A Goddamn Moskal

While a good deal of men were off on patrol into areas not even contested, Artiom had slipped off for an evening supper at one of the local residents. Considering himself to be of the proper sort, he took it upon himself to have his battle dress clean and his face and hands much the same. He cleaned his mud-covered boots and tended to them with grease and wax. In an attempt to present himself as exemplary as any man could, he rehearsed his most formal greeting many times over, it had to be tough, dominant, yet ever so humble and caring. A terrible act he could never quite follow up on, considering his brute appearance often robbed him of any chance to be normal, if anything it fastened people's belief in him being little more than a crazed, psychotic killer.

For once the evening seemed calm, a mild rumbling of guns echoed in the distance. Rain from the previous day had turned what little road there was into a mudslide. In an attempt to spare his boots and trousers, Artiom had borrowed one of the jeeps, mostly used by NCO’s and folk considered too important to endure a piggy back ride on a truck. A slight drizzle came down, slowly emerging in patterns on the windshield. He hadn’t felt the excitement for human contact like this in a good couple of months. He had long since giving up on the necessity for human interaction, although he didn’t mind the occasional exchange of senseless drivel. He thought of an old friend he used to have, back in his childhood, a mean little wretch who’d pounce on anyone if ever given the chance. He didn’t care for the scum very much.
His mind wandered; what if he could sculpt this entire family, display them in a way that reflected the harshness of war and all it's contemporaries. He could use mud to cover their legs and feet, a witness to the marches during the early migrations. Blood on their hands and in their mouths as to show man's desire for killing. He felt compelled to abandon the thought, given the people he would meet surely wouldn’t want to be seen as molds for some sick display of sadism. Joy came over him when he imagined sculpting them, the urge to stick a knife into their soft bodies had to be quelled. He raised a fag to his mouth and quickly hindered himself knowing the smell would surely cause ill among the children.

As he pulled up infront of the couples house he tried peeking in through the kitchen window so as to catch a glimpse of what he could expect, a lantern hanging in it shielded all eyes.
A few heavy knocks on the door and with a sudden yank it flew open and revealed Ljublina, eyes in a frenzied stare and mouth on a gander. She seemed stressed beyond belief, almost on the verge of breaking down in tears.

“May I ask what the issue is, mrs. Troskji?”
Artiom asked, stale as always. Suddenly her husband, Pavlev, came hurrying around her back, hunting rifle in firm grip down by his hip. He seemed determined to rush past Artiom, hoping he wouldn’t mind. Before he got out past the door, Artiom grabbed the barrel of his rifle and tugged him violently towards himself, causing Pavlev to fly hands first into the front lawn. Ljublina broke out in a panicked screech and lunged at Artiom before being pushed to the ground by his bear-like palm. In his other hand, Artiom readied the rifle and took aim at Pavlev, who was in the middle of standing up when he felt the cold steel muzzle grace his neck.

“Don’t shot, for heavens sake!”
He yelled out in dread, shivering in cold, wet grass.

“I might as well save me the time now, why are you running out with a rifle?”

“Dikan is gone! Okay, my child is gone!”

“And you think running around with rifles is gonna save your boy?”

“Artiom, please! I beg you!”
Ljublina cried out from inside.

“I came for supper, and I’m greeted with crying and weaponry, had I been anyone else you would’ve been killed a minute ago. However I assume this supper won’t be satisfactory for any party with a member missing? Do you know where he went?”

“He went out to talk to a couple of soldiers a few hours ago, they went of down the street, I tried following them but they told me they’d kill me and my boy! Those bastards have to pay for this!”
Pavlev sounded more and more agitated, the side of his face pulsating red, his stretched arms trembling in anger.

“I’ll go have a word with them, I can be rather persuasive when given the chance, I will however need to borrow your rifle for a bit, I presume it’s loaded?”
Pavlov let out a defeated “yes” in response and crumpled to the ground.

“I’ll be back momentarily.”
Artiom exclaimed, and hurried on down the street. He could see the soft marks of boots trailing down the street, smaller steps, not even half the size of the boots in between them. He stepped up his pace and double checked the chamber of the rifle. Further down the street he noticed a man leaving a house, wide gait, obviously in a drunk stupor, he tried leaning on one of the mailboxes but fell face-first into the muddy street. This was too much of a familiar scene by now, Artiom had seen the abuse these men got into when lured by the shimmering glaze of a bottle. He stepped over the man in disgust and heard loud music coming from inside the house, having a drink or two back at their tents was fine, as long as no ruckus was made, nothing that would lure a stealthy foe to engage them when they were ill-prepared. They had obviously tried to bypass that simple rule and resorted to host their impromptu celebration at one of the locals. Whether the local consented or not remained a mystery. The house was in a terrible state of dissaray, lamps lay lit on the floor and glass shrapnel covered the mudstained rug. Loud banging music roared from farther inside the house, interrupted by an occasional bang and then followed by heckling laughter. Artiom walked onwards, pursuing the source of the commotion. Through a push-open door he revealed two foul men, yellow teeth exposing themselves inside their open mouths, maniacally laughing in a terrible duet. Squeezed in between them stood a large leather chair with it’s back against Artiom, facing towards a distant wall whereupon hung a woman, partially undressed with obvious trauma to the entirety of her figure. There was just enough silence between the loud bass of the music for Artiom to make out a slight sobbing from the chair in front of him. One of the drunkards was quick to pull out his pistol from inside his pants line and aim it towards whoever sat in the chair and screamed at the top of his lungs; “Shut your damn mouth, you fucking scum!”

