Young Writers Society

The Return Of Mr. 47

St. Petersburg, U.S.S.R.
November 24, 2006
0030 hrs.

As Vladimir Bolchenkov walked into the Pushkin Building, he did not particularly feel any sign of the events that were to follow. The long drive from his house through his shiny new Porsche had lightened his mood considerably. The good meal at the City's premier restaurant had also kept his stomach in a satisfied position. And hence, as the Russian Trade Union Head walked to his office in the dead of the night, he was not cautious.

But he was pretty irritated. Calling him away at this obscene hour from his home, from his bed - what was this, the old regime? But, he reasoned with himself, duty called, and although this was not a part of his official duty per se, it was every bit as important, if not more so. For it was to this he owed his shiny Porsche, his large mansion, his ability to dine in the Ritz in Paris every month.

For when it came to wages, was not the new government as miserly as the new one? Did the money from drugs truly hurt anyone? Wasn't it a business, like any other, which ensures satisfaction to both the buyer and the seller? So was it wrong to do so?

Anyway, he had picked up the phone in a drowsy state of mind, and told by Pavlovitch to meet him immediately in the Pushkin. He may have argued in part, but the message was obvious - take it or leave it. He took it.

Walking into the building, he moved his head to bark his general greeting towards Mikhail, the guard soldier generally sitting at the door. Nowhere to be seen. Surprising. He asked one of the men present, actively protecting the place, clutching an AK-47,"Hey you! Where is Mikhail! Finally retired?"
"Far from it, sir. I saw him here just a few moments ago. He has probably gone to take a leak."
Very well, thought Bolchenkov. From the few conversations he had had with Mikhail, he thought that his taking a few minutes off with a random hooker was more likely.

It would have been prudent, perhaps, for Bolchenkov to check the large dumpster situated directly beside the seat where Mikhail generally sat. For in it lay the body of Mikhail Lobokov , ex-guard of the Pushkin building, strangled to death by a hard fibre wire.

This is actually part 1 of this story. Of course, no prizes for guessing who the writer is a fan of! Kindly comment about your likes/dislikes in this story.