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Chapter 5: Newly Adapted Boris

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

it's no longer static that's for sure, well i loved every single part of it and i think i'll like it more now that some action is there.

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