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The excitement mingling on the very forefront of his mind was growing increasingly unstable.  His heart was racing at the prospect of what he was about to do and as he waited impatiently for the signal, he took a last swig of vodka to try and calm his exhilaration.  He had to be prepared.  He would have to run as soon as night turned red.

His capture was inevitable with the amount of police cars on the road looking for him tonight, but the last thing he wanted to do was make it easy for them.

He chucked the empty bottle to the passenger seat and began to drum his fingers on the steering wheel.  The notion that this was his last night of freedom did little to sway him, although he did suddenly wish he'd paid his step-father one last visit.  Prick.

Two teenage lovers passed on the footpath, their faces glowing with smiles and laughter.  They had one of those tiny cameras out, taking film.  That was one thing he'd miss – if you could call it that – seeing firsthand the changes in the latest technology systems with their fan dangled new equipment.  He resisted the urge to yell out to them, to tell them to watch out for themselves.  It wasn't his business if they got in the way.  Actually, he hoped they did.  The more the merrier.  Maybe they caught him in the background of their little movie.  That'd wipe the smiles off their stupid adolescent faces.  Unfortunately, he doubted whether the device would pick up on his figure in the dark, let alone distinguishable features.

His phone vibrated, instantly bringing his distraction to an end.  He grinned to himself.  He'd been waiting for this moment for years, and now here he was.  He caught it as it slipped off the dashboard.  The screen lit up the car's interiors with an eerie kind of glow.  It set his stage nicely.  He answered.

"You're on.  8:36."

They were the only words exchanged to him before the line went dead.  That was his signal.  Checking the time on the upper right corner of the screen, he realised he had just two minutes.  His life as a 'wanted' criminal was nearly over.  The 'criminal' part would always remain.

He turned the keys in the ignition and flicked the lights on full beam.  Almost at once, the two teens were in the spotlight again, nearing the traffic lights at the end of the street.  Let them cross, he thought savagely.  He turned his attention to the left, where a white sedan was pulling up at the lights, obeying the law and stopping on the red.  Perfect.  Just the opposite of what he was about to do.

One minute.  He unnecessarily checked his gun was loaded, replacing it into his jacket.  Thirty seconds.  He revved the engine, checking for cars in the rearview mirror.  The street behind him was silent, enveloped in darkness.  He'd chosen his scene well.  Ten.  Nine.  He removed the handbrake.  Eight.  Seven.  He pumped the pedal, flattening it with his boot to the floor.  The car screeched off into the centre of the road as the lights for the sedan turned green.  He noticed with mounting pleasure the driver stall the car.  Pathetic, he grinned.  Four. Three.  The dial on the speedometer was dancing towards a hundred.  The sedan burst into life, its driver staring in his direction with wide, frozen eyes, unsure whether to make the leap across the road or not.  Fortunately and to his advantage, he did, throwing himself further into his lethal path.

One.

The sound of the crash broke into the night like a bomb.  He was thrown forwards, his ankle twisted between the pedals as the car spun, out of his control, into an island.  His seatbelt locked hard against his chest and it took him a moment to focus.  He breathed a sigh of relief.  He was alive.  Not that he'd expected his life to end for a second – he was too proud and invincible for that – but it was good to know all the same.  He quickly surveyed the scene to see the damage he'd caused.

The sedan was flipped on its roof a few hundred metres away.  There was no movement from within.  Another car sat at the lights, its occupants no doubt surveying the scene as well.  The difference between them would be their horror and his joy.  The two teens remained at the crossing, staring shocked at the scene that had formed before their eyes.  One was hastening to pull out a mobile phone.  This was his time.

He threw open the door, wrestling out of his seatbelt and limping out.  He couldn't allow such a minor setback to slow him down.  He turned towards the cover of the bush and ran.  Someone was yelling at him to stop, but he merely pulled out his gun and fired two shots aimlessly behind him.  He heard a window smash, but didn't dare see his results.

