The Country from Hell
You stare down into your shot of custia, twirling it hypnotically in one hand as your mind struggles to comprehend everything that has happened in the last hour. Sixty minutes ago you were just a jerk with a broken toaster. Now you're a goodfella with a mission. You smile ironically into the depths of the golden-brown alcohol. This can only end in tragedy, but you might have some fun before then.
"You all know who Powdernose the Gypsy is, right?" Big Papa asks, looking around at the group gathered around the table.
You nod in response. You have no idea. You hear a couple of the other guys smirking in your direction, but you keep your attention focused on your custia. Growing tired of staring at it, you knock it back in one gulp, setting the glass back down a little too loudly.
"Easy there," warns Big Papa. "We need you in tiptop shape when you sneak into his villa today."
You choke a little on the last of the custia burning the back of your throat. Big Papa smiles sadistically at you. You are now quite certain that the day will end in tragedy. You smile back.
The plan is simple. Your colleague Grigor the Locksmith has just forced open the iron grating over the dark second-story window of Powdernose's villa. There's no sound coming from the alleyway or the courtyard, nothing from the house. You close your eyes tightly in the last few moments you have before Grigor will inevitably pull the old bars loose and you will be forced to enter. You hear the clatter as the brittle metal falls to the concrete below. Grigor punches you in the shoulder. He doesn't like you any more than the others do.
"Get going," he hisses, crawling like a cat down the balcony rail. The way is now clear. The window sits before you like the black mouth of hell. The thought that this can only end in tragedy puts a queer smile on your face as you make your way inside.
Dropping down from the high inset window frame, you find yourself in the hallway of a well-appointed villa. Powdernose is of the worst sort of gypsies: the rich ones who leech off of the rightful population of the
You think you hear something. In your nightmares, you are often trapped in a hallway, where there is no exit and nowhere to hide. This hallway seems constructed just for you out of one of those dreams. Blanking out your mind, you move instinctively to where you think the bedroom must be. Big Papa's boy employed as a gardener in Powdernose's estate reported that the slimy old fool actually keeps his riches beneath his mattress.
Pushing open an austere wooden door, you inhale a deep breath of relief as you find yourself face to face with a huge king-size bed. The thing is as big as your apartment. As though there were neon arrows pointing to the stash, you immediately find the unlocked compartment holding stack after stack of five-million notes. You have never even seen a five-million note, much less gathered up what seems to be hundreds of them. However, you do recognize the face of Iad's National Poet on the bill's face. Funny, that no one except the corrupt rich should be able to gaze upon the one pure thing in Iadian history
Thinking too much is no way to survive as a criminal. Maybe it was for this reason, but then again maybe not. Maybe it would have happened anyway. Maybe it was your fate that no matter what you did, you would hear the very angry growl of a very angry dog from a dark corner in the room, and you would know, as surely as you knew from the beginning, that the day would end in
It springs at you, a brown flash flying across the few feet that separate you from it. Tucked in your belt is a small, but solid wooden club that Big Papa armed you with in the event of any "complications". On your feet is a pair of brand-new Nike running shoes ready to fly.
"You all know who Powdernose the Gypsy is, right?" Big Papa asks, looking around at the group gathered around the table.
You nod in response. You have no idea. You hear a couple of the other guys smirking in your direction, but you keep your attention focused on your custia. Growing tired of staring at it, you knock it back in one gulp, setting the glass back down a little too loudly.
"Easy there," warns Big Papa. "We need you in tiptop shape when you sneak into his villa today."
You choke a little on the last of the custia burning the back of your throat. Big Papa smiles sadistically at you. You are now quite certain that the day will end in tragedy. You smile back.
The plan is simple. Your colleague Grigor the Locksmith has just forced open the iron grating over the dark second-story window of Powdernose's villa. There's no sound coming from the alleyway or the courtyard, nothing from the house. You close your eyes tightly in the last few moments you have before Grigor will inevitably pull the old bars loose and you will be forced to enter. You hear the clatter as the brittle metal falls to the concrete below. Grigor punches you in the shoulder. He doesn't like you any more than the others do.
"Get going," he hisses, crawling like a cat down the balcony rail. The way is now clear. The window sits before you like the black mouth of hell. The thought that this can only end in tragedy puts a queer smile on your face as you make your way inside.
Dropping down from the high inset window frame, you find yourself in the hallway of a well-appointed villa. Powdernose is of the worst sort of gypsies: the rich ones who leech off of the rightful population of the
You think you hear something. In your nightmares, you are often trapped in a hallway, where there is no exit and nowhere to hide. This hallway seems constructed just for you out of one of those dreams. Blanking out your mind, you move instinctively to where you think the bedroom must be. Big Papa's boy employed as a gardener in Powdernose's estate reported that the slimy old fool actually keeps his riches beneath his mattress.
Pushing open an austere wooden door, you inhale a deep breath of relief as you find yourself face to face with a huge king-size bed. The thing is as big as your apartment. As though there were neon arrows pointing to the stash, you immediately find the unlocked compartment holding stack after stack of five-million notes. You have never even seen a five-million note, much less gathered up what seems to be hundreds of them. However, you do recognize the face of Iad's National Poet on the bill's face. Funny, that no one except the corrupt rich should be able to gaze upon the one pure thing in Iadian history
Thinking too much is no way to survive as a criminal. Maybe it was for this reason, but then again maybe not. Maybe it would have happened anyway. Maybe it was your fate that no matter what you did, you would hear the very angry growl of a very angry dog from a dark corner in the room, and you would know, as surely as you knew from the beginning, that the day would end in
It springs at you, a brown flash flying across the few feet that separate you from it. Tucked in your belt is a small, but solid wooden club that Big Papa armed you with in the event of any "complications". On your feet is a pair of brand-new Nike running shoes ready to fly.