“We are on our way to the motel, a little bit stuck in traffic though.”

Scarface Montana said that to the Iceberg on the other end of the phone call before he hung up, trying so hard to find a way out of the traffic. Mobsters have this kind of loyalty to each other, Montana for instance has been brought into the world of the Russian Mafia when his best friend Boris introduced him to Gorbachov, something that Montana would remain thankful for and something that made him aim fully at avenging his slightly wounded best friend. The loyalty that this guy had for Boris was unquestionable and he was ready to die for avenging him. He started blowing the horn convincing himself that this would give him the chance to skip the traffic, but he was still left stuck there regardless of whatever he tried to do.

At the same time, Frank Benedict woke up in the middle of the room Tanya have paid for the night before but with no sign of her anywhere around. His intimate night with the Mafioso’s girlfriend left him aroused for life and there was nothing else he could remember from the night before. Lots of used drug shots were lying around giving a valid explanation to the memory loss he has woken up with.

Benedict stood to his feet, feeling a little bit of dizziness and too much of a headache and walked in the direction of the washroom like a drunk hitting everything in the way with his entire body. He opened the door to the washroom and again with no sign of Tanya. He spent the next half hour between washing his face and gazing at his eye balls that seemed more like two blood bags in the mirror above the sink.

He then sat down on the bed and tried to remember the details of the night before and his head was in a total blackout. He could almost swear that Tanya didn’t leave while he was awake, but again he had some doubts to his competence to remember and to swear. The dizziness was already fading away but the headache was getting more intense and that got him to decide to go out for a walk in open air thinking it may help him somehow both lose the headache and remember any details about the night before.

Right before he walked out he noticed a note on the coffee table.

“I have gone back to the mansion, leave before they find you, I am sure they will. And yeah, it was a good night, but I have had better.”

It was not so hard for Benedict to figure out what has happened.

“That Bitch,” he said angrily.

Benedict started getting a partial understanding of Tanya’s actions. For some reason the whore has set him up. She helped him run away and then went back to inform the Russians of his whereabouts yet leaving a warning behind.

“What would her reasons be?”

Frank kept thinking of that as he checked out of the room. The reason was quite unclear to him. If she was setting him up, why would she warn him?

As he crossed the road after he left the motel, he saw a black SUV parking right in front of the door to the motel and out of it stepped Montana. Benedict started running in the direction of the highway and he was fortunate enough to have a truck stop and pick him up.

The driver asked, “Where are you heading to?”

Benedict replied, “Wherever it is that you are heading to.”

“Well, hop in,”

The man driving the pickup looked quite old; some how Benedict was able to figure out that the man has surpassed sixty, maybe even sixty-five. As he drove his pickup, the man kept giving Benedict side looks every once in a while waiting for him to initiate a conversation but the latter was still consumed with his attempts at the analysis of Tanya’s reasons for suddenly vanishing.

Benedict’s mind was about to explode, the headache couldn’t get worse and he knew not where he was supposed to go. He knows shooting Boris wasn’t the best choice to make and he wished he could figure out Tanya’s motives. Why would she set him up if they already had him there the night before? And if there was a valid explanation why would she warn him and ask him to leave?

By the time the truck was driving through Queens Benedict was getting it all fixed in his head. For some reason she had to help him escape and then tell of his location. And she had to warn him out of fear that he would tell the mob that it was originally her plan to help him escape.

The truck made its final stop in Queens somewhere close to a place that Benedict was pretty familiar with. The stop made Benedict start thinking it was more of a sign. In the meanwhile Montana has just arrived at Gorbachov’s mansion and was informing the huge Iceberg of his failure to get hold of Benedict.

“The boss is not gonna forgive us if this guy gets away. And remember he shot one of us, something that he should pay for,” said the Iceberg

“I know; how is he doing now?”

“His layers of fat helped him escape death, but still that Benedict son of a bitch got the courage to shoot our man. He shouldn't get away with that.”

With a look of anger Montana said, “Not while I am still alive.”

