A dark-haired man is standing five-eight feet tall, his lean and athletic build fits perfectly in an Armani black leather jacket over a loose-fit Polo black jeans, his back to us, whistling a tune as he tucks the gun behind his back, concealing under leather jacket.
Scar Face, breathing heavily, drunkenly, he blurts. "Andrei," he starts in German, but realizing it is impolite to speak in foreign language, or, more likely to make sure I understand what is being talked, and gaining my trust, so he switches to English. "Dammit, Andrei! This is the fourth dog in one month. You know how difficult to find such a kind!"
Andrei whirls and stares at us, cutting off whistling the tune off and lets out a smile of warning trouble. "Well, well, this turned out to be a fine day after all, welcome gentlemen, welcome. The ceremony's about to begin." says with a trace of British accent, like those who took three months summer English classes in England, but something tells me otherwise; that the accent is not genuine; this five-eight foot tall, Clive Owens look-like face, sparse and receding hair, blue eyes are telling me this man is not what SCAR FACE came to know or not what he claims to be.
"This must stop!" Andrei says firmly, obviously not amused. "Why do it again, Andrei?
Andrei looks upward for a moment and steeples his fingers before him, as if praying, glances at the mongrel which lies next to Galina's foot, a piece of meat half chewed dangling from the corner of its mouth. Andrei looks from me to Scar Face, a tiny mile tug gs at his lips." Hold your breath, Gregoire!" he says. "Do you know how bloody difficult to explain every time you ask that stupid question--"
"Let me make it easier," I say, and I take a step or two like flash and punch Andrei across the face, "This is for the poor dog, you whore-breed-heartless-fuck!" I lie.
Andrei staggers backwards, and while his feet go off the ground, his right hand engaging, gripping firmly and wrapping his non-dominant hand around the left side of the frame, aligning his two thumps pointing toward downrange for not to allow air spaces between his grip, thumbs clearing the slide or hammer, aiming the gun at me in proper stance in less than a three seconds, before he hits the ground. "One step and I'll blow your fucking head off like a marshmallow!" Andrei or whoever he was says calmly.
Gotcha! Wowsome, winsome exposure, with a wowsome capture! You failed and passed the test, ass wipe! Now, I know; you're not a cop. Not Marine or Military trained agent. An assassin or Interpol or Mossad! Anything but your usual suspect.
We stare at one another: Clint Eastwood squinting into Bad's eyes. The theme song playing but only internally, in our heads. Bad knows he fucked up!
The Good, The Bad and Ugly theme song stops abruptly.
I walk toward Andrei and I extend a friendly-hand, I pull him up. "My bad," I say, feign a pardon my foolish act. "Just love dogs...and, um, I guess I lost it. We cool?"
Bad tugs the gun where it belongs and grips my hand. "No harm done," he says. "I got this...what shrinks call Cyno--" he pauses, unsure how to pronounce it.
"Cynophobia," I complete the word somewhat in an ironic tone. "Fear of dogs. What, you were jumped on by an overexcited puppy or growled at by a large yet miserable sick watchdog?"
"You suddenly my shrink now?" Andrei says pungently, humiliated.
"No. But, if I were, I'd have you locked with a ferocious Bulldog in one of those cells back in there. The best way to cure phobia is not Sub Modality Restructuring; Swish Pattern; Hypnotherapy; Time Line Therapy or all the other bullshit, but to come face to face with your fear."
When I don't take my pills, I just...panic."
"I hear you," I say. "But, I prefer calling it panic disorder. And there are techniques to overcome this."
"Not interested! I suggest you stay the fuck out my side or you'll be next lying beside that mongrel!"
During all this, Scar Face does nothing but watches dumbfounded. I turn to Scar Face. "This is a real killer," I say.
"Of course he is a real killer, Dr Stark, the dog is really dead." says Scar face.
"Doctor?" Andrei asks quickly, jumping on his feet, looking at me."No psychiatrists or dogs allowed to hump in here!"
"Calm down, Andrei!" scoffs Scar Face. "I still call the shots here! His credentials includes a Diplomatic Driver's License. Mr Stark is a psychologist. Treats diplomatic and consular personnel's in...
