A Goddamn Moskal

A clear spring night, stars gazing over the smog filled streets, streetlights burning on through the night, casting passerby’s into hazy shadows. People walking with tired steeps as the night crept on, stalking their every step. Worn voices concerning their daily routines, strict and controlled. Drowning in the sound of sirens, cars and wind. Unlike two men, seemingly unscathed by the wet snow trickling down upon their shoulders, engaged in a conversation of the extraordinary kind.

“Yay, finally something new to look at. Naked bloody men, really my taste ... “

Markov looked at the picture. Even though a bloody, artistic picture, it annoyed him.

“Why do you never pick women?”

“Horrible selection, lovely curves though.”

Artiom sat, self-loathing grin upon his face.
Markov lacked a response. But still he continued.

“Whatever... Well what will the next target be? You know, there is a girl who's almost invisible at work. Galine is her name, interested?”

He hinted eagerly towards Artiom.

“I'll have to look into it, however my concerns are as of now, strictly political.”

Problems had sprung up. Characters originating from a different time, nestling into private affairs, a history of violence, death and despair. A succulent vendetta, chewing their corrupted hearts."

“Hum... well, it´s hard to take the ones with their faces sticking out of the crowd. So you have to start small anyway.”
Seeing if Artiom catched his drift;
“And I request you to wait to even talk to anyone there. Why do you even want these politicians? Do you want to share that secret?”

Markov asked. To be honest he had no clue why this man in front of him was targeting these people. Maybe if he had not noticed Artiom, he himself could’ve been a victim.

"Old friends."
A vague answer, Artiom knew these men. War-criminals and rapists, a personal vendetta. He adjusted his seat, raising a cigarette to his mouth. Markov watched in disgust how the fag cast an ominous light upon Artioms face.

“You have a very... special way to deal with your 'old friends'. Well, I like it though.”

Markov laughed.

“But this is not your friend...” He said.

"Work is work, i.e. working is labour. This labour is an enduring one, one that requires time and planning. I would not like to risk my opportunity on lesser specimens."

Artiom knew that targeting people surrounding his former friends would cause panic, allowing these friends to reinforce their security. Caution was just.

“You know ... maybe there is a way to get around anyway. With an 'imaginary friend'. Do you understand what I'm talking about?”

Eager for an answer, Artiom sat in silence, hinting with his gaze. He knew of such a character, someone who had imitated his work for months, improving, refining.

“There's a lot of murderers out there, since I'm watching over the police, it's easier to misdirect them from you, since there is someone else who bothers our society, whom we try to find, but we just can't seem to do it. Anyway, let's do a mix out of you two, and create an alibi that we will let our officers pursue. Also, if I get a higher position anytime soon, then I could get you some more toys".

Eagerly, Artiom approved.

"An excellent idea. Can you follow it through, or will you be tried by the internal police?"

“You both seem to have a talent to hide your traces, if you continue like that, it should be fine. But, if the police find the other psycho, then there will be problems, meaning we will lose our scapegoat. Which means you and I have to find this person before they do.”

“I can make sure he'll never be found.”
Said psycho seemed to be fond of young ladies, snatching them from train-stations, pubs, shady places where the scum of society spend their hard-earned pays on liquor and drugs. Markov sighed.

“Well that is another way to handle the problem... we need this person 'alive".

“Alive is always possible.”

Old techniques sprung up inside his bent mind, torture and all of its associates. Busted kneecaps, twisted limbs. Ways to make a man regret every action he had made leading up to this very moment.

“Find a better target til' next time, will you?”

Markov drew his snow-filled hair back using his hand, and headed of down the street, snow quickly replaced upon his blown back 'do.

“We’ll just see what society grants me.”

Artiom drew one last smoke and tossed the cigarette into the snow-filled sludge that ran down the street, and into the manholes, and stood up from the wet curb. He breathed in, as if the polluted air had some sort of freshness to it. The sludge splashed under their feet as they parted ways in the cold spring night. Snow still trickling down upon their shoulders.