At the same moment Gorbachov was inside the mansion listening to what Tanya had to say. Tanya seemed to have a great effect on Gorbachov. Her face was covered in tears as she narrated the previous night’s incident to the Mafia boss and apparently the man held her in his arms with absolute tenderness as he listened to her story. Looking at Gorbachov at that moment would only fill you with respect for the man’s personality. Somehow he was a mafia boss, a criminal and yet he was able to leave that behind as he dealt with the people he cared for. After she was done with her story he kissed her and then tapped on her back as he said, “I promise you that rat is gonna pay for his actions.”

“I want him dead, how dare he does this to me knowing I am with you?”

The bitch seemed to put a great act, the tears, the nervous breakdown, and the anger, everything made her seem totally honest about what happened. She knew how to make the man believe her lies…

“He will be dead only after he has paid his debts, I want him to lose everything, one after the other until it is his life that gets the hit.”

While all this was planned for Benedict he was standing at the door of a house in Queens hesitant to ring its doorbell.

“Well, I gotta take a chance at the outcomes,” he said to himself.

He rang the doorbell and waited for a couple of minutes. As the door opened he said, “Hey kiddo, I missed you.”

And behind the door stood a young boy shouting, “Mummy, Daddy is here.”

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Posted by Unknown at 11:57 PM | Permalink | Comments

'Lipstick. Check', said the wife.

When you fantasize about a Mafioso's girlfriend, you don't do it with her in the same room; you don't do it period. A female mobster is the worst kind of females. A female mobster is a woman who gets used to getting kicked around by her boyfriend or husband, just as long as she can have her own share of the fun later on when he's not around. And like everything that is organized, the Mafia has its own hierarchy. It doesn't matter whether it's Russian, Italian, Jamaican, or even the holy Vatican Mafia. It always leads to the same food chain. You start with one man and you branch out two females, the wife who lives in an average home and bears two boys and a girl, and the younger mistress who stays constantly at the mansion, carrying out special jobs that her body still is young enough to perform.

The wife usually is slightly over weight, knows every recipe there is to know, and has no idea what her husband does for a living, just as long as he returns home safe every night in a 1995 green Ford and earns enough money to put food on the table for his family. On a Mafioso's family dinner table, no questions are to be asked. She knew he slept around and she knew he wasn't a shoe salesman; she just didn't care to know more. Once you lay your eyes on your first born coming to existence, everything slightly fades out and joins a new level of grayscale, where nothing really matters, not even colors. Once you hear your first born cry and wipe his tears, you lose interest in everything, starting with jewellery and ending with integrity. The things we do for our children; the things they grow up to take for granted.

She could smell her Chanel on his clothes and catch her lipstick every once in a while on his ear nods, and every time that happened she'd write him a note asking him to at least pretend to be happily married. The note was usually written in extra red pepper well hidden inside the main course on the table; an ingredient that her husband, the invincible Mafia king, was allergic to. Delicately poised and well written, the wife couldn't have been more articulate in delivering a message of inconsistence. He'd usually stay off wife trouble for the next couple weeks, and so, life did go on in the small Mafia family. With matters set straight in the Gorbachov household and mouths shut, the wife believed she was happily married and the mistress assumed she was living a dream.

'Not tonight. Tonight is quality time', replied Gorbachov as he tickled his wife.

'You mean tonight you are hungrier than usual', said the wife. 'Here's some delicacy that you can chew on till dinner's ready'.

She handed Gorbachov a couple red peppers then walked into the kitchen. She knew how to handle the family and Gorbachov knew it. Outside he was king, emperor, a legend. Inside his average home, he was her bitch and he didn't mind being so. Everything he did was for them.

For them only, he thought.

'How are the kids?'

'They're waiting for you at the table', she said.