So, Scar Face knew from the moment I handed him the blue color Driver's License like blind Ray Charles would recognize the keys of a Blues song on a sheet of notes. Practice makes perfect in any field. I remember reading in American Science magazine that it took ten years or ten thousand-hours (not even 9,999 hours. And this made me go Hi mm! at the time) to be an expert in what you do; this be it art, fishing, science or crime.
Also See: Einstein
Also See: Newton
Also See: Michael Jackson in The Jackson 5
Also See: John Constable
Also See: Ansel Adams
"Spare me the lecture, Gregoire!" snaps Andrei. "I know what it means, you Putinka smelling, peasant cop! Diplomatic Immunity yak tack slash spy. Consider me impressed, but he shouldn't be here."
I wan to correct this Dog-Fearing-Dog-Killer soulless bastard that not all personnel in the Embassy are spies, but I let this one go. I have nothing to say to this Cynophobic lunatic who, without hesitation, would shoot both an old man petting his dog in the park. And I could easily made him believe that I was not a spy (even if I was) by just admitting to be one. The best way to conceal the truth is to tell the truth. That way you'll be dismissed as not "the genuine article'. If you were, you wouldn't say you were, right? However, I wouldn't recommend the spooks to do this at home or overseas.
My stomach growls. I feel hungry and suddenly I don't remember when I had something for it churn.
"If we all medicated and educated now," I quipped. "Can we get with the program, ladies? I'm starving with a capital S. You must've heard that the Cold War is over. We are all ein Berliner. I'm sure there's a Fast Food joint, even Mc Donald's nearby, right"
Drinking does that. It turns you into a scavenging, carnivores gull, which will take live or dead food, greedily and opportunistically, be it crabs or craps. Suddenly, a memory plays before my eyes. Me and Jim, an NBA player, who was transferred, bought more like it, to a funny sounding name of Finnish Team in Scandinavia and every time after club-closing hour on Friday or Saturday, with or without a lay, like a ritual, we would be standing in front of a 24 hours Hess burger hand-out Kiosk, (the best burger in the world and every Mc Donald's lover American would agree at the first bite instantly and the mention of a 'secret sauce of Mc Donald's' would be as a lame a joke as one of Robin Williams'. "Objection, your Honor! blips the Mc Donald's CEO appointed lawyer. "Argumentative speculations!" The sauce-er judge slams his gravel and says firmly. "Motion denied! Proceed, Mr Stark!), taking a heavenly bites while shooing the gulls away which were so adaptive to snatch your burger from your hand in a mind-boggling maneuver, finish it and come back for more less than a minute.
Andrei looks at Scar Face and laughs. "Yes, there is one, Mr Doc Hollywood " he says sardonically. "If you don't mind driving back three-hundreds kilometers back to the Austrian border. Huh! Hah!"
The bulbs flicker rapidly, a woman shrieks in one of the cells and wolves hawl in the near distance.
"Heard they have even Jack in The Box now in Bosnia," keeps talking and laughing. "Hahh! Ha! But, unfortunately, the Muslims don't eat American pigs so it's not doing very well...You Americans think there is Mc Donald's everywhere you go. Why go to an exotic country and eat hamburger that you can eat in your county and not try something cultural and local? The universe is extending don't mean Americans should, too..."
My stomach growls again, like a Tiger being being teased by a Devil child, waving a piece of meat from his hamburger, ignoring the sign that says PLEASE DON'T FEED THE ANIMALS. And that Devil child now was Andrei. He was teasing the Tiger.
"Very funny!" I say. "Strangely, though, I'm not laughing. How about scooping your useless guts, stuff them with bell peppers and make Kofta. How's this for a Romanian local dish?"
"Don't forget to add some chunks of my ass to enhance the flavor, though."
"Oh, don't worry," I say. "I have a different recipe for that--"
"Enough, gentlemen!" Scar Face warns. "You two nothing but kids! We have more important tasks at hand."
"Tell Doc Hollywood here who's whistling a Dixie, whining for a Micky Whopper." Andrei makes a gun shape with his fingers, and lets his thumb fall like hammer, and utters a Dasuhhn!, imitating a bullet, then, mouth the words later cowboy.. He snatches a big ball of keys from the wall and walks out into corridor, tapping the keys to his thigh, Clank!Clank!. Soon the nerve clanking sound disappear in the far back of the corridor.
"I do apologize for Andrei's such foolish behavior," says in a sincere voice.
