The Country from Hell
You feel like a stupid fool standing there with your useless toaster, having to beg a gypsy for some change. It's a fucking joke.
Dropping the piece of shit on the ground, you run up to the distressed tourists. The sun beats down and for a moment you feel sick as you sprint across the square.
The thugs are trying their best at intimidation, but you can tell from the stubborn look on the foreigner's face that he's not about to part with his camera or even with a single penny for that matter. Greedy fucking pig.
You break through the ranks of the stunned gangsters, saying in your broken English to the man, "I help! I help!" The woman breathes a visible sigh of relief and you smile disarmingly at her husband, who immediately lets his guard down and smiles back at you. American gullibility never ceases to amaze you.
The moment the American has his arms by his sides, you smash a sweaty fist into his eye, knocking him backwards. The woman begins to scream, but one of the gang members clamps a gold-ringed hand over her mouth. The rest of the gang moves in on the dazed man like a pack of hyenas. He is lying on the ground with a little trickle of blood running down his cheek where you punched his metal glasses into his skin. In just a few seconds, he is stripped of his camera, wallet, passport, glasses and bright new Nike shoes. His wife is obliged to part with her diamond ring and a golden pendant necklace, as well as the entire contents of her purse.
"It's been nice doing business with you!" the ringleader shouts at the couple as he grabs you by the arm and the entire gang moves quickly out of the square down a dingy alleyway, where you all stop for breath. The ringleader looks directly at you with intelligent, cold blue eyes.
"Who the fuck are you?" he demands.
"I'm the man who just made you rich!" you respond, grinning from ear to ear. Just look at all that shit! More dollars than you've ever seen in real life gold, diamonds, Nike shoes!
"You're an idiot. Why do you think we didn't lay a hand on them? Don't you know anything?"
"At the rate you were going, you would have been there all day."
"Maybe, but now we'll have to pay the cops double, maybe even triple, to get this one cleaned off the records. That's not going to make Big Papa very happy."
"Big Papa?"
He smiles sadistically. "Yes, now that you've invited yourself into our little band of outlaws, you'll have to meet the man who runs the operation."
The blood is still pounding in your head and you feel bold as you are led to a small door in the alleyway, which leads down a corridor into a dark room where a fat older man is sitting at a plain wooden desk, thoughtfully smoking a cigar.
"What have you got then?" he asks brusquely, straightening his black silk vest as he stands to inspect today's winnings. You smile boldly at him.
"Who is this?" he asks the ringleader mistrustfully.
"This is the little snotnose who decided to take charge of our operation. He beat up a tourist and his wife in the middle of the street."
"No, I just beat up the guy. I didn't touch the woman," you protest, beginning to feel a little nervous as the other gang members close in around you.
"This is more shit than you've managed to get us in the last two months," Big Papa says quietly to the ringleader.
"But we're gonna lose it all to the pigs and "
"Shut up," he snaps. He smiles cordially at you, opening his arms in a gracious gesture of good will. "Welcome to my little family," he says, showing off a whole row of golden teeth. "Since you have done such a good job today, I'd like to reward you with these nice American shoes!"
Your heart skips a beat as you stroke the shoes' smooth white surface. Holding them up to your own beat-up nondescript brown things, you see with glee that they're the same size. You are about to say something when Big Papa cuts you off:
"Of course this means that you work for me now. I can see you've got guts, kid. But have you got any brains? Come sit with me and the boys and I'll tell you what you're going to do today."
Dropping the piece of shit on the ground, you run up to the distressed tourists. The sun beats down and for a moment you feel sick as you sprint across the square.
The thugs are trying their best at intimidation, but you can tell from the stubborn look on the foreigner's face that he's not about to part with his camera or even with a single penny for that matter. Greedy fucking pig.
You break through the ranks of the stunned gangsters, saying in your broken English to the man, "I help! I help!" The woman breathes a visible sigh of relief and you smile disarmingly at her husband, who immediately lets his guard down and smiles back at you. American gullibility never ceases to amaze you.
The moment the American has his arms by his sides, you smash a sweaty fist into his eye, knocking him backwards. The woman begins to scream, but one of the gang members clamps a gold-ringed hand over her mouth. The rest of the gang moves in on the dazed man like a pack of hyenas. He is lying on the ground with a little trickle of blood running down his cheek where you punched his metal glasses into his skin. In just a few seconds, he is stripped of his camera, wallet, passport, glasses and bright new Nike shoes. His wife is obliged to part with her diamond ring and a golden pendant necklace, as well as the entire contents of her purse.
"It's been nice doing business with you!" the ringleader shouts at the couple as he grabs you by the arm and the entire gang moves quickly out of the square down a dingy alleyway, where you all stop for breath. The ringleader looks directly at you with intelligent, cold blue eyes.
"Who the fuck are you?" he demands.
"I'm the man who just made you rich!" you respond, grinning from ear to ear. Just look at all that shit! More dollars than you've ever seen in real life gold, diamonds, Nike shoes!
"You're an idiot. Why do you think we didn't lay a hand on them? Don't you know anything?"
"At the rate you were going, you would have been there all day."
"Maybe, but now we'll have to pay the cops double, maybe even triple, to get this one cleaned off the records. That's not going to make Big Papa very happy."
"Big Papa?"
He smiles sadistically. "Yes, now that you've invited yourself into our little band of outlaws, you'll have to meet the man who runs the operation."
The blood is still pounding in your head and you feel bold as you are led to a small door in the alleyway, which leads down a corridor into a dark room where a fat older man is sitting at a plain wooden desk, thoughtfully smoking a cigar.
"What have you got then?" he asks brusquely, straightening his black silk vest as he stands to inspect today's winnings. You smile boldly at him.
"Who is this?" he asks the ringleader mistrustfully.
"This is the little snotnose who decided to take charge of our operation. He beat up a tourist and his wife in the middle of the street."
"No, I just beat up the guy. I didn't touch the woman," you protest, beginning to feel a little nervous as the other gang members close in around you.
"This is more shit than you've managed to get us in the last two months," Big Papa says quietly to the ringleader.
"But we're gonna lose it all to the pigs and "
"Shut up," he snaps. He smiles cordially at you, opening his arms in a gracious gesture of good will. "Welcome to my little family," he says, showing off a whole row of golden teeth. "Since you have done such a good job today, I'd like to reward you with these nice American shoes!"
Your heart skips a beat as you stroke the shoes' smooth white surface. Holding them up to your own beat-up nondescript brown things, you see with glee that they're the same size. You are about to say something when Big Papa cuts you off:
"Of course this means that you work for me now. I can see you've got guts, kid. But have you got any brains? Come sit with me and the boys and I'll tell you what you're going to do today."