Vincent Fegele sat at a table, drinking a glass of wine. His coworker had reserved a whole restaurant to celebrate his new promotion. No one really liked the guy, though. They just came. Vincent had no idea why he came either. He guessed it was for the food. The problem was, the food was terrible. He then guessed it was because he had been invited to the party of someone popular.
Vincent wasn't a very popular person. No one really knew about him, cared about him, or thought about him. He lived in a rural area south of the town of Bransway. He was renting the house from his cousin, a millionaire entrepreneur. Although Vincent could've asked for money anytime, he never felt like it. He could never figure out why.
He worked in a regular cubicle in a regular office in a regular company. He was paid the average salary and did the average amount of work for an employee. He was thirty-four, his hair starting to gray, and was coming down with a cold. He got frequent headaches but never told his doctor.
Vincent finished drinking his wine. He was at the table next to the dancing floor, which was crowded with too many dancers to count. A man danced by him.
"You didn't just drink that, did you? Well, if you did, you'll be dead in two and a half hours."
Vincent put down the glass immediately. He thought about what the man said. He stared at the wine, then leaned and stared at it closer. He tried to spit out what wine he had in his mouth.
"You can keep on drinking if you wish. You've already poisoned yourself, and the poison has no other effect if drunk by a diagnosed victim."
The man disappeared into the crowd. What should I do now? Vincent thought. He leaned his arm casually against the back of his chair and scanned the crowd, looking for signs of the man. The man had a dark suit and a British accent. "Hey, uh." he spoke to the crowd. He decided to get up.
The people were having a good time dancing, so he tried to disturb them as little as possible. He tapped a blonde man on the shoulder.
"Have you seen this man anywhere? English accent? Possible death threats?"
"English accent? Bought me a drink a while back. Haven't seen him since."
"Thank you very much."
Vincent continued scanning the crowd. It was much larger than he had thought. He couldn't even make out a single person save the first row. All he could make out was the color of peoples' hair. There was no hope. Maybe he could call the police.
"It took you a while."
Vincent sharply turned around. The man was sitting in his chair.
"What do you want? Am I poisoned?"
"Don't ask me; it isn't my fault. Actually, it's more your fault."
"What the-I mean-when did-are you-can I-"
"Yes, there is a cure. Unfortunately, I can't tell you. Let me get you a drink."
"No!" Vincent backed into a dancer and the dancer stumbled and tore his wife's necklace off. His wife gave Vincent a nasty look. "Sorry. And you-I should report you to the police."
"That would be a bad idea, Vincent."
"Aah! How do you know my name?"
"Come with me into the coatroom. I'll explain it all."
Running Out by moriatus
Fiction » Thriller Rated: K+, English, Humor & Suspense, Words: 10k+, Favs: 3, Published: 1/17/2004 Updated: 6/24/2004}
11 Chapter 1: Two Hours and Twenty Five Minutes