literature

Yellow

Deviation Actions

TheAppleofDiscord's avatar
Published:
138 Views

Literature Text

    Damion Rapace was guilty.  Not only was he guilty, but he was proudly and defiantly guilty.  If asked, he would go into hours of detail of his horrible crimes, each one more fascinating than the last, without even batting an eye or letting slip the slightest indication of remorse.  When he told the tale of the bus load of nuns he diverted off the main highway by a fake 'road closed' sign, never to be seen again, he joyfully quipped that nuns were "a hard habit to break".  In detailing how he had made an entire girl scout troop simply vanish from the planet he mentioned in an offhand way how they tasted "nothing like their cookies", and then in the same breath asked what was for lunch.  His eyes practically sparked when he discussed the week he spent singling out and killing anyone who had paid more than $5 for a cup of coffee that morning.
    After several years of quietly murdering, raping, and otherwise causing chaos and destruction behind the scenes, he had been captured for the very public and brutal murder of several reality television stars - on camera, no less.  Live, before a studio audience, in 1080p High Def and 5.1 channel surround sound, he appeared from backstage with a chainsaw and... for lack of a better term... cut short the dance number currently on stage before turning his attention to the other contestants and the celebrity panel of judges.  He then kicked down the door of the late night show being filmed in the same studio complex, took a seat on the couch, and gave a horrified audience an incredibly detailed account of some of his adventures before the authorities managed to locate and arrest him.
    In fact, the only place that Mr. Rapace would not gleefully take ownership of his wrongdoings was the actual courtroom itself.  There, despite being obviously guilty, he had humbly submitted to the judge and the growing crowd of television cameras a simple plea of 'not guilty'.  Not 'by reason of mental defect', which he could easily have pulled off, nor any claim of extenuating circumstances or a frame job.  Indeed, here in stark contrast to his appearance anywhere else, the gaunt man suddenly became humble and respectful of the system and the judge's authority, meekly stating that he would like his day in court just like any other law abiding citizen.
    Having no other choice, the judge ordered Damion be placed in isolation, maximum security, and to have no visitors other than his legal representation.  Mr. Rapace, naturally, wanted to represent himself, however against his objections the court ordered him to have an attorney appointed to him, if only for the purpose of of making sure that no mistakes were made, no I left undotted or T uncrossed that could eventually cause the state to have to re-open this case.
    His appointed attorney was Percival Dervish, a smallish man who looked not unlike a wet cat in all the worst ways.  His features were perhaps a little too big for his face, wide set and wild eyes buried beneath a thick pair of glasses perched precariously on a waxy button of a nose.  Percival also wore a bowler hat, despite the fact that it was several decades out of style and two sizes too large for his head, as if the hat itself might slowly be eating him from the head down.
    Dervish's single job, he had been told in confidence and off the record, was to make sure things went as smoothly as possible in the proceedings to come.  He had several strategy sessions with Mister Rapace, each less fruitful than the one before.  Rapace refused to budge on his lack of insanity defense, stating in fact that he was perhaps the most sane person involved in the proceedings.  He would not consider the thought that it was not him that had done the horrific acts - indeed, the thought of anyone else possibly getting credit for his self-described "great works" was one of the few things that appeared to stroke any sort of fire of passion in the otherworldly calm demeanor that Rapace continued to front.


    Without the aid of Rapace, the trial went very quickly.  Witness after witness were paraded out by the prosecution, each stating without any hesitation that it was in fact Rapace that had done the deeds in question.  It didn't help that Rapace waved at several of them, his slightly skeletal fingers giving a quick friendly wiggle as a nearly-friendly smile washed over his narrow face.  
    He even interrupted proceedings at one point, surprised that one of the witnesses was alive, stating that he swore he had murdered that person himself, and giving the exact date and time and method.  It turned out that it was a case of mistaken identity - the person he murdered was the identical twin of the person on the stand, and after clearing up the mystery Rapace agreed that such mistakes do happen occasionally and that even he wasn't perfect... and also insinuated that he may have perhaps (just perhaps) killed the wrong twin, and would be revisiting the situation at a later date.
    None of this helped Mr. Dervish's attempts at mounting any form of successful defense for his client.
    Finally, having exhausted any and every legal trick or angle that he could think of and being neatly crucified in court, the prosecution rested and it was time for Mr. Dervish's sterling, irrefutable counterattack.  Of which, to date, there was none.  Dervish requested a recess, which the judge graciously granted, with the trial set to begin again the following morning.  Retreating to their private consultation chamber, a lead-lined windowless cell with guards double posted on each of the two entrances.  
    Dervish, at a loss for any other strategy and not seeing any way to properly represent his client, finally gave in and asked Rapace what his grand plan had been prior to the Dervish's assignment.  Rapace, with a twinkle in his eye and slight saliva beading upon his lip, requested that Dervish send someone around to a bus depot and collect something from one of the storage lockers.  Rapace wanted to admit that into evidence as his one single defense.  After warning his client about the rules regarding "discovery" and withholding evidence, and the potential jeopardy that doing this would place their case in (not that it wasn't already far along a creek sans any form of paddle), Dervish agreed.


