Status: In development!
A Goddamn Moskal
A man in the east.
Cold air, snow mixed haze surrounding Lenin as he stood tall in shattered concrete. Dead eyes within mossy sockets. His right arm was stretched high above his head, a hand that once beckoned the workers to revolt now lacked several fingers. The left arm held a large, marble declaration wedged into his hip, text to snowed over to read. Beneath him stood a solitary figure, fixed in a relaxed pose.
"Who art thou, oh vengeful sinner, If not the epitome of justice."
The man fixed a self-loathing grin upon his scarred face. Frost coating his leatherjacket, reaching in to every crevice. In the distance, the sound of crunching snow under a heavy boot could be heard. The man didn’t flinch, as if spell bound by the statues picturesque posture.
"You artiom?"
The voice didn’t seem to quite reach that frozen figure.
"The question is not whether I am Artiom or not, the question is rather who are you and what do you want."
Artiom didn’t move. It was as If he’d secluded himself within a bubble.
"Look buddy, all I’m asking for is work. So please can you make it snappy? It’s fucking freezing!"
"You have failed to answer even the most simple of questions, I can not possibly perceive how a man such as yourself could work for… well anyone. However being the patient character in this scenario, I shall offer you a second chance."
The man stood shivering as the frostbiten character before him waited.
"It’s Pjotr... I’m looking for work, I heard you had something?"
"Pjotr, did you know that about sixty years ago, this spot right here, sparked a revolution that would have the tsar and all his family killed, and seat in their place a dictator, not any better himself. The people went empty handed again, and still they do."
Pjotr stood silent, unsure of what Artiom actually had in mind, or where he was going with this trivia.
"Of course you don’t. I will however say this, and I quote; The tree of freedom must sometimes be watered with the blood of tyrants. Your city, and it IS your city, is filled with pest. Lumbering rats carrying the plague. And even though you know how badly such an affliction will ail you, you allow these rats to shit where you eat, piss where you sleep and gnaw at your bones. There is however, a cure for such ailments, it is a tool used by many, to justify vendettas and settle debts."
Artiom turned to face Pjotr, who quivered in his rotting leather boots. Artiom held in his hand a pistol.
"However, some must be martyrs, and others doctors."
As if lightning struck, the sound of the gun echoed through the empty streets. Ringing in the ears of those present. Pjotr fell to the ground as his right leg snapped, Bones crackling in the wind. His body convulsed with pain, blood rushed through his veins. He screamed.
"Now now, my boy. You hold the key here, don’t let it allude your grasp."
Pjotr was terrified. Who was this man? He gazed upon his leg but couldn’t realize what to do. His right shin was bent outwards, and sustained the man with heart wrenching pain. Artiom however, ignored the Pjotr’s misery and stuck his hand through the thick layer of snow that covered the ground. Through the snow came a rugged rope, the ones used for ships, and other naval vessels. He grabbed Pjotr's busted shin and tied the rope to it. Pjotr screamed uncontrollably. It was as if all the pain he'd ever sustained rushed through his spine and into his leg.
"You piece of shit!"
He screamed, eyes thick with tears, cheeks red. Sweat upon his brow. He clenched his bare fists in the freezing snow as he was pulled through it. Towards the statue of Lenin. He started to ascend. The rope bore red marks upon his busted shin. The pain was truly immense. His vision started fading as he saw Artiom’s gruesome mask looking at him as he was reaching the top of the statue.
"Whether or not you can perceive my voice through the beating of your own heartbeat right now, I suggest you make peace with whomever you fear. For when the frostbite catches that leg of yours, you will be crashing down upon your fragile neck. Farewell my fellow martyr."
Pjotr could only just make out the sound of Artiom’s voice. He started crying, thinking, regretting. He would love to have seen some form of hope in this desperate situation; he reminded himself of the shot, surely that must’ve been heard by someone. His head felt heavy, as it filled with blood. Eyes groggy.
"Mother."
As the storm thundered on, Artiom left Pjotr hanging between the balance he'd pushed so many over. He picked up Pjotr's wallet, he went through it and checked for any contact details. As dumb luck would have it, a card read: Sjpagin, and old brother in arms. Once he happened upon a phonebooth he gave Pjotr a call and called for a quick meet, claiming he was somebody else from his old regiment. Loyal to his old friends, Sjpagin accepted. The seed had been planted, next came harvest.