Like every Mafia king out there, Gorbachov had two boys and a girl. The two boys had joined the army, served their country, made their corrupted father proud. On many occasions, he has managed to use their army enrollment to get things done, politically. Because of them, he is the only Mafia boss who does not hide on national holidays, and in 1993, after a considerable contribution to the US defense department of firearms that were secretly imported into the country, he became the first and last underboss to ever meet the president of the United States. Between 1992 and 1994, the Red Mafia seized control of Russia's fragile banking system. At first the criminal gangs were content to merely “park” their large cash holdings in legitimate institutions, but soon they realized that the next step was the easiest of all: direct ownership of the bank itself. Banking executives, reform-minded business leaders, even investigative journalists, were systematically assassinated or kidnapped. In 1993 alone, members of the eight criminal gangs that control the Moscow underworld murdered 10 local bankers. Calling themselves Vore v Zakone i.e. Thieves in Law, they have over a bank controlling period of five years killed over 95 bankers. Banking wasn't just about loans and savings anymore; it got bloody red. During that time span, Gorbachov was the underboss handling international Red Mafia matters in the US. He handled contacts, assassinations, money laundering schemes, and pure legitimate business. Everything that had red connections led up to Gorbachov. Since the cold war was at its prime, the US government did not really care what pie Gorbachov was biting at just as long as it wasn’t theirs. The Russian Mafia helped bring the once dominant USSR to its knees, and Gorbachov was the red man with the plan. For three years, just like every professional and well-connected politician out there, he was a bitch that belonged to the US government. They helped him export drugs to Moscow, helped him assassinate his own Don and take over, and helped him take over bits and pieces of black neighborhoods. The US theory was to let the animals eat each other out of the picture, out of America. Little did they know that the Russians had a bigger plan that exceeded the American expectations. Their move out of the USSR was but a 10 year plan for them to settle their red flags in the US soil, in the middle of the white house. It has also been rumored that Monica Lewinski was a Russian bait to hunt down a president who did not follow their orders or abide by their rules. Gorbachov knew everything and his contact list kept growing and growing. He knew the NSA had men watching him, his family, his home, and his mansion, but he also knew that they can not be touched. They needed his contacts in the Soviet as much as he needed their silence.

Most of Gorbachov's contacts, as well as himself, were all ex-KGB officials. And like with Vodka, they were out of control.

With all family members set at the table, he held his two sons' hands and said, 'Dear God, we thank you for…', and his cell phone rang to the tunes of a polyphonic ring tone of the Petshop Boys' 'Go West'.

Still holding his elder son's hand he answered.

'Da'

'…', said the Caller.

'Goddamn it!' he yelled as he hit the table using his son's graceful hand. 'And what the hell were you doing?'

'…'

'And he did that to spare one thousand dollars?'

'…'

Gorbachov stepped out of the room and into the kitchen. His family needn't listen to the conversation.

'Send two men to go and raid his apartment. Check his tapped phone recordings and address book. I want names and places. I want to know everybody he knows, everybody he fucks, and I want you to find out where from he orders pizza. I want to know how high his blood pressure was the last time he got screwed and I want you to revive his memory of that. Find him or I'll find you a priest'

And he hung up.

'That bitch!', he mumbled right before he went back to his dinner table where his family were dead still. He knew the line was tapped. He knew they'd be looking for Benedict too. He also knew that his family only needed to hear grace to know that everything was still fine in their pretty little world.

The one thing he didn't know was that the bitch he was referring to was driving back to the mansion, crying her eyes out, pretending to be terrified.

She hit the tree in front of the mansion and crawled out of the car where a Mafia army was listening to a Russian in a tie-less black suit give them instructions. Scarface Montana was the first to see the car speed in through the gates and off he rushed to help the Russian damsel in distress.

'What happened?', he said. 'Are you alright?'

'Help me', she cried as she hugged him.

'The problem with eye drops', monotoned the man in the black suit as he moved closer to her face and took a big whiff, 'is that they lack the smell of salt'.

'Go to hell. I was kidnapped and raped by one of your bitches', she cried. 'He almost had me killed, that maniac'.

'Xalatan? Travatan?', he asked. 'One of the things I've always loved about you is your eyes, Miss Tanya. Did you know that one of Xalatan's immediate side effects is the change of eye colors?'

Tanya dropped to her knees and stared with teary eyes at the ice cold underboss walking towards her purse on the front seat of the crashed Porsche, pulled it out and dropped its contents on the floor, ignored the Xalatan and picked up a mirror and held it up against Tanya's face exposing a dark brown iris.