Running felt good.

They'd mapped this bush out to cover around a hundred square metres.  There were streets lining its perimeter that the police would be targeting right now.  He had the hour of day on his side, the darkness swallowing him up amongst the trees, but it also obscured his vision and he had to fight through the entanglement of shrubs and low hanging branches to get by.  The idea was to lead the cops on a wild goose chase just for his own amusement.  If he was handing himself in, it needed to have the same sort of adrenaline rush the movies portrayed.  He had no intention of escaping tonight.  In fact, getting caught was all apart of his plan.  Make the cops think it was all over.  Make the cops believe they'd thumped out all his killings.  Make the cops think themselves as heroes.

He grinned.  Even they couldn't stop the death of the guy in the sedan.  It was all on him.

He felt great.

Over the undergrowth, zigzagging through the trees and springing to his left and right.  He would pelt up the path, sweat dripping off of him, before taking a detour off it.  He was running faster than he'd ever run in his life.  His mind had a pulse of its own, beating loudly and making orchestra with his heart as he realised his success of another murder.  The sound of crushing metal was like music to his ears, the screams simply cheers of an audience encouraging him on.  The barking of a dog was just an irritation and – shit.

Someone was screaming his name.  He had to give those cops credit.  They were smart and fast.  Not fast enough.  He ducked behind a tree, catching his breath quickly and aiming his gun out towards them.  The dog wasn't stupid, sensing his change of pace; it dove off the path as he pulled the trigger three times.  Another yell filled his ears, but he took speed again before he could make out what was being said.  He wasn't ready for this game to end.  It had only just started.

The wind ran with him, pushing him what he thought was further inwards.  He'd lost his sense of direction, although judging by the close proximity of the trees, the denser undergrowth, he knew.  Then he saw light, which puzzled him.  Stupidly thinking he'd somehow managed to run a circle to the edge of the bush again, he dove forwards, straight into the lair of half a dozen police officers.  Everyone was in over their heads, screaming commands, every torch lit guns pointed at him.  He was the centre of attention.

All he did was tighten the grip on his own gun with two hands.  He had nothing to fear.  As much as they despised him, they wanted him alive.  They wanted answers as to why he did what he did.  He supposed murdering eight people wasn't on the tops of many lists, nor the other unthinkable things he'd done.  He laughed.  They knew nothing.

"Cameron," someone called his name, overriding the rest, "if you don't put down your gun in three—"

He laughed again, interrupting midsentence, "Look at you all, so happy you've finally caught the criminal of your dreams."

"Cameron, we have a right to shoot if you do not—"

He cut them off, not wanting to listen to their trivial attempts at subduing him.  "I'm not putting down my gun.  Who do you think I am?  I don't listen to people like you."

"Lower your weapon and put your hands on your head."

"Funny," he smirked, "You'd think this was high school talk, apart from the fact we're all pointing guns at each other.  Amazing, isn't it?  While you all stand there like little soldiers, there's nothing stopping me just backing out of this conversation, quite literally, except for the trees.  What do you say?"

"Drop the gun," someone repeated warningly.

"No can do."

He turned, lowering his gun just slightly.  He removed one hand from its hold and that was his mistake.  His gun collided with that of an unexpected opponent's and out of his hands.  He hadn't seen or heard the other cops behind him.  Someone said something in response, feinting kindness, but he was no longer paying attention.  He might've been disarmed, but not disheartened.  He lurched for the narrow pathway off to the side.  Three officers reached him before he could take two steps.

Defeated.  Outnumbered ten to one.

His head was squashed into the ground, leaning uncomfortably on a tree root.  His wrists were being tied behind him, and he continued to struggle: kicking his legs and elbowing someone in the face.  A knee was pushing against his back, and someone grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling hard.

"Why'd you do it?" their voice was quiet, but full of hatred and disgust.

A smile crept across his face.  No one would ever understand.

