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Terry L Vinson

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KING of The KiLL
By Terry L Vinson
Posted: Friday, August 12, 2005
Last edited: Monday, August 13, 2012
This short story is rated "PG13" by the Author.

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Recent stories by Terry L Vinson
· Jingle BONES
· WHAT Goes There?
· Reign of Goblins
· Passing the Torch
· Duped Net: The Interrogation
· The Shredder
· Duped-Net: Undercover Blues
           >> View all 29
In a futuristic tournament of death, the World's most merciless serial killers vie for the right to be dubbed...'King of the KILL'...

  

Our tale of death, dismemberment, and dishonor ensues:

“Amazing. Simply astonishing.

Mr. Kincaid, and I state this with the highest level of sincerity, you are indeed the King of the Jungle. Bravo, sir….well done indeed.”

Murray Kincaid, thirty-nine years of age and resembling a man ten years his senior, stepped forward with a slight limp and shrugged wearily while lowering his pumpkin-shaped head.

“Like I’ve said a million times, Chief. I do but one thing…, but I do it very, very well. When he wasn’t beating me with a strand of barbed wire or kicking me in the groin, my old man always said that if you’re gonna do something, anything…do it right.”

There was a short pause as Kincaid squinted into the gloomy darkness while running his stubby fingers over the prominent bald spot at the back of his skull.

“But…the precision, the….predatory skills you displayed. Nothing personal, Mister Kincaid, but from a physical standpoint, you’re about as threatening as Mister Rogers.”

Kincaid licked his chapped, slug-like lips while rolling his eyes skyward.

“The element of surprise is a major part of the arsenal, Chief. Nobody, and I mean nobody, sees it coming from a Joe Normal looking bloke like myself.”

The voice boomed out in a hardy but strangely robotic laughter, causing Kincaid to reel back as if backhanded across the face.

“Understood. Very good point, Mister Kincaid. Now, before the awarding of the promised prize, allow me a quick verbal recap of the tournaments final results. A blow by blow account, you might say.

Upon entering the confidence course/maze, you first dispatched of the German representative, Igmar Johannson, with a combination throat jab and groin kick, followed by a two-handed neck-snapping technique that all but decapitated the poor man. Impressive, being that Mister Johannson was ten years your junior and outweighed you by over sixty pounds.

For the record, and possibly even your own curiosity, the Johannson had recorded eleven documented kills over a three year period, utilizing various weaponry such as knifes, straight razors, a pick axe, and the heels of his size thirteen work boots."

“Big kraut took me lightly, as they all do," Kincaid barked into the surrounding dark, “size and strength mean little when you woefully underestimate your quarry.”

“Duly noted. The second of your victims was the Korean representative, Kwan Jil Chang, age twenty-eight, and a multi-degreed black belt in various martial arts to include Karate and Tae Kwon Do. Strangled the man with his own belt before fracturing his skull with a perfectly executed series of kicks.

Again for the record, Mister Chang’s personal tally included nine known victims in just under twenty-four months. Also purported to be a connoisseur of necrophilia with his female victims and cannibalism with the male, Chang’s weapon of choice was, predictably, his bare hands."

“Wiry little booger, I must say. Lightning quick and surprisingly stout. Again, his cockiness and blatant underestimation of my own hand to hand combat skills cost him…dearly.”

“Indeed it did, Mister Kincaid. The final to fall was one Kerry Peterson, one of two U.S. contestants and the lone female within the twelve-person tournament. With a confirmed victim count of seventeen over a nine year period, the media labeled ‘Boston Mauler’ slew prostitutes and their Johns alike with a variety of, shall we say, very creative weaponry, to include razor wire garrotes, cross bows, bone saws and meat cleavers. At six-three and a robust two-hundred twenty pounds, Miss Peterson’s woefully apparent misuse and abuse of both illegal narcotics and muscle-building steroids had spawned quite the sadistic brute in a gentle female guise.

I must confess, your casual dismantling of such a… worthy opponent came as quite the shock, not to mention the savagery with which you dispatched her with only the tiny pocketknife we’d provided. Was it…(clears throat)…really necessary to saw off both her arms once she’d expired, not to mention… the head?”