The other one pointed towards the body on the wall and mumbled something underneath his breath. Artiom took a quick look around and saw the record player rotating beside him atop a desk filled with empty bottles and an assortment of rifles. Calmly, he raised the needle and abrupted the festivity with a loud scratch, and in that immediate instant heard the startled voices behind cuss in disappointment.
“What the fuck, start it up again you idiot!”

Artiom turned around with a joyous smile and expressed in awe, his fascination and appreciation for what they’d accomplished.

“I have to express my awe for what you have created here gentlemen. This is truly a work of art, the raw aspect of the scenery, and the maniacal display of sociopathy! An exhibition of what man is like!”
He stretched his arms out and began a slow clap. Far fetched was the idea that they would somehow understand his appreciation for their savagery. The unarmed drunkard shuffled towards Artiom and slowly bent his head upwards with a shocking gaze.

“You are fucking massive, you fucking… *hick* … you…”

“Until you’ve composed that sentence inside your small head, I suggest you shut your mouth.”
Artiom walked past him and replaced him by the side of the chair, sitting in it was a small kid, tears streaming down his face, mouth wide open as if to scream in terror, a slight whimpering was all he could surmount. He was all but naked were it not for his underwear, his hands were outstretched in front of him and rested on a tall bedside table. Tied together with duct tape in his hands was a pistol, empty casings all around was witness to the child bearing some sort of responsibility to the scenery. “Dikan?”
Artiom asked, slightly appropriating his voice to sound somewhat soothing. The child looked at him in horror.
“Your dad sent me, you’re late for supper little friend.”

Dikan muttered something incomprehensible and seemed to shudder at Artiom’s approach, he recoiled back and exposed what seemed like scratch marks on his things, alongside burn marks left by hot shells leaving the pistol in his hands. Artiom stood up in sudden shock and began questioning the armed drunk opposite the chair.
“Have you touched him?”

The drunken man looked appalled by the idea and seemed inclined to put Artiom down for this terrible accusation.
“Wha…you think I’m some kinda’... kind of weird sicko?!”
The man exclaimed in unsettling rage and waved his pistol towards Artiom in an apparent show of dominance, it was by now clear to all parties involved that Artiom was company much rather seen gone.

“Oh he… he’s not the wierd-o this time… haha! Remember when you pissed your pants du… during bootcamp, y… you were so scared of… of, what was his fuckin’ name?”
The unarmed one responded, seemingly easing the tension that slowly grew inside his furious friend, who in turn, broke into a fit of laughter.
“You bring that shit up one more time I swear I’ll knock you down, haha!”

Artiom sat down again.
“Dikan, did anyone try and touch you?”
The child had a worried look on his face, gazing past Artiom and into the corner of the room. On the floor in that dark spot of the room laid a man on the floor, buzzed and out cold. He lay facing the wall in deep slumber and didn’t care for shot or scream, he looked too calm considering the atmosphere.
“He won’t ever lay his hands on you ever again, little one.”

Artiom stood up and walked over to the pedophile laying sound asleep, and nudged him with his boot. No response. He kicked his back, and the man awoke from his snoring slumber. His eyes only barely open, trying senselessly to make sense of what was going on.
“This child, and any of his family members, are a no-go from now on.”

The man nodded in confirmation and fell back asleep. Artiom seemed content for the moment, and proceeded with picking up Dikan into his arms and heading of towards the door. The armed drunkard was over by the woman strung up on the wall, and examined the entry wounds and cussed at the carpet underneath him, sticky with blood. The other stood over the record player and fiddled helplessly with the large discs. Outside there was slight drizzle coming down, once again turning ground to sludge. One of the men from earlier still lay silent in the mud, Artiom bent down and grabbed him by the neck and put him with his back towards the fence. Wouldn’t want any more deaths on our hands this fine evening, he thought to himself as he strolled back towards the worrying parents standing in the distance.

“Look, it’s mom and dad little buddy!”