Chapter Text
America in the 60’s was a great time for many individuals and families alike. The growth of entertainment, of the nuclear family archetype, of capitalism, and of free time.
The 60’s started well for Vincent. He was a popular television network owner, with fans spanning all over the East Coast. He had money, popularity, power. He was living the streamlined ‘American Dream’.
But none of that was enough.
On this particular night in suburbia, Vincent laid awake in his king-sized bed, a woman he forgot the name of breathing softly in the silk sheets beside him. She was beautiful, the picture definition of the ideal wife. She would look beautiful next to him in paparazzi photoshoots, a real piece of eye candy. Vincent should try to sleep, just so he could wake up in the morning to buy the woman roses, or lilies, or whatever type of overly expensive flower he could find. He could buy her a whole garden, if he were so inclined. Vincent should be a gentleman. To show her the love she yearned so hard for.
But Vincent wasn’t even attracted to this lady.
He hadn’t even came tonight, she sure did, but he just couldn’t. That bothered him a lot. More than it should have.
She was sexy, she had nice tits, blue eyes, blonde hair and pouty red lips. But none of that worked for Vincent. And he hated it. He was the face of masculinity. The face of the East Coast’s entertainment industry, and he couldn’t even get himself off during sex.
Vincent huffed and got out of bed. He didn’t care if he woke this whore up, he just needed to move around before he lost his mind.
Vincent went into his bathroom and turned on the light. He leaned onto his marble countertop and peered into his polished mirror. He looked like absolute shit. His hair was a mess, tousled from the woman grabbing it with her clammy hands. He had dark circles under his eyes that he usually covered up with concealer that nobody knew he had. Because a man that wore makeup– a man that even owned makeup– was obviously gay.
Vincent was not gay.
Sure, he couldn’t cum when he was sleeping with a girl who belonged on the cover of the Playboy Magazine, but he was not gay.
He just wasn’t. He couldn’t be.
He ran a hand through his graying hair. He was forty seven, but right now he looks seventy five.
He glared at his reflection. Into his heterochromatic eyes. The same eyes that copy-pasted women would peer into and swoon over like a bitch in heat.
Pathetic.
Pathetic asshole.
His mind screamed at him. He was pathetic. Fake. A coward, even. He cheated his way to the top. The top of an industry that he had no right in leading.
And he hated that his mind wasn’t wrong.
He splashed water on his face and walked back out into the bedroom. He really should try to sleep. He had a meeting in the morning, an important one with the leaders of many big news stations. Vincent needed this opportunity more than anything. If he could somehow sell himself enough to where some other networks would want his investments, he could die a somewhat happy man.
Vincent would go to sleep eventually. He really would. But he found himself to be surprisingly hungry. He hadn’t eaten since his sad excuse of a breakfast, which was nothing more than a pot of black coffee and a bump or two of coke.
He shut the bedroom door behind him and sauntered down his spiral glass stairs.
Vincent’s house was the biggest in the neighborhood, he personally made sure of it. He’d bought it shortly after he’d secured his spot as the year’s top-grossing producer in New York City. Vincent wanted to live somewhere fabulous, extravagant. So he’d picked a modern home in Tribeca. He paid with cash, and now Vincent owned a home that cost more than ten of his subordinates' yearly salary while still having enough to hold weekend parties with his rich ‘friends’.
Vincent was greedy, and he knew it. But what’s the point of a seemingly endless amount of money if you don’t spend it?
He finally reached his kitchen and turned on the overhead light. a crystal chandelier, just so he could seem more refined and sophisticated. Opening the fridge, he groaned as he realized it was nearly barren. Again. He had a bottle of half-dranken expensive champagne near the back and milk that was more than likely past its prime.
Vincent huffed as he closed the fridge door and sat down at his marble kitchen island. When he thought of status and fame, he expected sex and drugs and endless attention. But Vincent hadn’t experienced any of that.
Maybe it’s because he’s such an asshole to be around…
No way, he’s too amazing for anyone to not want to be around him just because he’s an ‘asshole’. He’d fired employees in the past for saying less than that, just for the sheer pettiness of them.
If anything, they were all the assholes.
Vincent was like God compared to them all.
He was huge, and they were barely ants next to him. Barely a flea next to a lion.
They should be worshipping him. Bowing down to him, like the savior he is.
‘We love you Vincent!’ They’d praise. ‘You’re so cool, Vincent!’
Idiots, all of them.
They might as well call him the messiah, that’s how much he serves the East Coast.
He’s done so much, but he’s gotten so very little back from these idiots.
He’ll show everyone what happens when you ignore Vincent Whittman.
It’ll be messy, but it'll be beautiful.
They will be screaming his name like the woman upstairs was not even hours before.
Like the news man did.
Like the show host did.
Like his producers did.
And just like how Bob fucking Shipman did.
Vincent is going to make damn sure nobody will ever underestimate him again.