“Sorry Chief…got a bit… carried away. Something about Butch-type females trying to bust my balls that brings out the bloodlust in me. Ask my first wife…well, actually, guess that isn’t really possible, unless you’re into grave robbing.”

“Apologies are not necessary, Mister Kincaid. You are a creature of instinct…of…impulse. Now…(long pause)…”

Kincaid raised his clinched fists into the air, pumping them wildly.

“To the victor goes the spoils, correct? Rumor has it the prize is nothing less than a full pardon from the powers that be. Hey, it isn’t as if I haven’t earned it, right? Just freed up quite a few cells on death rows all over the World. No need to thank me. Never been much one for absorbing flattery without feeling a might suspicious in the aftermath.“

“Um, afraid there’s been a rather…radical change of plans, Mister Kincaid.”

As the space around him gradually transformed from pitch black to murky dimness, Kincaid took a cautious half-step back and allowed his arms to drop to his sides.

“The hell you say, Chief! You’re not putting the screws to me now, damn it…”

“In a manner of speaking, I’m apt to answer that particular query with an unfortunate…affirmative, Mister Kincaid, though not without explanation of the vital role you’ve served in our little….experiment.”

“Vital role?"Kincaid bellowed, his prominent gut jiggling like a massive Jell-O mold as he shook in obvious rage, “experiment? Don’t even go there, man. Murray Kincaid doesn’t normally issue warnings. He also doesn’t tolerate being lied to. Pay heed to my needs, Chief, before something …unfortunate happens to soil all the good will we’ve built over the past few days.”

As the room slowly illuminated to reveal a boxed shaped, stone wall enclosure that was perhaps twenty by thirty feet in circumference, Kincaid backed against the nearest of the slick cement walls and braced his heels as to spring forward at a moment’s notice.

He peered down and to his left, where a wooden-handled sling-blade lay with it’s shiny silver blade standing fully erect.

“Oh, I get it. So there’s one more obstacle remaining on your little ‘Wide World of Serial Killers’ confidence course. Well, bring ‘em on, slick. I won’t ever bother with the hardware.”

The room remained deafly silent as Kincaid squinted his eyes from the suddenly intrusive light whose source remained strangely hidden.

“You hearing me, Chief? Let’s wrap up the games and get on with the closing ceremonies. Bring them on, DAMN IT!”

“As you wish, Mister Kincaid. Kindly focus on the section of wall directly to your left.”

A narrow panel slid upward with a low hum. Kincaid cringed back as a blurred form shot through like a sprinting shadow.

The man wore a baseball cap stuffed to overflowing with blondish gray locks, casually stroking a thick growth of similarly shaded beard as he halted less than five feet from where Kincaid crouched in a defensive pose. Stooping to reach the handle end of the sling blade, Kincaid noted the absence of any apparent weapon within the strangers grasp.

“Enter the lions den, pal. Exiting won’t be nearly as pleasant.”

The stranger paused to glance over his left shoulder, as if to cue some unseen observer, then held out each of his hands palms up. He was a stoutly built man whose age was impossible to gauge, with rounded shoulders, spindly thin legs and a prominent, drooping gut.

“Won’t find any help back there, Bud. It’s just you and me,"Kincaid spat with a cockiness that was blatantly insincere in both execution and tone. Secretly, he couldn’t help but think there was something weirdly familiar about the stranger.

Turning back towards Kincaid, the stranger crossed his narrow arms across his chest and openly smirked.

“Shall I end this silly ruse now, gentleman?”

“Yes, yes…"replied the voice from above, “it isn’t nearly as amusing in the execution phase as it was in the planning stages. By all means, show him.”

“Show me-?” Kincaid countered, whipping the sling blade around in a blur and taking a single step forward.

While maintaining the same cheesy grin, the stranger pulled the hat and attached wig away with his left hand while tugging the artificial facial hair from his face with the right.

Kincaid blinked in rapid succession, then proceeded with several labored swallows while again backing to the wall.

“Wha-…? I don’t….what kinda freakish game….how is this possi-…?”

