Black leather coat, silver hair, head like a tank turret.
He could see his master now, standing alone amid the matchstick trunks of the birch trees. He had been duped by his master’s wife, and his master had lost everything because of it. Usually, it was reserved for traitors, but Pyotr Luzhkov had betrayed no one.
Russians had a term for it: vyshaya mera, the highest form of punishment. Now he was on the final leg of his journey, the long walk to a grave with no marker. When the vodka was gone, they had beaten him even harder. The only time they had stopped was when they were drinking vodka. They had beaten him because they were Russians. They had beaten him because they had been told to. They had beaten him even when he was unconscious. They had broken his fingers and his thumbs. Pyotr Luzhkov had been forced to scale mountains of pain. There was another Russian custom when it came to killing: the intentional infliction of pain. Luzhkov was about to be granted a death in the trees. Luzhkov was about to join a great Russian tradition. That was the place Russians liked to do their blood work. He believed he was being led by two men through a birch forest but could not be certain. In fact, at that moment he would have been hard-pressed to recall his name. Pyotr Luzhkov, shirtless, barefoot, hands bound behind his back, was scarcely aware of the cold.
0 kommentar(er)