"What's with the shooting dogs?" I ask.
Scar Face reaches under the table and after rummaging through what sounds like pile of pots and pans and cartons, finally, he puts a plastic Ziploc on the desk, takes a slice of bread sort of and extends it to me. "Here, it is Mamaliga. Bread made of yellow maize. Cooked peasant style. Nowadays, they serve it in some upscale fancy restaurants along with who-knows-made of what-sour cream and cheese on the side and charge a fortune for it," He takes a bite from his slice, chewing hungrily, shaking his head,"Mmm. Good. No?" He smacks his lips, a sound that always drew me crazy ever since I've known myself. "Yes. Andrei," He smack his lips some more and my nerves now catch a fire.
"Stop that, ugly face! please!" I scoff.
"Whaht?"
"This smacking and munching sound you make chewing...that's what!"
"Yes, I know some people are quite sensitive at table manners. I apologize--"
"Will you stop apologizing, for fuck's sake? You were saying...?"
"Yes, yes. Andrei, um, even that tell you a lot about this guy, no? Very odd persona. He don't get depressed, no. He don't get unhappy, he get angry and shoot the dog...which," He pauses. He raises his forefinger before him, and mumbles, "Moment," and bends behind the desk again.
My nerves are on bon fire and I'm thinking of grabbing this spineless rat-fucker's head once it emerges from behind the desk, smash it on the desk over and over again until his ugly face flattens, his smacking lips cut between his teeth, motionless...
Scar Face's hand holding a Putinka emerges first, then, his ugly face, he hands me the bottle. I feel an underlying heaviness tugging at my voice, at my hands and whole body, but this is the moment so I try to stay, at least, connected with my inner strength. I want answers and I want them now. I take the bottle and, my hand shaking, I bring it to my mouth and gulp a few quarters and another...
"...which bring us to a very grave matter," he continues. "I will need your help, Mr Stark."
I take a bite from Mamaliga and chew on it slowly, savoring the flavor as Scar Face watches me intently. I finish chewing and wash it down with Putinka, grimacing. "My help?" I say flatly, drunkenly, tiredly. "The hell you're talking about, ugly face?"
"We need to get rid off the body,"
"We? Who're 'we'?"
"You and me,"
I take another bite from Mama-mia and it tastes heavenly. "Listen," I say. "There's no We. Never been and never will be. Geddit, ugly face? Getting rid of bodies is not in my resume. But, shooting one, that is you, will be added gladly...if you don't shut your gab." Another bite and another bite and I'm not sure if the Putinka is talking, tapping the inner springs of my courage or I'm inherently secure, self-confident and capable of facing even major crises with equanimity, determination, and grace. Was it La Rochefoucauld who said, "The only security is courage"?
"Hate disappointing your expectations. But if you were God, I'd refuse to become involved with, you sadistic,centered-in-his-own-world-arrogant-fuck. Got some more of this Molagaga?"
"Mamaliga" corrects Scar Face.
"Uuhh!" I exclaim. "Excuse my Greek."
"Romanian." corrects Scar Face stubbornly.
"Whatever." I say firmly. "Here we are sitting and talking and eating a macro-nutrient peasant food, a-substitute-for bread-as-a-staple-food over a corpse half-eaten by a scrawnugly dead mongrel corpse...and you spastic, ugly face, correcting my pronunciation of Mamałyga!"
"Mamaliga." insists Scar Face.
"Shut up!" I shout. "I can call this corn mush shit whatever the fuck I want!Puliszka! Polenta! Italian!Polish, Hungarian!...same fucking difference!"
"I am really glad you are here, Mr Stark," says Scar Face in an undeniable sincerity. "Also, glad we are having this pleasant chat." He disappears behind the desk again, like there is a secret passage to abundance of food and, of course, Putinka. He appears with another but thicker slice of Mamaliga and hands it to me.
I take the slice and say,"You're in trouble, real trouble, aren't you, ugly face?"
Scar Face rubs his temple and runs a hand over his brown thick hair.
"I didn't come here as a savior, although, you might see me as one." I pause. I motion Scar Face closer and he leans toward me across the desk."Whatever it is you'll have to deal with, ugly face. I want us to be crystal clear on this. Come sober morning, I'm gone Phishyuu. Understand?"
"I am afraid that is not possible." There is a calm, icy seriousness to his voice that sounds like he means it at all cost.
