A Goddamn Moskal

Silent sat the old man, a cripple and a has-been. In ragged clothes, wrinkles telling stories of hardship and labour. He grips his cane and mutters to himself. People strolling by ignore his judgmental remarks. He grunts. They believe they are above this humble man. Wearing expensive clothing and fancy suits. Oblivious to their similarities as human beings. People gracing the cobblestone walkways with leather shoes, ignorance leaving a trail. Who would mourn such people? Who would spend the time to think about what has been and what could’ve? Knowing is a wonderful thing, knowing that someone somewhere cares for someone somewhere else. Somebody who’ll mourn, grieve, remember and regret.
It’s a wonderful thing, death. It bears the astonishing power to alter people’s way of life, showing them what lies beneath the present, the past. Gazing upon the old man, it was a wonderful thing seeing someone who is content with death, someone who fears its darkness no more. He bore no mark, no insignia. One would see him in disgust, but Artiom saw something different. He approached the bench upon which the old man was sat.

“The fear of death follows from fear of life.”
Artiom exclaimed, gazing into the roaring masses passing by. The man turned his head.

“What are you talking about you silly bastard?”
The man said, clearly annoyed, but to some extent happy of the fact that someone dared talk to him.

“A man who lives fully, is prepared to die at any time.”
Artiom finished.

“Mark Twain … you can quote. So who are you, death?”
He stared with curiosity unto Artiom. Artiom turned his head.

“I am but a humble obedient, I follow nor god or death, yet I confine myself to their set boundaries.” The man seemed intrigued by Artiom.

“Bah, what does it matter. Friend or foe, it doesn’t matter ...”
The man sighed.

“My mind is the servant of my demand, and only my demand. Yet I come to you sir, to offer my services.” The man sat in wonder.

“To claim you have no connections to the gods, be that death or the other, is to claim you are but an outcast. A stranger to our ways. I seek no such acquaintance, thank you.”

“An outcast seeks refuge, will you deny him shelter? An outcast asks forgiveness, shall you punish him? An outcast may I be, a man I am. I seek only your insight, and in return I shall grant you the power of a god.”
Artiom persisted.

“The power of a god…! I say… One who denies the existence of our lord offers his services? Bah…!” The man grinned.

“The power to choose, my good man. An act we are deprived from. More specifically, the choice of life.”
The man gave Artiom a questioning look.

“Do you claim to be death, or perhaps his disciple, his errand-boy?”
The man gazed over the pedestrians, roaming past each other, casting spiteful looks as they judged. The man grunted.

“They hate, judge those they do not know. They claim they are better yet they know nothing about us, me…”
Artiom noted the man’s disputes.

“One man deviates, he turns into an alleyway, slips and knocks his head. Who is to remember his face among the despaired?”

“Death is but a stage in life, a time of summing up your life, what you did, and what you regret, the things you always wanted to change. One must be contempt. I would ask of you, to take my life. But I fear I hold to many promises to simply walk away.”
The man thought long and hard.

“All that I need is the pointing of a finger.”
The man hesitated, then raised his scruple arm, lining his bent finger towards a woman. She seemed tall, wearing her high heels. Her hair tied up in a pony-tail. Sporting a tight business-suit, over-sized sunglasses upon her powdered nose. She took notice of the man, holding his cane in one hand, the other following her every move. She gave of a disgusted grimace, then shifted her view to see the large figure sitting beside him. With little hair upon his brow, large chest and boulder-like fists. She seemed nervous, uncomfortable.

“A lady of sadness, she is. Distorted view of people. She makes a living burying them in debts …”

Artiom kept his gaze at the woman. Her curves were clear through her tight, long skirt and slim blazer. Excellence personified.

“The life of the dead, is placed in the memory of the living. As thy order is sent, I am to obey.”

Artiom stood up, gave the old man one last look, smiled, and walked of, into the masses.
The man took a deep breath, not quite sure of what he had just done. He looked to his side, and noticed a small card where Artiom had been sitting.
He picked it up with utmost care and read;

“I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.”