Before I got out from the city... I remember now, my first "crime" at that day... First of all, I've decided to call my old friend in the Bratva, how they called themselves. I remembered my country one more time. The last one. Big country, with bad military force, but with strong people, who won WWII and survived in the Cold War. Once we were the Soviets, but then it all broke down, crushing itself into peaces.... No time for tragedies. I better hurry up if I don't want Dmitry to wait...

            Here we are, at the Butcher's. Poor [filtered] sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, with bloody stains all over the floor. Poor fella forgot to pay his debts to the Bratva and now we were his judges. His only judges in this cruel world without mercy....It was cold though we never felt that. Dmitry was sitting on the old wood bench, which was put in front of the guy. I walked to one of the dark corners and took a baseball bat with knails on it. I walked back to our fellow. Swinging, I hit him on the shoulder with that bat's side where were the most long nails. With nasty champing iron entered into the flesh. The guy no longer screamed. He sobbed. But no one could hear - the street at night was deserted, and the shop was already long dead and all that was inside -was carried off by marauders... He sobbed once more. he knew it was his end. We took a rope and tied him up to the giant hook at the top. 2 minutes and he is dead. It all ended. Dmitry disdainfully wiped his bloody hands on a T-shirt of the dead. He said, "often you have to dirty your hands at such [filtered]s so that society can become better." We went out to the street and drove to the club.

I remembered that once one guy stole radioactive barrels of something and, despite protection, he never had kids after. He got that deal at this club.... Hard music, a woman, twisting in a wooden circle driven into the wall....One Bratva guy said to me there:"You are our new hook for all this meat..." A new hook. At least - something. Of course it was only my first "dirty"work.

  Yeah, if you want to survive in this new society, you need more than your abilities or guns... You need to be in a gang.

      This memory was not old, but still I feel like it didn't happen with me.

Last Edited on: Nov 06 2011 05:49 PM UTC (197 Days ago)

Memory 2.

[filtered], [filtered], [filtered].... Sometimes you feel like all hell broke out... We had some kind of deal with the Acolytes when we were attacked by the FBI. I bet they were spying on us from the beginning. So I was running, while everything around me blowing, with the last guy who was sent with me for security reasons. 2 out of 6. Other 4 were blown up to pieces. The Acolytes thought that we brought FBI agents with us. So we were now rushing, constantly wagging and jumping over small obstacles. The car parking was near so we had small morale "lift up" and so we speeded up. But then, just in front of us, the car blew up. In addition, I got three bullets in my back..

So I ended up in some sorf of old warehouse, with big piles of wooden crates around me. Due to their "khaki" type of colour I guess there were weapons. Four brawny guys dragged them into the trucks. I was sitting in small room, where security before the Bleedout was sleeping and watching TV, imitating it's job... My left eye was closed and despite my desperate attempts to open it -- It couldn't open. I had pain in my right arm and something warm was running on my shoulder.. You don't need to be a genius to know that it was blood... I had ten nails in my left foot...But, fortunately, I couldn't feel pain anymore. It has... just gone. I knew that I mustn't wait for help, because nobody, probably, will save me. So I was surprised when I heard gunfire somewhere outside... I can't say for certain that I heard it, 'cause trucks' engines were running. So two guys in fornt of me continued to beat me to half-death. The door suddenly opened and the agents were filled with .45 rounds. Dmitry was standing in front of me with twon .45's in his hands. He holstered his guns and untied me. We slowly walked out from the warehouse and sat in the car. It was an old Opel, one of the after-war(after WWII) cars. Few seconds before we drove away from here, Dmitry threw a lighter out of the car window and the building was set on fire.

Now I remembered: there were gasoline paddles.