crafty feline. Did you think I wouldn't notice your greasy residue on my book? Did you really believe that I was that ignorant? That I could never spot the signs of a human rifling through my items? As I've heard somewhere in a movie once:
This is War.
I have many more tricks up my proverbial sleeve, Mister Abner, there is so much that you will never see coming. You will not even know what hit youand when it does, you will be blown away. It's high time for you to see why I am called the Puppet Master. Are you ready, Mutt, to submit and become a dusty toy? a lifeless doll? a, dare I say, puppet on a string?
I wish you the best of luck, pawn, in our new-found game.
_____________________________________________________________________________
Chief Abner strides down the darkened corridor of the Institution, boots clacking sharply against the silence. He passes one cell, two cells, three cells, four until he stops at the end of the hall and slides through the barely open door to his left. There, sleeping in deceitful peace, his project, his inmate, his opponent lays on a worn cot. Carefully, so very carefully as not to disturb the man, Abner enters the room with quiet breaths. Resting under the sink, well hidden in the cell's shadows, a dark journal waits for its owner to write once again. Quickly, as fast as possible, the Chief flipped to the most recent entry.
Ten minutes later, he walks calmly back to his car and his home, one phrase echoing through his muddled mind.
"Game On."
YOU ARE READING
Behind Bars
Mystery / ThrillerWhat he did was not wrong. It was necessary. He speaks directly to the readers of his journal, imploring them to believe his reasoning. He is a murderer. He is a sociopath. He is Behind Bars. For now...