'Your eyes are green Miss Tanya, in case you forgot', he said, 'and dark brown has never been your style'

She looked up and said, 'I don't care what you think, asshole. I know exactly where he's staying. What do you have to show for?'

He knew she set this up to try and look like she's accomplished something in the eyes of the Don. They all knew that she's been trying to get him to love her and marry her ever since she was 23, ever since she slid up her skirt at the Don's 60^th birthday party, and ever since she stripped out of his birthday cake. She's always been greedy. She lies better than anybody. She knows every trick in the book. She wanted everything and tonight was her chance for that to happen, to gain the old Don's trust and trust fund.

She's everything the Red Mafia was and stood for 13 years ago, even better; but in order to win a god's contentment, one must have a scapegoat to offer as sacrifice, her key to heaven and beyond; and Benedict's shoe size perfectly fit into her high-heeled plan.

'Give me your phone', she yelled at Montana. 'I shouldn't have spoken to you in the first place. How dare you?!', she said addressing the tall calm man in the black suit right before she walked away dialing.

The cold ice suit stared at her as she walked. He noticed from her strapless top that her bra was still hooked up pretty good.

'She said she was raped', said the ice cold suit, then asked Montana, 'Do you know what my favorite quote of all-time is?'

Montana looked at him and silently stood still.

'Women's destiny is to be a wanton, like a bitch, the she-wolf; she must belong to all who claim her', said the ice berg.

Montana watched the ice berg follow Tanya into the mansion and asked him 'Who said that?'

'Marquis De Sade', he said without looking back.

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи at 10:45 PM | Permalink | Comments

A snowy night, a damn cold night, Russians dragging him, an entire setup that reminded Benedict of what he has read in books and watched in movies about Siberia. Benedict was so exhausted; he was beaten badly and bleeding like crazy. As he lied in the garage where he found himself after the trip in Scarface’s car he heard someone whisper in Montana’s ears, “The boss had to leave, but he left instructions with the girlfriend.”

Benedict was very happy to hear those words, the last time Gorbachov was around he had to go for multiple sessions with his dentist in order to repair the damages and it cost him a fortune. If only he could think the consequences in advance and weigh the damages of not paying every single time against the payments that would leave him peaceful he would never choose this but Benedict has always been that slow in viewing issues, that slow and that stupid. The next thing Benedict saw was the hottest woman he has seen in years walk into the garage. It didn’t need him too much of a wit to figure out the brunette Russian-Looking chick was probably the girlfriend they spoke of moments ago. His horny nature drove him to force himself to stand up straight and gaze at her as she walked towards him.

“So you are Benedict?” she asked in a sexy Russian accent.

“And you are the girlfriend.”

Benedict was still staring at her and wouldn’t say more. When it comes to Benedict’s dick; nothing else matters, nothing else in the world could ever be a priority and his brains usually would reach a halting point as long as a chick was in the room.

“Did the cat eat your tongue?”

The sexy Russian accent covering each and every word of hers was driving Benedict crazy. She reminded him of Dr. Zhivago and its likes of movies in which the lead characters or even all characters played the roles of Russian individuals, except that the chick at hand there was no Julie Christie; she was a thousand times as hot as Miss Christie was in the movie. But sadly he was not Dr. Yuri Zhivago, not a handsome actor, he was Benedict Benedict, the broke fuckup who owes a lot of money to the Russian mob, enough to let them enslave him if they were in a different day and age. In that case enslaving him for a lifetime would hardly pay his debt and maybe even not.

With his silence not ending and with no answers getting out of his pie hole the chick turned to Boris and stared at him in anger as she asked, “What did you do to him?”

“They were very gentle, just a few bone fractures and a couple of bruises, I am used to having this physical therapy session on a weekly basis,” Benedict said half smiling.

He paused for a moment when he saw the woman turn to watch him as he spoke but then decided to continue in the same monotone as he pointed at Boris, “My friend the seagull over there loves the heavy artillery pranks, he have been training on my jaw for long.”

“Son of a bitch,” yelled Boris as his fist had its usual moments of intercourse with Benedict’s jaw.

“Told ya,” cried Benedict as he fell to the ground, “Weekly Session.”