    The exterior of the courtroom was a media circus, bordering on becoming a real actual circus.  There were tents that had been set up, people selling food, and a nearly festival atmosphere.  
    It did not help that Rapace, in his unique gory ascent to glory, had developed a significant following from the disenfranchised and disturbed youth of modern culture.  Blonde bombshells wearing tightly fitting t-shirts saying "Damion Can Kill Me Any Day" screamed and howled, maddened to a frenzy, any time anyone came out of the courthouse, with the hopes that they might be able to see their cult hero.  Surly, bearded, trench-coated man-children in their 30s blogged relentlessly from their smart phones, arguing with one another and the entire world for and against the case, the media spectacle, and eventually their own coverage.
    At the center of it all was the courthouse, obviously, but flanking either side of the wide marble staircase leading up to the entrance were large screens on which the coverage was being broadcast to the amassed crowds.  The court had eventually given up and allowed cameras inside for limited periods to cover the case directly for fear that there would be riots by the press of bodies trying to get in to see what was going on, and had reluctantly agreed to this system - not unlike the setup at a concert - in order to appease the ravening masses growing at a disconcertingly exponential rate outside.
    Through all this, Mr. Dervish quietly slipped out.  He wore a disguise - removing his now-famous hat (a hat which several of the revelers were now also sporting) and donning a wig and sunglasses that he kept on his person for such instances.  Fortunately, in spite of all the raucous chaos taking place directly in front of the courthouse on its wide, flowing lawn, the back entrance - which butted right against a busy road - remained relatively unmolested.  A few true believers, hoping to catch sight of Rapace, had staked it out, but either they didn't recognize Dervish as he exited or simply didn't care because they let him go without a fight.
    The bus station was only a few blocks away, almost as if Rapace had planned this from the beginning, knowing somehow where and when he would be incarcerated and what venue that his trial would eventually be held at.  The sign for the stop, Alderbaran Road, was decayed from decades of exposure to the elements, but he could almost feel that this was the right place.  He approached the desk clerk at the dank, grimy urban station, its walls littered with graffiti and (probably) fecal matter, and told him that he had come for the key for the box registered to a Mr. Rapace, and gave the password - Haïta - and the clerk grudgingly handed over the small orange and brass key on a black tether.
    It took only a moment to locate the box.  Like the entire station, the bank of dark red lockers were covered in spray paint and scribbles, and Dervish noticed as mild curiosity that the box was at the the center of a large spiraling pattern, elaborate and almost elegant despite its graffiti nature and the fact that it was done in the harshest, almost iridescent yellow.
    The locker contained a small wooden box, not much larger than a laptop.  It was hinged, obviously designed to be opened, but several locks adorned the end opposite the hinges securing it fast against unauthorized eyes.  The wood itself appeared ancient, like the sort you would find in barns that had stood the test of centuries, or chests, or possibly very sturdy wooden stairs, and was decorated with a series of equally ancient runes that appeared to have been burnt into it some time in the past... hundred years, maybe more?
    Of course, all this was lost on a mind as simple as Dervish's.  He wanted none of this.  He wanted to go back to defending people who weren't six different sorts of crazy, or obviously guilty, or incredibly unfathomably evil - and he got the distinct feeling that at any minute the venerable Damion Rapace was all three.  He would happily trade this client for a hundred prostitutes, druggies, murderers, and other people who didn't look like any minute they were about to leap over the table at any minute and try to eat your face off.


    The prosecution was, as to be expected, outraged at the late admittance of evidence, however since it was universally assumed by all involved that nothing short of a miracle - and even then, it would have to be a big miracle - could cause them to lose this case, they did not object and allowed the box to be entered into evidence.
    Rapace had already taken the witness stand - in his own defense - by the time it was called into question.  Seeing that the prosecution waived their objections, the judge nodded and had the bailiffs bring the box to the witness stand, scooting aside a pitcher of water in order to give it a wide enough berth before setting it down.  Rapace turned his head, screwed up his pale and wizened face, and after a moment of effort managed to cough up a small key which fit perfectly to unlock all the padlocks.  The box creaked open ominously, ancient unoiled hinges being called into function for the first time in ages.  
    Percival Dervish pulled his trademark hat down over his head.
    Damion Rapace placed his withered, nearly translucent hands inside the box as he addressed the court.  "It's been nearly a decade..."  he said, quietly, speaking for the first time officially and on record in the court, "...since I first found this play.  I used to be a librarian, you see, specialized in antique books.  It was brought in as part of an estate sale.  And I would like to share it with you.  I think you'll find, by the end, that it explains everything that has taken place so far."
    And, as the courtroom watched on in breathless anticipation, and as the crowd outside roared in anticipation, and as millions of viewers around the globe watching on cable or the internet tuned in to see what exactly was going on, and as Percival Dervish tried quietly to slip out the back of the courtroom... Damion Rapace opened a dusty copy of The King In Yellow and began to read.
Damion Rapace is one of the most dangerous men alive. Over the last decade, he has murdered, raped, and destroyed his way across the nation, and into the hearts and minds of the tragedy-obsessed media. But now, he's in jail, and can't hurt anyone anymore... can he?
© 2013 - 2024 TheAppleofDiscord
Comments0
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In