[Mock-Fiction] I - Requiescat In Pace

Note: Please read the Formal Notice movella. It should be on the list on the right hand side.
Have i succumbed to the inevitable... or just made a mockery of it?

Cover by Secrets Unfold

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4. 3 – The Russian

For Scarlet Lark: I don’t know what to say. Your existence here was relatively short for me, as I joined the site at the time of the 1D Apocalypse. I’m missing your writing like crazy and I was particularly fond of your poems. Thanks for being the catalyst for all the philosophical ideas I put into ‘In Sheep’s Clothes’, Cato and Roderigo owe you one for that – they could have never thought it up by themselves. I hope you like this chapter, though I know its nothing compared to your [somewhat distracting yet] colorful work. [Again, somebody pass this along :3].

 

 

The vapor escaped like a ghost into the night air from Harry’s mouth as he waited in the Dark Alleyway. There were four thugs with him. They were waiting for the new-be. This was the meeting place. The Dark Alleyway.

‘Not very creative, is it, boss?’ one of the thugs had once said to him.

Harry had shrugged at the remark, and got the stupid oaf a good beating.

 

Who needed to be creative? Creative days were over. That was something he and his band used to do a very, very long time ago. Now was the time of rebellion. Against Lodovico. Against the Puritan state. Against everything the world had made him. Although… Harry didn’t know what exactly the WD’s plans were after they de-seated the current Emperor. Perhaps the Wrong Direction’s plans were merely to annoy the Emperor, rather than actually get rid of him. Who knew? Cute little Louis Tomlinson – who was heading the rebel forces at the moment – was not fit to be an older brother, let alone a ruler of an Empire. Especially not the UAF, which was so divided by sea.

 

Harry grunted at these thoughts. Perhaps there would be a stronger leader of the WD in future: A little Neo chosen by the Oracle to defeat the Matrix of this dystopian world. Didn’t matter, any how. What mattered was that Harry got a good sum for his work that fed him, clothed him, and entertained him. Sure, he could no longer sing like a wailing cat anymore, but – eh – he didn’t much like that sound anyhow.

 

‘Boss,’ one of the thugs nudged him, ‘I think the new-be’s here,’ he pointed in the direction of the Alleyway’s opening. A dark figure stood there, blocking out whatever light the night offered.

‘The password’s “cod”, yeah?’ it said.

[Harry was fond of fish].

‘That’s right,’ said Harry, ‘Come on in.’

 

The new-be swaggered deeper into the Alleyway. A rush of words hit Harry’s head: Hulk. Hench. Ox. Buffalo. Hummer. Juggernaut. And some other words he didn’t know the real meaning of, but generally meant ‘big’.

The new-be was about 7 ft tall, with shoulders so broad, they’d have to be measured by a new system. He wore a white hoodie, the hood down, and baggy trousers. His shoulders were somewhat bent forward, and he had his hands in his hoodie pockets. He had a face that would have made an assassin shoot himself. It was not ugly. It was something between dashingly handsome, and insanely brutal. Again, in need of being judged by a completely different system. He wore a bandana around his neck that read: The Russian.

 

‘You Francisco Scatlocke?’ asked one of the thugs.

‘That’s right,’ he said.

‘Why you called “The Russian”?’ asked another.

‘Because I’m Russian.’

‘Yeah,’ said the thug again, ‘But why you called by it?’

Francisco gave him an odd look, and then faced Harry without giving a response to the brain-dead fool.

Harry shook his head, and then said, ‘You’re here for the initiation test, right?’

‘Yeah,’ replied Francisco.

‘Well, I’m sure you’ll enjoy the test,’ said Harry, ‘It’s native to your country… with a little twist.’

Harry and the four thugs made a wide circle around Francisco. He kept his cool, his hands still in his pockets.

‘Go on,’ said Francisco.

Harry took out a revolver from his back pocket, and passed it to Francisco.

‘You know Russian Roulette?’ Harry asked, his smirk widening.

‘Of course,’ said Francisco, ‘Common knowledge.’

 

‘Well, like I said: our version is a little tweaked,’ there was some collective laughter, ‘Usually the loading wheel only holds a single bullet, you spin the compartment, click it back into place and shoot yourself in the head. No bullet, no death. But in this case, there are five bullets in the loading wheel, only one space is empty. You live after this, then your in,’ Harry paused, ‘Got it?’

‘I get it,’ said Francisco calmly.

‘You still in?’ said Harry, a little surprised.

‘I ain’t backing out,’ replied Francisco, spinning the loading wheel and clicking it into place, ‘Just one word though.’

‘Yeah?’

 

Bang. The thug on Harry’s left dropped dead, a ragged bullet hole in his forehead.

‘Unlucky,’ said Francisco.

Bang. The second thug down.

‘Unlucky.’

Bang. The third.

‘Unlucky.’

Bang. The fourth.

‘Unlucky.’

Click. Harry’s turn.

Francisco smiled, ‘Lucky one, eh?’

Harry’s breathing increased rapidly; he backed up against a wall, hands scrambling against it wildly. Francisco pocketed the gun, and strode up to the head thug. No place to run. No place to hide.

 

‘Who… Who are you?’ said Harry shakily.

‘What does it matter?’ asked Francisco, planting both his hands around Harry’s neck, ‘I am the death of you. That’s all you need to know.’

Before Harry could put in another word, Francisco twisted and pulled. A sickening crack and then the tearing of flesh and finally the gushing of blood.

The Russian was satisfied.

Serves him right for raping my little sister, he thought.

He was about to walk away, when the weight of the revolver in his pocket caught his thoughts. He pulled out the gun and stared at it for a moment.

The game’s fair now, he thought, Am I lucky?

Francisco opened the loading wheel, spun it, and then clicked it back into place. Putting the gun to his temple, he said a quick prayer. He pulled the trigger.

 

Bang.

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