“Behold the prototype, Mister Kincaid. The master blue print, a large portion of which was carved from your very own DNA. Remember the pre-tournament physical at your unit a few months back?"the voice boomed with obvious pride. A pride usually associated with parents of a particularly gifted child, “impressive, yes?”


Kincaid’s throat clicked nervously even as he began to waive the sling blade in a semi-circle in front of his chest like a flagman directing traffic on a narrow, two-lane roadway.

“Stay th-….stay the h-hell away, whatever you are…just s-stay away…” he muttered, tiny spit bubbles forming at the corners of his mouth.

“Much like peering into a mirror, isn’t it, Kincaid? You should be honored actually. We chose you as the dominant DNA strain due to the harmless outward appearance you’ve used so effectively in your kills. Obviously, the results of this little…contest proved our instincts were indeed correct. The other eleven contestants are represented as well; their individual strengths kept intact while all weaknesses have essentially been purged and filtered away.”

The stranger side-stepped gracefully to the left as Kincaid had lumbered forward, easily avoiding the blades looping descent.

“Behavioral controls will take time, of course. This is simply the combat phase.

Ponder it, Mister Kincaid…twelve of the greatest predators on the planet all rolled into one fearsome, fearless, undeniably viscous package. A package that is then tweaked and fine-tuned before being cloned into an unstoppable army to be utilized against any terrorist or subversive element, and with but a single order to carry out. An order which shall no doubt read….terminate with extreme prejudice.

After all, it is all your kind can fully comprehend. As you so eloquently stated earlier, Mister Kincaid, you do but one thing…and you do it so very, very well.”

Lunging forward in a chaotic blur, the stranger first snatched the sling blade from Kincaid’s tremor-racked hands before whipping it across the back of the other man’s knees, seemingly all in one fluid, impossibly quick movement.

“Now, gentleman?” the stranger asked, peering down at Kincaid’s curled form with a scowl which reeked of disgust.

(Sighs) Sadly, yes. He is no longer of any use.”

The stranger planted a foot on the pit of Kincaid’s back and shoved, essentially flattening the torso and legs before looping the blade end up and around like a master swordsman.

A wet ripping sound ensued as Kincaid’s head was parted like segmented fruit, his final movement a jerking death-spasm that served to flip his torso completely onto his back, though the split skull remained face down in cleanly sliced halves.

“Well done, Prototype A. Now please re-enter the processing chamber. There is the matter of memory filtering, not to mention a final check of the cardiovascular system.”

“And then, sir?” the Multi-Clone asked, cocking a single eyebrow as he casually flipped the blood-soaked blade into a far corner.

“Then, Prototype A, there will be an initial field test. First things first….back into the chamber please.”

The stranger paused, rubbing the bald spot at the back of his pumpkin-shaped skull as the wall first hummed then ascended upward. Tilting his head to his chin as to hide the wry smile parting his chapped, slug-like lips, the ultimate test-tube produced ‘killer on a leash’ stepped forward with a slight limp before turning to give his mangled twin a final glance.

“Not to worry, fallen brother of mine,"he whispered through a devilish grin as the wall slid down to block the view, “we will all have our day again…very, very soon.”


Ah yes. Sooner than buffoons such as these could ever possibly imagine.”



END

  

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Reviewed by m j hollingshead 6/8/2014

imaginative, holds reader interest
Reviewed by Nickolaus Pacione 8/14/2005
You see what kind of fun Terry captured with Zombies in the story ZBA, now he does it again with the story "King of the Kill." Of the stories he wrote before this one, this is the most tongue in cheek giving it a rather vicious result. Mr. Vinson has a gift for bringing out the most vile.
Reviewed by Robert Montesino 8/13/2005
Incredibly imaginative write Terry, an olympic serial killer horror story deserving a gold medal for darkness in the macabe fiction category!
Reviewed by Karla Dorman, The StormSpinner 8/13/2005
Terry,

Terrifying, solidly penned write! Well done!

(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
Reviewed by Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado 8/13/2005
solid and scary, terry, very good story! bravo!!

(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in tx., karen lynn. :D


Books by
Terry L Vinson



In Sheep's Clothing

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Gauntlet

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SPECTRAL REWIND: The Class of ’81

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Yellow Fever

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DESOLATION Island

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