Description
The excitement mingling on the very forefront of his mind was growing increasingly unstable.  His heart was racing at the prospect of what he was about to do and as he waited impatiently for the signal, he took a last swig of vodka to try and calm his exhilaration.  He had to be prepared.  He would have to run as soon as night turned red.

His capture was inevitable with the amount of police cars on the road looking for him tonight, but the last thing he wanted to do was make it easy for them.

He chucked the empty bottle to the passenger seat and began to drum his fingers on the steering wheel.  The notion that this was his last night of freedom did little to sway him, although he did suddenly wish he'd paid his step-father one last visit.  Prick.

Two teenage lovers passed on the footpath, their faces glowing with smiles and laughter.  They had one of those tiny cameras out, taking film.  That was one thing he'd miss – if you could call it that – seeing firsthand the changes in the latest technology systems with their fan dangled new equipment.  He resisted the urge to yell out to them, to tell them to watch out for themselves.  It wasn't his business if they got in the way.  Actually, he hoped they did.  The more the merrier.  Maybe they caught him in the background of their little movie.  That'd wipe the smiles off their stupid adolescent faces.  Unfortunately, he doubted whether the device would pick up on his figure in the dark, let alone distinguishable features.

His phone vibrated, instantly bringing his distraction to an end.  He grinned to himself.  He'd been waiting for this moment for years, and now here he was.  He caught it as it slipped off the dashboard.  The screen lit up the car's interiors with an eerie kind of glow.  It set his stage nicely.  He answered.

"You're on.  8:36."

They were the only words exchanged to him before the line went dead.  That was his signal.  Checking the time on the upper right corner of the screen, he realised he had just two minutes.  His life as a 'wanted' criminal was nearly over.  The 'criminal' part would always remain.

He turned the keys in the ignition and flicked the lights on full beam.  Almost at once, the two teens were in the spotlight again, nearing the traffic lights at the end of the street.  Let them cross, he thought savagely.  He turned his attention to the left, where a white sedan was pulling up at the lights, obeying the law and stopping on the red.  Perfect.  Just the opposite of what he was about to do.

One minute.  He unnecessarily checked his gun was loaded, replacing it into his jacket.  Thirty seconds.  He revved the engine, checking for cars in the rearview mirror.  The street behind him was silent, enveloped in darkness.  He'd chosen his scene well.  Ten.  Nine.  He removed the handbrake.  Eight.  Seven.  He pumped the pedal, flattening it with his boot to the floor.  The car screeched off into the centre of the road as the lights for the sedan turned green.  He noticed with mounting pleasure the driver stall the car.  Pathetic, he grinned.  Four. Three.  The dial on the speedometer was dancing towards a hundred.  The sedan burst into life, its driver staring in his direction with wide, frozen eyes, unsure whether to make the leap across the road or not.  Fortunately and to his advantage, he did, throwing himself further into his lethal path.

One.

The sound of the crash broke into the night like a bomb.  He was thrown forwards, his ankle twisted between the pedals as the car spun, out of his control, into an island.  His seatbelt locked hard against his chest and it took him a moment to focus.  He breathed a sigh of relief.  He was alive.  Not that he'd expected his life to end for a second – he was too proud and invincible for that – but it was good to know all the same.  He quickly surveyed the scene to see the damage he'd caused.

The sedan was flipped on its roof a few hundred metres away.  There was no movement from within.  Another car sat at the lights, its occupants no doubt surveying the scene as well.  The difference between them would be their horror and his joy.  The two teens remained at the crossing, staring shocked at the scene that had formed before their eyes.  One was hastening to pull out a mobile phone.  This was his time.

He threw open the door, wrestling out of his seatbelt and limping out.  He couldn't allow such a minor setback to slow him down.  He turned towards the cover of the bush and ran.  Someone was yelling at him to stop, but he merely pulled out his gun and fired two shots aimlessly behind him.  He heard a window smash, but didn't dare see his results.