If you are a sane person you would know that this was not the right time to get the attention of some hot chick you barely know by being a wise ass, especially if getting such attention will all be at the expense of your very own jaw and your Dentist’s peace of mind who although loves the money you pay him, has run out of options as to how to keep your jaw intact.

The Russian goddess yelled something in what Benedict thought was probably Russian at Boris and the next thing Benedict saw them all walk out of the garage and into the big mansion, all except for the Russian Nightingale who pulled him onto his feet and sat him in a big leather chair that gave him the comfort he was in dear need for after he has taken Boris’s pranks all night.

“My name is Tanya, they call me the girlfriend when I'm not around.”

“Assuming you mean the Boss’s girlfriend and knowing he is supposedly happily married then I would prefer to call you the mistress.”

Benedict had this policy in dealing with women. It was more like a multiple step plan that either got him to end up with either a slap on one or both cheeks, a kick in the nuts or a date. First he insults the chick, or more like hit her where it hurts and let her know that he is fully aware of what she is and who she is in order to get her to know that she can’t start acting all royal and shit. Next, he gets the cheek slap or the nut kick or an extension of the conversation. If he gets the latter he would go for the sympathetic attitude and then start a multidimensional conversation in which he proves to be the sophisticated guy with no worries and no fears and a strong personality. And then again he gets one of the three, the slap, the kick or the date and it usually worked for him in the dating direction, for some sick demented reason women usually found Benedict attractive.

“Well I agree, I am his mistress but that makes you, let me think… umm… I think his bitch would be the appropriate description here.”

Benedict lost his first move, it seemed like Tanya was as aggressive as he was, maybe even more. The next thing he felt was Tanya’s whispers in his ears.

“Listen to me carefully. I like you, your shit non-giving personality, your unexpected reaction to be hit by seagulls all night long, I don’t know what it is exactly but I like what I see, so I will tell you this. If you stay here, you will turn into an hourly session and this time there will be no chance of finding help, the basement here will be your home until they get their money. They are gonna walk you out whenever you tell them you are gonna get them their pay and if you couldn't the torture is gonna elevate until you either pay or end up dead.”

"So?"

“I am wondering as to how you are this calm when I just told you that they shall have no mercy upon you. Aren’t you even trying to plan your escape?”

“Why should I? A two year old would easily figure out you already have one to get me out of here.”

“Well then, kidnap me.”

“Excuse me?”

She pulled a gun out of her back as she replied, “Kidnap me, put this gun to my head and kidnap me. Of course I will have to scream and ask for help, we will be right beside my car, that lovely Porsche over there. When they walk in, you will threaten to shoot me if any one comes near, push me in the driver seat, and then order them to open the garage door and order me to drive while you sit in the back seat with the gun still pointed at my head.”

“Cool and at what point exactly do I shoot you?”

“And being funny is not welcomed. Of course none of them will even think of shooting directly at us, they wouldn't want to harm the boss's girlfriend.”

“You mean the mistress.”

“Sure bitch, no one will harm the mistress. And I will have of course to obey your orders and drive you out of here ‘cause I should probably want to keep my life.”

“And they will come after us, and somewhere along the road we will lose them. That’s when I leave you and your car and run for my life.”

“I was not supposed to talk to you alone yet I am. If you tell on me, I'll find you, only I won't have a six foot Russian and a bulldog along with me. Don't even consider fucking with me.”

“Let’s cut it short, gimme the gun.”

He held the gun to her head, she screamed, Gorbachov’s men rushed in, Benedict threatened, Boris opened the garage door, Tanya turned the engine and as she pulled out Benedict asked her, “Is this gun even loaded?”

“Sure.”

That answer was enough to make him push half his body out of the car window, aim at Boris as he yelled, “Here's today's pay check. This one is for the good old days.”

He said so and fired a shot that went through Boris’s left shoulder. Next, he pushed himself back into the Porsche as Tanya pulled out real fast. Half an hour and ten cigarettes later no one was behind them, not anymore.

They drove for a while before parking at a cheap motel and the next thing they were in a cheap motel where they decided to spend the night. As they walked into the room they rented for the night, Benedict turned to Tanya and asked, “So, could I kiss you now?”

