Marcus stands 6’1, weighs 200lbs, with dark hair and hazel eyes. An impeccable dresser, with very expensive tastes, favoring armani suits and lucchese boots made from exotic animal skins. He typically speaks with a very expansive and precise vocabulary, however sometimes slips into the vernacular of the streets, an inconvenient byproduct of his association with … a less savory clientele.
Marcus Kincaid, or simply Kincaid to his closer associates, had it all. He was what the media liked to refer to as a “high-powered” lawyer, but one that had dedicated his practice and skills exclusively to the defense of the worst of the worst…thieves, murderers, drug dealers, white-collar criminals of the highest order.
Kincaid was a man of exotic pleasures and expensive tastes, and over the years he had begun to indulge in certain … darker pleasures. They called it the “Masquerade Club”, because after all, don’t we all wear at least one mask? The membership list would have shocked the world at large, encompassing a strata of society both envied and admired, however when behind the Mask, these people were no longer truly human….they held themselves apart and above “humanity” at large, using them for their own purposes and taking them for their perverted pleasures. Their gatherings were at once secret, and at the same time the invite most coveted by those in the know. While membership was exclusive and available only to the truly elite, it was also incredibly expensive.
Kincaid was a wealthy man, however his membership in the Masquerade Club taxed his resources … after all, he didn’t have Donald Trump money, although he had shared a cocktail (and the occasional
pussy-grab murder date) with the Donald at “the club”. In short, Kincaid needed more money. Conveniently enough, a client had a HUGE (or ‘uge, as the Donald says) investment opportunity for a silent partner, and the payoff would set Kincaid up in perversion for the foreseeable future, with millions to spare. This was it, the score he’d waited his entire legal career to make, only it wasn’t in the courtroom. He set it up, made the payoffs, and waited for the cash to roll in.
They came for him in the middle of the night, as they so often do. His bedsheets were soaked with sweat from the night’s labors, and in the height of irony, they perp-walked him out to the car wrapped in them. Kincaid knew that he had to do something, there had to be a move to make, SOME way out of this…but apparently that move would have to be made from behind bars. For now.