"That so?" I say. "Who's gonna stop me? You? Cynophobic Andrei?"
"Him...and," He pauses. "They will not let you leave...not after all you have seen."
"Watch me." I say. "We both know you can't touch me, kill me or even wipe my ass. The car equipped with state-of-the-art audio, video and a GPS system connected directly to a NSA satellite. Digital foot printing is blinking red and when it stops, so does your breathing."
Scar Face only glares at me as an eerie silence falls in the room. Lights flickers twice or three times.
"Not late for a nightcap, is it?" I say finally.
"We must then talk in the morning, Mr Stark."
"We've already talked, ugly face."
"Cell number 13 is empty. On the right. Door is open and there is a blanket..."
"Lucky me."
Putinka slides her hands under my shirt, her body heat spreading like current all over my body and in a total darkness I could see her small and firm breasts. In a dream there is no darkness...no color but grayness
Omitted
Her eyes glittered. "It's not a dream silly," she says. "The cop with the bolt-lightning scar sent me to...you know?"
"Surprise me?" I say loud, grabbing her hand and push it off of my chest. "Outrage me? Delight me? Incriminate me? Fuck my brains off?"
"What're you talking about?"
Suddenly I feel my stomach twisting and churning, threatening to throw up everything I put in it. Liters of Putinka, the corn bread Mamaliga...what else? She-Putinka's saliva! I stand up, swing my feet on the floor and launch toward the toilet, my ears clanging, my breathing...a jet-stream of chunks disgorges through my wide open mouth into closet, choking me; I feel tears filling my eyes as I heave another stream of dark matter, then, another. Heave and hurl heave and hurl, and all I'm thinking: What have I done?
A hand runs through my hair, massaging my scalp. "You okay?' asks Putinka softly, and I curse myself for nicknaming her Putinka and for still calling her that even in my mind. I turn my head away from the toilet, facing her. "What's your name?" I ask.
"Jade," she answers, her dark, shiny eyes gazing warmly into mine. Her naturally big, loose and unusually very shiny curly hair falling down her both cheeks, framing her olive color, child-like face, her not very thick but full lips parts ever thin as if concealing a secret smile.
"Jus' Jade?" I slur, averting my eyes.
"Daggner."
"Cute! Nice name for a whore."
The slap across my face stings, hurts.
"How dare you?" Jade a.k.a. Putinka snaps. "When I heard you speaking with that monster I thought you were here to save me. To save the others and bring this place down, end it all!"
"Well, you thought wrong," I say retching.
"I'm American." she says
"God bless America! But, I'm not IRON MAN or one of the Team Six who supposedly took out that dessert nigger Osama Bin LALA-LANDEN! I'm just a passerby who--"
"You must help me." She says as she wears her dirty blue denim jacket which harmonize with her skin which acquires a delicious peach-like color'
"I am helping you. We just fucked."
"So, you're one of those sick bastards who rapes, tortures and kills women! Son of bitch! I should've known!"
"You got me! All me! Smart girl that you are, figured me all out. Bravo! But murder can really ruin a relationship...Get out!"
gives me a cold, blazing contemptuous look, and says, "Rapist!" Then, she turns around and bolts out of the cell and disappears in the empty and dark corridor.
"Rapist?" I instantly snap to attention ."What the--" I feel a knot in my throat...no, a chunk of goddamn Mamaliga! I cough it out. "Hey!" I shout into the darkness. "How old're you?"
Only silence and darkness answer me.
"FUUCK!" I shout at the top of my lungs, my voice echoing back to me. Now, there is another thing causing my insides to sicken and I feel my anger reignites.
"Thanks a lot Jade...you little whore! What else you want, sucking my blood dry? Run back and tell Scar Face you came to possess my body and corrupt my soul but you failed! Tell him to send for an exorcist priest, holy water and Cow-Dung-Spam! You hear me twice!"
I drag myself to my feet and turn on the rusty, star-shape dial sink faucet counter-clock-wise. I splash cold water on my face a few times and I look at my face in the cracked mirror above the sink; I look pale, my eyes are pair of hollow, dark bags look so surreal as though I'm wearing make-up to perform in the Phantom of the Opera play.
And, suddenly, it hits me: I am the Phantom!
I blink my eyes wide open.
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