“You don’t ask that question.”

“Well, excuse me for not knowing the protocols that follow my having an urge to kiss the girlfriend of the Russian mob boss.”

He said that and put his lips on hers, before she pulled herself backwards and said, “Nice shooting skills by the way, didn’t think you could aim that good.”

“I was aiming at his head actually.”

He said that and celebrated his escape of death, celebrated life, all night long…

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Posted by Unknown at 3:51 PM | Permalink | Comments

Fishy, so was the smell that appeared to exhume from behind the door.

They say that right before a person dies, a flashback of memorable events stored in a person's long-term memory storage unit of a brain plays back like a broken film reel, highlighting the things that once mattered in random order, the shit that'll be missed. That was the case every time Boris showed up along with his bulldog. Boris was the name that Benedict gave to a huge Russian mob associate that came down knocking every week asking for money that he owed the Russians for various services rendered. He was 6 feet tall, extremely red, bald, and had a long goatee that looked as if it was meant to be grabbed on to. Boris always wore black leather overalls and smelled like fish, which was the reason why every time he showed up Benedict felt like drowning and choked. Fishy was how the world smelled right before a hammer would diffuse into Benedict's lower torso. Every time, every week.

He named the bulldog Boris Jr.

'Merry Christmas, bitch', said Boris right before Benedict could taste the osmosis of saliva with his own blood.

Benedict hit the ground facing it, refusing to look up and face the real world, his world; the world that he's been trying so hard to escape through random drug shots and long dreamless sleeps; the world that smelled like fish and tasted like blood, his blood, his world.

'Get up, white bread' Boris yelled as he slammed the door shut. 'Show me what you're good for tonight'.

Benedict crawled up to his feet and stood crooked. He stepped back away from Boris Jr.'s jaws then glanced at Boris's overall to see how heavy he was armed. Along with his mean machine grin he had two German pistols hanging on to each side of his belt, an Ak47 hanging on his shoulder, and an ammo belt cutting through his King Kong of a body; and to think that a thing like that roams free in the streets of New York. Everyone feared Boris. It explains the virtues that stick along to your name as it gets connected high up in the local food chain. The only place where Benedict's name stuck was on his birth certificate. To cut it short, Boris looked as if he was just about to invade Poland.

'So guess what day it is?' asked the Russian sea creature.

Benedict spit some of his own blood on his old ragged carpet, smiled and asked 'Mother's day?'

Boris let go of the leash he held in his hand allowing just enough for Boris Jr. a little more space to mingle into the apartment and at Benedict. He did it smiling while Boris Jr. jumped at Benedict and barked him off into the wall.

'It's pay day, wise ass', said Boris then pointed at Boris Jr. and said 'Pay me or pay him. I keep forgetting to feed the poor beast. Got any flesh that you can spare?'

Benedict's week hasn't been a fortune cookie's bestseller. If any, his possessions went down by $75 that he had spent on cigarettes, a coke line, and some cheap dog food that he consumed as food ingredient. Dog food tasted like Big Mac burgers once you get used to it, once you've tasted so much blood that you start craving for it; once you've inhaled, swallowed, and injected so much drugs that your taste buds lose its sense of recognition, that a shoe tastes like chicken and aspirin becomes your jelly cola bonbons. The short version of Benedict's flavor preference would be that a flashback of Benedict's memorable life events would probably be a long blank reel with cigarette burns flashing every two seconds to mark a new blank in Benedict's memory reel, followed by the word Frank written in blow, and a couple dog food commercials.

His wallet contained a $20 bill and a citizen ID that holds a picture of a man that doesn't look like him. His $20 bill had the words 'With all my love, Paul!' written on it in red ink and a picture of a prick sketched in the same color. The exclamation point was written in blue ink. Punctuations are way over-rated.