"Who art thou, oh vengeful sinner, If not the epitome of justice."
The man fixed a self-loathing grin upon his scarred face. Frost coating his leatherjacket, reaching in to every crevice. In the distance, the sound of crunching snow under a heavy boot could be heard. The man didn’t flinch, as if spell bound by the statues picturesque posture.
"You artiom?"
The voice didn’t seem to quite reach that frozen figure.
"The question is not whether I am Artiom or not, the question is rather who are you and what do you want."
Artiom didn’t move. It was as If he’d secluded himself within a bubble.
"Look buddy, all I’m asking for is work. So please can you make it snappy? It’s fucking freezing!"
"You have failed to answer even the most simple of questions, I can not possibly perceive how a man such as yourself could work for… well anyone. However being the patient character in this scenario, I shall offer you a second chance."
The man stood shivering as the frostbiten character before him waited.
"It’s Pjotr... I’m looking for work, I heard you had something?"
"Pjotr, did you know that about sixty years ago, this spot right here, sparked a revolution that would have the tsar and all his family killed, and seat in their place a dictator, not any better himself. The people went empty handed again, and still they do."
Pjotr stood silent, unsure of what Artiom actually had in mind, or where he was going with this trivia.
"Of course you don’t. I will however say this, and I quote; The tree of freedom must sometimes be watered with the blood of tyrants. Your city, and it IS your city, is filled with pest. Lumbering rats carrying the plague. And even though you know how badly such an affliction will ail you, you allow these rats to shit where you eat, piss where you sleep and gnaw at your bones. There is however, a cure for such ailments, it is a tool used by many, to justify vendettas and settle debts."
Artiom turned to face Pjotr, who quivered in his rotting leather boots. Artiom held in his hand a pistol.
"However, some must be martyrs, and others doctors."
As if lightning struck, the sound of the gun echoed through the empty streets. Ringing in the ears of those present. Pjotr fell to the ground as his right leg snapped, Bones crackling in the wind. His body convulsed with pain, blood rushed through his veins. He screamed.
"Now now, my boy. You hold the key here, don’t let it allude your grasp."
Pjotr was terrified. Who was this man? He gazed upon his leg but couldn’t realize what to do. His right shin was bent outwards, and sustained the man with heart wrenching pain. Artiom however, ignored the Pjotr’s misery and stuck his hand through the thick layer of snow that covered the ground. Through the snow came a rugged rope, the ones used for ships, and other naval vessels. He grabbed Pjotr's busted shin and tied the rope to it. Pjotr screamed uncontrollably. It was as if all the pain he'd ever sustained rushed through his spine and into his leg.
"You piece of shit!"
He screamed, eyes thick with tears, cheeks red. Sweat upon his brow. He clenched his bare fists in the freezing snow as he was pulled through it. Towards the statue of Lenin. He started to ascend. The rope bore red marks upon his busted shin. The pain was truly immense. His vision started fading as he saw Artiom’s gruesome mask looking at him as he was reaching the top of the statue.
"Whether or not you can perceive my voice through the beating of your own heartbeat right now, I suggest you make peace with whomever you fear. For when the frostbite catches that leg of yours, you will be crashing down upon your fragile neck. Farewell my fellow martyr."
Pjotr could only just make out the sound of Artiom’s voice. He started crying, thinking, regretting. He would love to have seen some form of hope in this desperate situation; he reminded himself of the shot, surely that must’ve been heard by someone. His head felt heavy, as it filled with blood. Eyes groggy.
"Mother."
As the storm thundered on, Artiom left Pjotr hanging between the balance he'd pushed so many over. He picked up Pjotr's wallet, he went through it and checked for any contact details. As dumb luck would have it, a card read: Sjpagin, and old brother in arms. Once he happened upon a phonebooth he gave Pjotr a call and called for a quick meet, claiming he was somebody else from his old regiment. Loyal to his old friends, Sjpagin accepted. The seed had been planted, next came harvest.