Running felt good.

They'd mapped this bush out to cover around a hundred square metres.  There were streets lining its perimeter that the police would be targeting right now.  He had the hour of day on his side, the darkness swallowing him up amongst the trees, but it also obscured his vision and he had to fight through the entanglement of shrubs and low hanging branches to get by.  The idea was to lead the cops on a wild goose chase just for his own amusement.  If he was handing himself in, it needed to have the same sort of adrenaline rush the movies portrayed.  He had no intention of escaping tonight.  In fact, getting caught was all apart of his plan.  Make the cops think it was all over.  Make the cops believe they'd thumped out all his killings.  Make the cops think themselves as heroes.

He grinned.  Even they couldn't stop the death of the guy in the sedan.  It was all on him.

He felt great.

Over the undergrowth, zigzagging through the trees and springing to his left and right.  He would pelt up the path, sweat dripping off of him, before taking a detour off it.  He was running faster than he'd ever run in his life.  His mind had a pulse of its own, beating loudly and making orchestra with his heart as he realised his success of another murder.  The sound of crushing metal was like music to his ears, the screams simply cheers of an audience encouraging him on.  The barking of a dog was just an irritation and – shit.

Someone was screaming his name.  He had to give those cops credit.  They were smart and fast.  Not fast enough.  He ducked behind a tree, catching his breath quickly and aiming his gun out towards them.  The dog wasn't stupid, sensing his change of pace; it dove off the path as he pulled the trigger three times.  Another yell filled his ears, but he took speed again before he could make out what was being said.  He wasn't ready for this game to end.  It had only just started.

The wind ran with him, pushing him what he thought was further inwards.  He'd lost his sense of direction, although judging by the close proximity of the trees, the denser undergrowth, he knew.  Then he saw light, which puzzled him.  Stupidly thinking he'd somehow managed to run a circle to the edge of the bush again, he dove forwards, straight into the lair of half a dozen police officers.  Everyone was in over their heads, screaming commands, every torch lit guns pointed at him.  He was the centre of attention.

All he did was tighten the grip on his own gun with two hands.  He had nothing to fear.  As much as they despised him, they wanted him alive.  They wanted answers as to why he did what he did.  He supposed murdering eight people wasn't on the tops of many lists, nor the other unthinkable things he'd done.  He laughed.  They knew nothing.

"Cameron," someone called his name, overriding the rest, "if you don't put down your gun in three—"

He laughed again, interrupting midsentence, "Look at you all, so happy you've finally caught the criminal of your dreams."

"Cameron, we have a right to shoot if you do not—"

He cut them off, not wanting to listen to their trivial attempts at subduing him.  "I'm not putting down my gun.  Who do you think I am?  I don't listen to people like you."

"Lower your weapon and put your hands on your head."

"Funny," he smirked, "You'd think this was high school talk, apart from the fact we're all pointing guns at each other.  Amazing, isn't it?  While you all stand there like little soldiers, there's nothing stopping me just backing out of this conversation, quite literally, except for the trees.  What do you say?"

"Drop the gun," someone repeated warningly.

"No can do."

He turned, lowering his gun just slightly.  He removed one hand from its hold and that was his mistake.  His gun collided with that of an unexpected opponent's and out of his hands.  He hadn't seen or heard the other cops behind him.  Someone said something in response, feinting kindness, but he was no longer paying attention.  He might've been disarmed, but not disheartened.  He lurched for the narrow pathway off to the side.  Three officers reached him before he could take two steps.

Defeated.  Outnumbered ten to one.

His head was squashed into the ground, leaning uncomfortably on a tree root.  His wrists were being tied behind him, and he continued to struggle: kicking his legs and elbowing someone in the face.  A knee was pushing against his back, and someone grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling hard.

"Why'd you do it?" their voice was quiet, but full of hatred and disgust.

A smile crept across his face.  No one would ever understand.