Benedict also had $6500 at Bank of America left by his father under Frank's name to cash out at the age of thirty, the age of wisdom as his father used to call it. That was exactly a week from today. It was also Benedict's next pay day. Thirty years ago, 6500 bucks would have opened the gates to prestige and royalty and would have provided title to an average family. Today the same amount wouldn't even afford an AT&T phone bill. It would exactly afford 433 cans of Flint River Ranch dog food and three spoons of the same shit. 6500 is a close figure to the amount saved by an average Norse person. In Norway, Benedict's average. In New York, he's Boris's weekly stress reliever. With 433 cans of dog food, a blow/nicotine/caffeine/Sam addiction, 20 bucks, Boris and his love child, Benedict had it coming. In layman terms, Benedict was fucked. Everything that froze still thirty years ago still is frozen today, except for newly adapted addictions, new ways for man to adapt to devastation. Yesterday it was liquor, today's it's blow.

'I don't have the 1000', said Benedict while sticking hard to the wall avoiding losing his crotch to a canine fang.

'What?!' asked Boris.

'I said that I don't have…', Benedict said right before the taste of osmosis hit his taste buds all over again, except that this time he hit the corner of the room.

'Do you think that I enjoy coming over to this shit hole? Don't fool yourself into thinking that I enjoy dropping by every Saturday to see your ugly face? Do you think that I enjoy slamming you to the floor?'

'…', Benedict said.

'Do ya?' barked the Russian beast.

'I'd like to say yes, but I fear that you'd only hit me again'

'I'm a very nice person inside once you get to pay me' said Boris. 'Now where's my fucking money?'

'You know that I'm good for it', said Benedict. 'I'll double it next week.'

'The boss won't like hearing that from me. He asked to see you if you weren't of use tonight.'

Boss was named Gorbachov by Benedict. Benedict liked giving his own names to people and things, names that he wouldn't forget easily, names that would scar his long term storage unit for the flashback film reel he was preparing to view right before his long awaited death. Gorbachov's birth certificate was dated six months and 17 days from today, so was Boris's, so was Jr.'s.

'And while we're at it, next week you'll triple it, but the third 1000 won't exactly go into the books if you know what I mean.' yelled Boris while pointing his German pistol to Benedict's head.

The word 'extortion' doesn't even begin to explain the situation Benedict has thrown himself into; however, a word that fits into the ending credits of the scene would be 'elevator'

Boris escorted Benedict down the elevator and into the street where a black BMW was waiting with an engine that was good and rock'n'rolling. Mobsters always keep their getaway car engine running even if they keep it that way for hours. It must a habit that gangsters can't quit even when they become organized and legitimate. Out there in the snow it was ready to escort him to his current owner, the almighty Gorbachov. A driver got out of the car and walked into focus, against the car's headlights. He was a thin, tall, and red man with a long scar right above his left eyebrow. Scarface Montana sounded just about the right name for him to be aka-ed as in Benedict's Who's Who directory.

Scarface Montana opened the trunk of the car and said 'Get in' with smoke leaking out of his nostrils.

Benedict slid into the trunk and lied there like a road kill watching the two Russian gunmen grin then coughed out the smoke that Scarface Montana blew into his face right before they slammed the trunk door shut; that was when everything went dark, and in that atmosphere, when you know for sure that everything is going down and you wish to hear your mother's voice call you Frankie one last time the only voice that he could hear was Samantha's telling him to 'Breathe, lay low, relax, and sleep', but life is too short to be slept over. Life is too short to spend with one eye shut and the other stoned. Life is too short to be led by a sexy voice of a cheap tramp and is too big to be jerked off. If only Benedict could see where the black BMW was taking him, where the ride was heading to. If only he wasn't thrown back in the trunk like he was a spare wheel. If only his destination was pre-stated. For the next unidentified fractions of time, darkness was Benedict's only guidance into a long sleep of negligence, but then the trunk door opened and direct light rays hit Benedict's cornea.

'Sometimes light is too hard to absorb', whispered the lying junkie to himself with his hand covering away the light source wishing it to lay low, praying for sleep.

He looked up at the face of Scarface Montana for two seconds then asked, 'How long have I been lying here?'

'Why? Got a business meeting to attend to?' said Scarface.

'No I just like to keep track'

'About six hours'

'Good. To me, you're six hours old then', smiled the lying wise ass.

Яαgιи' Яανєи

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи at 2:34 AM | Permalink | Comments